Stephanie Laurens - Impetuous Innocent

Georgiana’s hazel eyes widened in awe. “Truly? Heavens!” She wriggled her toes, then jumped to the ground. “Well, that’s all the better. The longer he sleeps, the farther we’ll get before he finds out.”

Cruickshank sniffed disparagingly. “D’you think he’ll follow?”

A worried frown drew down Georgiana’s fine brows. “I really don’t know. He says he’s my guardian, but I don’t see how that can be.” She sank on to the bed, one hand brushing gold curls from her forehead in a gesture of bewilderment. “It’s all so confusing.”

Her tone brought Cruickshank to her side, one large hand coming up to pat Georgiana’s shoulder comfortingly. “Never you worry, Miss Georgie. Ben and me, we’ll see you safe.”

Fleetingly, Georgiana smiled, her hand rising to grip that of her maid. “Yes, of course. I don’t know what I’d have done without my two watchdogs.”

Bright hazel eyes met faded blue, and Cruickshank’s stern features softened. “Now, lovey, do you have any notion where you should go?”

It was the question Georgiana had spent the last three days pondering. To no avail. But her tone was determined and decisive when she said, “I’ve thought and thought, but I can’t think of anyone. As far as I can see, the best thing I can do is throw myself on the mercy of one of the ladies of the neighbourhood. There must be someone about who remembers Uncle Ernest or Papa and will at least advise me.”

Cruickshank grimaced, but did not argue the point. “I’ll be back before first light. I’ll bring Ben for the trunk. You get some rest now. Enough excitement for one night, you’ve had.”

Obediently Georgiana allowed Cruickshank to help her into her nightgown, then clambered into the big bed. Cruickshank resettled the quilt and tucked the sheets under the lumpy mattress. Again the maid sniffed disparagingly.

“Even if ‘twas your grandpa’s house, miss, all I can say is the accommodation leaves much to be desired.” With a haughty glance at the aged bedclothes, Cruickshank clumped to the door. “Just to be on the safe side, I’ll lock you in.”

With the problem of Charles already behind her, and her immediate actions decided, Georgiana’s mind slowed. With a sigh, she snuggled deeper into the mattress and curled up tight against the cold. Her lids were already drooping as she watched the door close behind the faithful Cruickshank. The lock fell heavily into place. Georgiana yawned widely and blew out her candle.

“SHHH!” Cruickshank held a finger to her lips and with her other hand indicated a door giving off the dimly lit passage.

Georgiana nodded her understanding and slipped silently past the room where Charles’s slatternly housekeeper and her equally slovenly spouse snored in drunken unison. The Pringates were new to the Place, and Georgiana could not conceive how Charles had come to hire them. They seemed to know little to nothing of managing a household. None of the old servants had remained after her uncle’s death. Presumably it was hard to get good help in the country. And, even to her untutored eyes, the Place was in sorry condition, hardly an attractive proposition to experienced staff.

Mentally shrugging, she hurried on. The dank corridor ended in a huge stone-flagged kitchen. Cruickshank was struggling with the heavy back door. As she eased it open, the tell-tale sound of a horse whickering drifted in with the wet mist. Galvanised, Georgiana hurried out into the yard, Cruickshank close behind.

Her own travelling carriage, battered and worn after the long journey from Italy, but thankfully still serviceable, stood in the muddy yard, her two powerful carriage horses hitched in their harness. She spared the time to bestow a fond pat on each great grey head before allowing Ben to help her into the coach.

As the door shut, sealing her within, with Cruickshank on the seat opposite, Georgiana settled herself on the padded leather with a weary sigh. She had hoped to enjoy a rest after the jolting roads of the Continent. True, the English roads were in much better condition, but she had looked forward to keeping her feet on firm ground and her bottom on softer seats for some time. Fate, however, had clearly decided otherwise.

The carriage rocked as Ben climbed to his perch. Without his customary whistle, he set the team moving. The coach rumbled quietly out of the yard and turned into the lane.

As the miles fell slowly behind them, Georgiana wondered anew at the oddity of the Place. The old house stood in its own extensive grounds, overgrown and choked with weeds, amid fields and meadows, all lying fallow as far as she had seen. She lifted the window flap and peered through the early morning gloom. There was no sign of livestock anywhere. Fences were broken and gates hung crazily on ruptured hinges. An air of decay hung like a pall across the estate. Heaven knew, it wasn’t all that large as estates went. But the Place had hit hard times, and neglect had taken its toll. She was sure her father had not known the state of his family’s property. If he had, he would never have suggested she seek refuge there. Or, alternatively, he would have made some provision to restore the Place to its former glory.

As the carriage drew to the crest of a hill which marked the limit of the estate, Georgiana, leaning past the leather flap, caught a last glimpse of the grey roofs of the Place. Then the horses started on the downward slope and trees blocked her view. In truth, from what she had seen in her three days there, she doubted the Place was worth saving.

Her only regret in leaving was that she had failed to unearth the set of paintings her father had told her he had left there. Close to twenty finished canvases, he had said. The only one she was really interested in was a portrait of her mother which he had painted shortly after their marriage. He had always maintained it was the best of the handful of portraits he had done of his wife. Georgiana had looked forward to seeing again the face of her gentle mother, otherwise no more than a misty memory. But Charles had denied all knowledge of the paintings, and her surreptitious searches had failed to find any trace of them. Now, as she didn’t fancy staying within Charles’s reach, the paintings would remain lost to her. Philosophically, she sighed. She knew she’d made the right choice. But she had so wanted that portrait of her mother.

The lane which led to the Place was long and winding. It followed a strange line, around the boundaries of the holdings of a neighbouring estate, eventually joining a road which ultimately led to Steeple Claydon. The morning mists were lifting by the time the coach trundled into the small village of Alton Rise, no more than a cluster of cottages nestling at the first crossroads. Ben pulled the horses up before the tiny inn. He jumped down from his perch and came to the carriage window.

Georgiana pushed aside the window flap and leant out. “Can you ask where the nearest magistrate lives? If that sounds too far, ask for the nearest big landowner.”

Ben nodded and disappeared into the inn. Ten minutes later he was back. “They said best to go on up to Candlewick Hall. It’s owned by a London swell, name of Lord Alton. His family’s been hereabouts for generations, so it seems a safe bet. The innkeeper’s missus thought you’d be safe enough asking for help there.”

“Heavens, Ben!” Georgiana looked at her faithful henchman in horror. “You didn’t tell them about…?”

Ben shrugged his old shoulders. “’Tweren’t no news to them. By all accounts, that cousin of yourn’s not much liked.”

Georgiana considered this view. It was not hard to believe. Charles, in three days, had proved his colours beyond question. “How far is it to Candlewick Hall?”

“No more’n a couple of miles,” said Ben, hauling himself up.