Shall We Dance?

“Keep you locked up, do they? Somehow that doesn’t boggle my mind as much as it probably ought.”

“Oh, shut up,” Georgiana said, very much at home with this strange man, which probably only proved that she was not fit for Polite Society. The man had a title, for goodness sake! “No, don’t do that. Tell me again how very respected your family is, and how my stepfather will be throwing himself at your shoetops in gratitude that you’ve deigned to look my way.”

“Pleases you, that part, doesn’t it? I’d noticed that. In fact, if it weren’t for knowing that this whole sham was my idea, I’d think it was yours.”

Georgiana smiled. “Could we just call it serendipity?”

“Among other things, yes,” Nate said, abandoning his position at the fireplace, to sit beside her on the couch. “Georgie—Georgiana,” he said, taking her hand in both of his, “I think we’re going to be very good friends.”

Georgiana pulled her hand free, and sniffed at him—yes, sniffed—for she was above all things a practical young woman. “Careful, Nate, or else Mr. Bateman will be posting the banns. You have a mission, remember? To save the queen?”

“Wrong. To save my own skin. The queen’s in no real danger. Even our king isn’t that harebrained. You’ll understand more when we leave here and travel to my family home.”

“I thought you said we were going to visit your aunt Rowena.”

“Yes, I did. She lives with her sister—my mother—and my poor, beleaguered father. He’s the one who is going to be kissing your shoetops when he learns that you are to be my entry to this establishment. Anything to placate my aunt and, most important, silence her.”

“Then we’ll return to Mr. Bateman’s house, and you’ll meet my mother and Mr. Bateman? You did promise, remember?”

“Lies upon lies. I remember. I’m not precisely sure why I’m feeling so jolly about all these lies, but I am. Do you need those spectacles, Georgiana?”

The question surprised her. “No, of course not. I only wear them when I want to look bookish, and a horrid bluestocking into the bargain. And when I want to see what I’m looking at,” she told him, leaning back slightly against the cushions on the suddenly small sofa. “Why? Mama says I’m lucky to get a third or fourth son, because of the spectacles. And the very slight dowry my late father arranged for me. Are they that awful?”

“Not as terrible as leaving them on your dressing table for vanity’s sake, then finding yourself talking up a potted palm at some party, no,” Nate said. “But I do believe we could seek out something not half so horrible. That is, more becoming to your face. Spectacles that at least fit.”

“They’re just heavy.” Georgiana slammed the offending spectacles back up on her nose. “Don’t all spectacles slip like this?”

“No. They don’t. I’m surprised you don’t knock yourself senseless at least a dozen times a day, poking at them like that. And the lenses aren’t all as big around as moons. I am no expert, but I believe you’re wearing gentlemen’s spectacles.”

“They were my father’s, yes, and my mother said they were more than good enough,” Georgiana admitted. “But different lenses were fitted for them.”

“And in fifty years, you might just grow into them. In the meantime, we can search out better ones tomorrow, before I take you driving in the Park at five for the Promenade, all right?”

Georgiana chewed on this for a moment, mentally cataloging her woefully inadequate wardrobe. “The Park? In public? I thought this was only for Amelia. And Aunt Rowena. And my mother and Mr. Bateman, so they’ll let me out of the house and you can play at saving the queen. But I thought that was all.”

“Really. The question that immediately springs to mind, Georgiana, is who are you ashamed of? Yourself. Or, more reasonably, of me? My mama, for one, would understand that.”

She stood up so quickly she banged a knee against the table and had to bite back a rather unladylike word. Country life and little supervision had done considerable damage to what were supposed to be her fragile female ways. “Now you’re making fun of me, and I must warn you, sir, that I am more than capable of giving back as good as I get.”

He also got to his feet. “Yes, I’d already noticed that. Dare I say you fair fascinate me?”

Georgiana looked at him, at his slightly unruly black hair, his laughing blue eyes, his altogether handsome face and figure. “Of course I do. I daresay I fascinate men every day,” she said dryly, believing not a single word that came out of his mouth, then looked toward the doorway. “What on earth could be keeping Amelia? Do you think anyone told her I’m here? I vow, this is the strangest household.”

BERNARD NESTOR made his way to the servants’ entrance of the establishment in Hammersmith and knocked loudly on the door.

He’d been up and about very early, and had been hidden behind some shrubbery since seven, in ample time to watch the departure of what he was convinced were the butler, two footmen, and one hatchet-faced woman, all of them carrying their belongings in various portmanteaus and tied-up sheets. The woman most definitely had at least one tall candlestick shoved up under her apron.

The one he’d decided had to be an upper servant, if not the butler, secured himself a hack within a half mile. So he’d followed the others on foot, all the way to the nearest pub, and sat himself down behind them to listen to their conversation.

Good, thoroughly stupid English citizens, the trio of them, all of them appalled by the charges brought against their queen. And all of them finding her guilty because it suited their judgmental spleens, with no need to hear a single fact when supposition was so juicy, and unwilling to spend another night beneath the roof of such a disgraceful woman.

And he’d been right. The fourth person had been the butler, who had already promised to assist them in gaining new employment in a more Christian, God-fearing household.

So the queen needed a new butler, did she? Well, it had been about time Bernard Nestor’s luck had changed for the better! And it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t know how to go on. He had lived in his father’s house, hadn’t he? He’d survived in that small office behind Brougham’s butler’s suite of rooms—rooms for a butler, with only a single, near-hole-in-the-wall for his most devoted assistant. Yes, he knew how to go on, and that knowledge, plus that niggling problem with the workings of his brain box, gave him untold courage, if not a chin.

Now he knocked again when no one answered, imperiously this time, and when the door finally opened, he stepped inside, declaring, “This is unpardonable. Never before have I been kept waiting! Who are you, woman? A name! Give me a name! Mrs. Fitzhugh? Housekeeper, I’ll assume, for your sins. I tell you, now that I am butler here anyone who doesn’t know how to behave will be shown the door, do you understand me? Even you, Mrs. Fitzhugh. Already the queen has been left unattended too long, which is highly upsetting to Miss Fredericks, you know. Well? Cat got your tongue? Show me to my quarters, search out the attics for suitable clothing I’m sure is kept there for upper staff, as my baggage has been stolen by a pair of ruffians on the dock. Oh, and you may call me Mr. Nestor.”

THE HOUSEKEEPER headed toward the main drawing room, wringing her still-trembling hands and talking to herself. “I tell you, Mrs. Fitzhugh, I don’t remember Mistress Fredericks saying a word about someone to replace Mr. Carstairs. It hasn’t been above a few hours since he left. She’s a quick one, I’ll say that for her.”

“Now, now, Maryann,” she answered herself, “just because you took the man in dislike doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. Best to keep mum. Could get you the sack, seeing as how your background couldn’t exactly stand up straight to much of a look-see, even if he said he’d made things all right and proper and—”

“All right, all right. But I can’t like the man. He’s got no chin. Our uncle Oliver had no chin, remember? Those same shifty eyes. And he never missed a chance to pinch our bottom. I’ll not be turning my back on the likes of Mr. Nestor. Shh, footsteps.”

Both of Maryann Fitzhugh peeked around a corner of the hallway to see Gerado pacing with his head down, muttering to himself in that suspicious foreigner tongue.

“Here, here. You’re not to leave your post. Po-st. Position.” She raised one fist, pantomimed a rapping motion. “Door. Knock-knock.”

Gerado rolled his eyes. “Visitors for Miss Fredericks. Tea and cakes, si? And to tell Miss Fredericks? And, si, the knock-knock.” He raised both hands, palm up, and shrugged. “Where to go first, capire?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Mrs. Fitzhugh crowed, thrilled at this breakthrough. Why, she was almost talking Italian herself! She pointed to Gerardo’s chest. “You…go knock-knock Miss Fredericks. After, you go back to door knock-knock.” She placed both hands on her bosom. “I…go kitchen for cakes and tea.”

“Idiota,” Gerado said, nodding his head as he turned and walked away.

Feeling quite generous, now that she’d managed to settle a domestic crisis Mr. No-Chin Nestor should have by rights dealt with, Mrs. Fitzhugh returned to the kitchens, just in time to answer yet another knock on the service door. Busy place, a queen’s residence. How was she ever supposed to do what she came to do?

“Yes?” she asked imperiously, more prepared than she’d been when Mr. Nestor all but barged into the kitchens.

The woman on the doorstep was much of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s own age, fairly round—well cushioned—and marginally attractive in a faded sort of way.

She didn’t quite look the housekeeper in the eye as she dropped into an abbreviated curtsy. “My name, ma’am, is Esther Pidgeon, and I once served as maid in the queen’s household, when she was Princess Caroline. I know I am being horribly bold, and I have no current references, as I left service several years ago to marry. But now that Mr. Pidgeon is gone, and once I saw that the queen, that dear, sweet woman, has returned to our shores, I had hoped, foolishly, I’m sure, that I could possibly once more be of service?”

Mrs. Fitzhugh took in every word. “So, you’re not here because Miss Fredericks called you here somehow?”

“Miss Fredericks? No, I’m sorry. I can’t say as I can place the name. We worked under a succession of housekeepers, but that name is not familiar to me.”

A silent conversation ensued:

Maryann: She seems decent enough. But no references? He had to have them for me, so they must be important things to have.

Mrs. Fitzhugh: Oh, cut line, Maryann. You don’t have the foggiest notion how a housekeeper goes on. If this weren’t a household of crazy foreigners, that strange girl and one batty old woman, you’d never have gotten a toe in the door, no matter what he wrote. As it was, best thing could have happened was for that fool Carstairs to take a flit. He was looking entirely too hard at you.

Maryann: It would be lovely to have some say in who is hired, wouldn’t it?

Mrs. Fitzhugh: There you go. You want that odd Nestor fellow saying who stays and who goes? Call her your assistant, why don’t you? The girl wanted someone else anyway. Partridges and all that.

“Very well. You’re hired,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said, and then bullied one young housemaid who most obligingly burst into tears. All while Esther Pidgeon looked on approvingly.

NATE WATCHED, standing back to keep himself safe from the exuberant hugging and rather hysterical female screeching as Miss Fredericks and his Georgie greeted each other. His Georgie? What was he thinking?