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  “No, I did not!” Mr. Harding bellowed. “And only a nincompoop would have fallen prey to such nonsense as a forged letter.”

  “Forged?” Meg brought her hand to her heart, just as Amelia had taught her all good actresses do. “But how? Why?”

  “Who the devil knows why Amelia does the things she does. She was always a naughty, undisciplined child, and it was all her blasted mother’s fault for coddling her too much. I thought sending her here would turn her into something disciplined and obedient. Clearly, you have failed me, Ms. Denby.”

  Meg hated to hear Ms. Denby disparaged by this old, hateful codger. She was the best headmistress and teacher any girl could hope for, but Meg knew better than to speak out of turn.

  Ms. Denby’s fists shook at her sides, and Meg assumed her headmistress fought the urge not to toss Mr. Harding out on his bum. Goodness, no wonder Amelia didn’t want to go home. And no wonder Ms. Denby let her stay as long as she did. No one wanted to see Amelia returned to the care of her own father.

  “Well, Mr. Harding, however you think of me, it does no one any good to sit here arguing. Amelia could be anywhere, and it’s likely she’ll get herself into a heap of trouble if we don’t find her. London is no place for a young, single woman.”

  Mr. Harding considered her words for a moment, and then stomped toward Ms. Denby, his face aflame with anger. The headmistress reared back as he approached, but there was nowhere for her to go, now that she was pinned against the desk. The old man came practically nose-to-nose with her and raised an intimidating finger to her face.

  “I will find my daughter, you can rest assured about that. And once I do, I will ruin you, Ms. Denby.”

  And then, at long last, Mr. Harding stalked from the room and, Meg prayed, from their lives forever.

  Ms. Denby stayed very still for a moment, still leaning against the desk, sucking in long, deep breaths. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime had passed, she stood up straight and turned to Meg. Her dark brown eyes studied her, and Meg’s eye began to twitch.

  “Sit down, Margaret.”

  Meg did as she was told and folded her hands neatly in her lap, trying hard not to wring them.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  Amelia had always said that humor was the best way to disarm an audience. “Well, I do know that the waltz is performed in triple time, as is the minuet. However the quadrille, though most of its five parts are performed in two-four—”

  “Margaret!” Ms. Denby stared at her, eyes wide and mouth agape.

  Hm. Perhaps Amelia should have warned her that humor was not always the answer.

  “Tell me what you know about Amelia,” Ms. Denby clarified.

  This time Meg opted for a half-truth. “I don’t know anything.”

  Ms. Denby, seated behind her desk again, leaned forward. “We both know you’re lying, Margaret. And you’re doing it to protect Amelia. I want you to know that I, too, wish to protect Amelia…from him.” She gestured to the door through which Mr. Harding had just left. “Someone will find her, and I’d rather it be me. Lord only knows the beating she would face if he found her first.”

  “So, you know?” Meg asked, unsure if she should be relieved or frightened for her friend.

  “About his temper? About his drinking? Yes, dear, I know everything. Why do you think I’ve so willingly kept Amelia on far past when I ought to have?”

  “I hadn’t realized,” Meg admitted. “I thought it was because Amelia begged you to let her stay.”

  “She didn’t have to do much begging,” Ms. Denby replied. “Now please, don’t make me beg. We need to find her before Mr. Harding does. Good Lord above, I can’t imagine what he’ll do to her. Please. Just tell me what you know.”

  Meg stared back at her headmistress for a long moment before finally giving in. “She plans to audition at Drury Lane, or at the very least, secure a position backstage in costumes or the like.”

  Ms. Denby shook her head. “I should have known. The girl has always been prone to theatrics. Have you heard from her since she left?”

  “Only once, ma’am,” Meg admitted. “But the letter was brief, stating she was safe. That’s all I know.”

  “Well, I suppose we’ve got enough of a start. I’ll ask Ms. Cooper and Ms. Lublin to oversee the school while we’re gone.”

  “We?” Meg asked, a thrill shooting down her spine at the prospect of a little adventure. “But what will you tell my parents?”

  “We’ll think of something, dear. But I need you. You know Amelia best—if anyone can find her, it’s you.”

  Nine

  I can’t help her. It would be more than simple to secure her an audition or, at the very least, a job at Drury Lane. The problem was that it would force him to face her. Sofia von Engel. She wasn’t German in the least, and she certainly wasn’t “of the angels,” God help him, but she was the current toast of London theater. Not to mention his former lover.

  God, she was the last person he wanted to ask a favor of. She would hold it over his head and require something in return, no doubt. Something Tom was neither inclined, nor allowed to give, according to his sister. He was supposed to be repairing his reputation, not making backstage deals with actresses. Of course, carting a lost debutante half way around the country wasn’t exactly toward, either.

  “You never answered me.”

  Miss St. George’s words broke into his thoughts as he pushed the food around his dinner plate. He wasn’t hungry at all. Thirsty, always, but he was trying to control himself. If he had to go back to London, he would have to be on his best behavior, lest the wrath of Victoria come upon him.

  “That’s because I’m not ready to give you my answer.”

  “Is it so complicated?”

  Tom grumbled. “More than you know.” And then he sat up straighter, a new idea coming to him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Unless…”

  “Unless?” She perked up, eagerly waiting for him to continue.

  “Well, how set are you on a career upon the stage?”

  If the way her spine stiffened and her nose shot into the air was any indication, he’d say she was rather set.

  “Very set,” she replied.

  Bloody stubborn chit. “Will you just hear me out?”

  “I don’t know that I have a choice in the matter, if I want to finish my dinner.”

  “Why not allow my sister to take you under her wing? She’ll arrange your come out, and help you in setting you cap for a good match. It’ll keep you away from whoever you’re running from, and keep you from ruin, too.”

  Much to Tom’s surprise, tears began to form in Miss St. George’s eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at the table, but it was too late. He’d already seen.

  “What?” he asked, genuinely concerned. “Is it something I’ve said?”

  She shook her dark head. “Not just you, Mr. Barclay. It’s just…it’s so unfair that one cannot pursue their dreams, cultivate their talents, because of what a bunch of old, stuffy rich people think. Is it fair that I be punished because some actresses have little scruples?”

  Tom had to agree with her there. As far as actresses went, the whole lot of them lacked any moral fiber, and Sofia had been one of the loosest of them all. She’d do anything for a shilling, that one.

  Still, Tom had little sympathy for the girl. He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’ll share a piece of advice, Miss St. George. Life is much easier if you don’t expect anything from it. The sooner you learn that fairness doesn’t exist anywhere, the better off you’ll be.”

  “Well, that’s a rather cynical way of looking at things, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s a real way of looking at things.”

  “I suppose you speak from experience, then?”

  “More than you know.”

  “Then tell me. A word of advice means nothing if not accompanied by a cautionary tale.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. Why did he have to be saddle
d with such a clever and determined girl?

  “I’ll tell you this. If I had my druthers, I’d be back in the Caribbean, lying on the beach, soaking in the warm weather, far, far away from the melodrama of London life. But thanks to a sister who caters heartily to my guilty conscience, I am instead here, in bloody Welwyn, playing nanny to a headstrong young lady who won’t bloody leave me alone.”

  She must have loved that last bit, because she smiled wickedly at him. “I must admit, I hadn’t set out to be a thorn in your side, but something about it makes me rather happy.”

  “Of course it does,” Tom muttered under his breath. It seemed that realization made most women of his acquaintance very happy. Damn, I need a drink. “I’m going into the village.” He stood abruptly and tossed his napkin to the table. “Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

  “I shall endeavor to do my best,” she replied, her tone mocking. “Good evening, Mr.Barclay.”

  ~*~

  Amelia gladly fell into the comfortable bed in the guestroom that night and dreamed peacefully until something—or really, someone—woke her with a start. Loud, slurred singing wafted through the open window where there should only have been the cool spring breeze. She rolled her eyes, and turned over to her side, placing the spare pillow over her exposed ear.

  One would have thought the pillow was made of paper. She could still hear every sloppy word he sang.

  Six long months I spent in Dublin/Six long months doing nothing at all/Six long months I spent in Dublin/Learning to dance for Lanigan’s ball…

  Amelia rolled back over with a growl. What a louse. And far too much like her father. Although, Mr. Barclay is certainly in better humor than Father ever has been. And Mr. Barclay had yet to strike her, so perhaps she judged him too harshly.

  And kicked him a terrible hullabaloo/Casey the piper was nearly being strangled/They squeezed up his pipes, bellows, chanters and all/And the girls in their ribbons they all got entangled.

  That was it. She couldn’t take it anymore. Amelia threw off the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She had no slippers, and the hardwood floors were like ice to her warm feet.

  She pushed through her door into the hallway and went down the stairs in the dark. By the time she reached the bottom, Mr. Barclay was banging loudly on the door. Wretched man. Had he no care for his poor servants who took care of him from dawn until well past dusk?

  Amelia went to the door with every intention of opening it before he awakened the entire village, only to realize it required a key. A key she didn’t have.

  “Never mind, miss,” a masculine voice sounded from behind her. “Go on back to bed. I’ll take care of Mr. Barclay.”

  Amelia stared at the footman, still in his full livery.

  “Were you waiting for him to come home?”

  The man gave a nod. “He was in a mood when he left earlier. I knew I’d be needed, if for nothing else, to open the door when he came stumbling home.”

  The banging grew louder, and Amelia tsked and shook her head. “He’s like a child.”

  The loyal footman moved to unlock the door. “He’s had a difficult year, Miss St. George.”

  He pulled the door wide, and a moment later, Mr. Barclay fell flat on his face through the opening, landing a mere inch from Amelia’s feet. He giggled like a little boy, and then raised his head, but he couldn’t lift it any further than her ankles.

  “Such…pretty…feet,” he slurred, and then his head thumped back to the wooden floor.

  What a disgusting excuse for a man. The only comfort Amelia took from the situation was knowing that he’d pay dearly for his transgressions in the morning. It served him right, the pathetic louse.

  “Any chance he’ll keep quiet the rest of the night?” Amelia asked.

  “Once I’ve got him abed, miss. He’ll not bother you again.”

  “Well, thank God for that. Thank you, Carlisle. I’ll bid you good night now.”

  “Of course, miss. Goodnight.”

  Amelia trudged up the stairs. She’d never be able to fall asleep now. Blasted drunken man. Perhaps she should pack up her few belongings and sneak out to catch the stagecoach to London. Then she’d finally be rid of the odious viscount-to-be. That would be nothing short of wonderful. However, the promise of a recommendation from him still loomed over her. Could she really walk away from what she hoped would be her future?

  With a loud sigh, she plopped down onto the bed and then fell back into the pillows. No, she couldn’t walk away. But she could force Mr. Barclay to make a commitment to her, and she would do so first thing in the morning, no matter how sick he might be.

  ~*~

  Tom woke to a loud thudding noise and it took several minutes for him to realize it was in his own head. Damn it all to Hell! What have I done?

  Vague memories of drinking songs and challenges to chug his beer in one single gulp floated about in his head, but he couldn’t remember much past that.

  When a knock came at his door, Tom thought his head might lop off from the pain.

  “Good God,” he whispered, as he sucked in a sharp breath.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” Carlisle said, coming into the room. He bowed his head rather sheepishly, as he ought to have, after disturbing Tom’s much needed sleep.

  Tom gestured for him to say what he’d come to say. Speaking himself was out of the question.

  “Your sister has arrived.”

  Bloody Hell!

  With his eyes closed and his voice barely above a whisper, Tom growled, “What do you mean my sister is here? No one summoned her.”

  “She’s come of her own accord, I suppose.”

  The wail of a baby wafted into Tom’s room all the way from the first floor. “And she’s brought the baby, I hear.”

  “Lord Leyburn has accompanied her as well.”

  “Damn,” Tom hissed, wondering why no one bothered to send notice anymore. “I suppose I should bathe, then.”

  “I do believe that would be wise, sir.”

  No doubt he reeked of beer, and God knew what else. “Draw me a bath, quickly. And have Fanny bring me a tincture for my headache, please. I’ll never make it through this day without one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carlisle was about to walk out the door when Tom was hit with a large dose of reality. He had an unmarried lady staying in his home. Good God, Vickie would string him up from his bullocks.

  “Carlisle!”

  His footman turned abruptly to face him as Tom struggled to sit upright.

  “Please ensure Miss St. George makes herself scarce today. I don’t want my sister knowing I’m harboring a lady here, no matter how innocent the situation may be.”

  “Yes, sir. I will do my best, sir.”

  “Your best won’t be good enough if Lady Leyburn discovers Miss St. George.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  An hour later, after a hot bath and a tincture that hadn’t necessarily cured him of his ailments but had at least alleviated them a bit, Tom made his way downstairs to the parlor. His sister sat on the blue velveteen sofa, bouncing little Lily upon her knee. Fin stood by the fireplace, his arm propped on the mantle as he watched his wife and daughter at play. That was, until he realized Tom was in the room.

  “Ah, there he is!” Fin said, his voice far too loud for the state of Tom’s head.

  “So I am,” Tom replied, trying not to speak too loudly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  Victoria and Fin exchanged a glance, and then Victoria said, “Perhaps you should sit down, Thomas.”

  “Thomas? Am I in trouble? It’s not like you to use my full name.”

  “No, not in trouble really,” Fin answered, taking a seat opposite the one Tom had chosen, leaving Victoria and the baby between them.

  He stared at his niece. Any other time he would have been eager to hold her, but not today. He feared she might cry out of her mother’s arms, and in his condition, it was a risk h
e couldn’t take.

  “Well, I suppose I should just come right out and say it,” Victoria said. “I probably ought to be broken up about it, but in truth, I feel nothing. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know that I can say yet, since you haven’t told me what it is.”

  Victoria sighed, and then blurted out, “Father is dead.”

  At which point Tom leapt from his seat and lunged for the vase that rested on the table between them. He barely had time to pull the hothouse flowers out of it before he replaced them with something far less fragrant.

  When he looked up, his sister stared back at him in horror. “Good heavens, Tom, are you ill?”

  “He is, but I daresay he’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  The entire room fell silent as all eyes shifted to the dark-haired young lady in the doorway to the parlor. Tom groaned as Carlisle burst into the room behind Miss St. George, a thousand apologies on his tongue.

  “I couldn’t stop her, sir. She’s got quite a bite and a heavy foot, but I swear I did all I could.”

  An undignified snort came from the sofa, and Tom looked over to see his sister barely containing her laughter.

  “Do you mean to say she bit you, Carlisle?” Victoria asked, bemusement oozing from her pores.

  “Right on his hand, my lady.” Amelia nodded as if she had something to be proud of. “And I’ll bite it again if he tries to prevent me from getting to where I need to go.”

  Victoria turned to Tom. “I don’t know who she is or why she’s here, but I like her.”

  “Of course you do,” Tom grumbled, handing the soiled vase off to Carlisle. “Miss St. George, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. We have family matters to discuss.”

  No one paid him any mind, and Victoria didn’t miss a beat.

  “What did you mean when you said he’d be fine by tomorrow?” his sister asked of Miss St. George.

  “I mean he was so deep in his cups last night that it will take until tomorrow for him to feel back to normal again. Thus the soiled vase.”

  Damn her. Why didn’t she just go away? Or mind her own business at least?

  Victoria regarded Tom with a look of censure in her eyes. “I sent you here with the express instructions to clean yourself up. And here I find you, harboring a woman and drinking until you can’t stand.”