Divine (16 page)

“Sir Henry, who is Lord Tangert?” Georgiana suddenly asked, gesturing toward the silver bowl. “I see your names are engraved here on the bottom as the founders of the Royal Gooseberry Show: Sir Henry Stylles, Lord Blackwell, Lord Stratton—meaning the old earl, of course—and then Lord Tangert. I was unaware that there was another founding member of the Royal Gooseberry Show.”

Blackwell drew in a hissing breath. Sir Henry’s mustache stood nearly on end.

“We do not speak
his
name,” Sir Henry said, his voice taut with emotion.

“Indeed. Such traitors are beneath our notice.” Blackwell adjusted his cuff again with a sniff.

“The blackguard! Using a hollow needle to inject water into his berries to make them heavier. And then once he was exposed, starting that ridiculous Gooseberry Lovers International Brotherhood.”

Both men glowered at the thought.

“Well, at least there is
one
gooseberry society in England who does not stand to take my money,” Sebastian offered into the silence.

No one appreciated his attempt at levity.

Blackwell sniffed. “Indeed. Tangert was outraged when the old earl cut his gooseberry society out of the original will, leaving money to just his own society, myself and Sir Henry here. You should have seen the look on his face when he found out. He turned so red I feared his head would near explode.”

Sir Henry nodded. “Tangert never could dismiss the slight. More the fool.”

“Agreed, Sir Henry, agreed.”

“Fortunately, Tangert did have the decency to be lost in the wilderness of Newfoundland with his younger son—”

“Jack, was it? Utter scapegrace like his father,” Blackwell interrupted.

“Yes, Jack. I understand they were trying to find the fabled giant golden gooseberry of Labrador. As if such a thing actually exists!”

Blackwell harrumphed. “Nearly bankrupted the barony in the process. Golden gooseberry indeed.”

“And now his elder son, the present Lord Tangert, persists this ridiculous Gooseberry Brotherhood.” Sir Henry waived his hand dismissively.

“At least the Prince Regent has barred them from our Royal Gooseberry Show,” Blackwell replied.

“Thank heavens, Bertie,” Sir Henry’s mustache bounced in approval.

“Indeed, Henry, it has all been such a disgrace.” Blackwell shook his head in disgust.

Both men regarded each other for a moment, surprised to discover that they were still comrades.

“It has been a long time, Bertie, since we had a good chat. Shall we lay down our weapons? Perhaps you would like to try some gooseberry fool. I understand that luncheon is in order?” Sir Henry turned a questioning eye to Marianne, who nodded her head in agreement.

Blackwell pondered this for an instant and then let out a long breath.

“Perhaps a chat is in order, Henry. Though I find your mustache ridiculous.”

“Duly noted, Bertie,” Sir Henry said with a nod. “And for the record, your sense of style is still truly absurd.”

Chapter 9

Georgiana’s bedroom

Haldon Manor

In the early hours of morning on September 1, 1813

Birthday in minus 38 days

A
scratching noise at the door woke Georgiana from a deep sleep. Blearily, she turned over in bed, dragging her phone from underneath her pillow. It was two thirty in the morning.

Coming more awake, Georgiana sat up and pushed aside the heavy bed curtains. From the light of her phone’s lock screen, she could see a white square on the floor in front of her bedroom door.

A note of some sort.

Slipping out of bed, she quickly scooped up the folded paper and switched on her phone flashlight.

You will send Lord Stratton away. He is destined for another.

That was all. She turned the paper over, examined it. Nothing more.

She scrunched her nose. What a
ridiculous
note.

Please
.

As if
she
were Sebastian’s keeper and could control his movements. As if she were pursuing
him
and not the other way around. As if she were even a threat.

And then adding insult to injury, the warning note was so . . .
tepid
.

Ugh
. How disappointing.

The first menacing note of her life, and it would hardly deter a mouse, much less herself, were she determined to win Sebastian.

Which she was
not
. But still.

What amateurs!

With a faint frown, Georgiana opened the door to her bedroom and shined the light down the hallway.

Empty.

Honestly, how was it possible for so many people to have access to the house at night? Quite appalling.

She closed her bedroom door, pondering what to do next.

The whole situation was absurd. The sort of debacle she and Sebastian would laugh themselves silly over, were they not its principle players.

Which only emphasized the ridiculousness of anyone sending her intimidating notes about Sebastian. It was almost worth being cozy with him just to annoy whoever had sent it.

Which begged the next question: Who
had
sent it?

Pondering, she tapped the note against her lips. Perhaps one of the Miss Burbanks, though Lady Ambrosia was also a likely suspect.

If so, they could
definitely
use a few lessons on clandestine subterfuge. Honestly, Mr. Snickers in his little sweaters was more fierce than this note.

She had been back almost five days, and the ladies continued to visit with shocking regularity, finding endless reasons to flaunt their charms. Sebastian took it all in good-natured stride, remaining courteous even when Miss Mica insisted he help her glue quilled paper circles to a picture frame.

And he had not renewed his offer of marriage. Had he given up on that too? If so, the man was easy-going to a fault.

Tapping the note against her lips, she leaned against her bedroom door, the wood chilly against her back. Mentally, she compared Shatner and Sebastian, so vastly different from each other.

Shatner with his penetrating gray eyes—the focused intensity when he talked about his interests and work, the sound of his voice sending shivers up her spine. He was a man of action, of purpose.

When his partner had called about flooding in their orphanage in Honduras, Shatner had hopped a plane the next morning and gone himself to fill sand bags and repair the damage. He had texted her every couple of hours with updates, going on endlessly about how much he loved his work. It had melted her heart to see his steadfast devotion. And along with all his charity work, Shatner could rival Sir Henry when it came to discussing gooseberries.

Well, Sebastian had his own gooseberry woes too, she supposed. Why did everything seem to come down to gooseberries with her? Was it proof that the universe had a sense of humor?

But, in the end, Sebastian was . . . just
Sebastian
.

She remembered the shooting contest that Lord Stratton had hosted every year. Sebastian had practiced for months, shooting targets behind the vicarage with his Baker rifle. It had been a different side of Sebastian, focused and determined. He had talked incessantly about the prize: ten guineas and a new pistol.

However, the day before the competition, Sebastian got into a terrible fight with Jack Carpenter who had taunted Sebastian about participating in a
man’s
competition. Sebastian had come home sporting a fierce black eye. And then, the next day, he had shown up at Lyndenbrooke instead of going to the competition. Georgiana herself had taken a severe chill and had been forced to stay home. Abandoning the competition, Sebastian sat with her throughout the day, keeping her company.

“Seb, you should go,” she’d said between coughs, voice hoarse. “I am well-enough and a maid will check on me every hour or so.”

“Nonsense, Georgie. You can barely speak above a whisper.”

“Truly, I will be well soon enough.” She tried to lift her head off the pillow, with little success. The room kept spinning.

“You shouldn’t worry, dear friend. The competition means nothing compared to your—”

“But, you have practiced so diligently and ‘tis such a shame—”

“Hush, Georgie. You will tire yourself. Think nothing more of it. Get some rest.”

Georgiana had found the entire incident disheartening. How could he abandon a dream over a little teasing from dumb Jack Carpenter?

Just look at his decision to marry her! She was convenient and comfortable, and so he had sought her out. The path of least resistance. That had always been his way. No hidden depths or passion.

She pondered it for a few minutes longer. She needed to be fair to Sebastian. He had been extremely kind listening to Sir Henry rambling on and on about gooseberries. She would give him that much. He took patience to new levels. It was ridiculous and yet, somehow, oddly endearing.

Standing in her nightgown and bare feet, she shivered and read the note again. Perhaps whoever had sent it was still around.

With a smile, Georgiana threw on a dressing gown and stole out of her room. Turning off the light from her phone, she tucked it into the pocket of her dressing gown. She knew Haldon Manor well enough to move around without a light. Besides, the moonlight streaming through the windows was sufficient to light the way.

She crept down the stairs and across the great hall, jumping when her bare feet hit the cold flagstones of the large room.

Shoes! Why did she always forget to put on shoes? Though barely September, the stone floor was
freezing
.

Grimacing, she continued across the great hall. Glancing inside the drawing room, she noticed the french doors leading to the back terrace were slightly ajar. Creeping quietly into the room, she peered around. Empty.

Puzzled, she walked over to the doors, intent on closing and latching them firmly. Really, someone needed to speak with the butler about ensuring the house was better locked each evening.

But as she swung the doors closed, she saw something glowing. The terrace led to the garden surrounded by a medieval wall and there, on the old wall, something stuttered and winked at her.

She squinted. Why it looked like . . .

She paused. Surely it couldn’t be what she thought it was. It must be some simple trick of the moonlight.

And her mind, always yearning to see something fantastical.

Cautiously, Georgiana crept out of the door and darted across the (cold) terrace for a closer look. Just to put her overactive imagination to rest. But as she drew near, she realized it was indeed what she had first suspected.

The Jupiter sign. Glowing. On the wall.

The electrical thrill started at her scalp and then cascaded downward, twitching arms, hands, legs, toes in its wake.

The whole sensation was
utterly
delicious.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle. She darted looks left and right.

No one.

And yet, here was the sign, clearly drawn on the wall with a green luminescent chalk of some sort, looking like a loopy, undecided number four.

The glow wavered slightly and started to fade. Obviously, it was not meant to last. Quickly, she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the sign, if only to prove to herself this wasn’t just a hallucination.

A scent reached her, a smell similar to a struck matchstick, slightly acrid. She frowned for a moment. It was odd.

First a threatening note and then the Jupiter symbol on the garden wall.

Now she
did
giggle, loving the way excitement zoomed up and down her spine.

Ah, it was just so
magnificent
.

But who was responsible for it all? And were they one and the same person?

Despite her cold toes, Georgiana made a circuit of the garden, but saw no one and nothing else suspicious. When she returned to the garden wall, the Jupiter sign had faded entirely away.

She slipped back to her bedroom and collapsed on her bed with a contented sigh.

Grabbing her tablet, she made another entry:

1. Saw glowing Jupiter symbol on garden wall tonight. Could it be a signal of some sort? And for whom?
   

Sinking back into her bed pillows, she shook her head. Again, how was she supposed to sleep with so many ideas chasing each other around her head?

Too many more nights like this would make her a zombie.

Now wouldn’t
that
be delicious.

Georgiana woke several hours later to sun streaming and birds quarreling loudly outside her window.

Had she only imagined the events of last night?

Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, she reached for her phone under her pillow. There was the photo with the Jupiter sign, clear as could be.

An electrical zing shot down her spine again. Gooseflesh pebbled her arms.

Who had drawn it? Why
that
symbol? What did it mean?

And why
here
?