Christ, he would never take this new life of his for granted. His days had become inexplicably easy. Even the act of finding a bride had, in the end, taken only a few parlor games. He’d won a bride who’d matched his every criterion to the letter.
“Love is a privilege far more rare, my son,” his father replied, putting a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “And perhaps I am a selfish man, but I would want that for you as well. Father’s stipulations have made that difficult for you, if not impossible.”
“The choice was mine to chase them,” Tom said, then attempted a smile. “Miss Morehouse will make a fine viscountess.”
“I shall be eager to meet her then.” His father smiled, but there was a curiosity in his countenance that suggested he had questions he did not feel he could ask. “In the meantime, what do you say to a game of billiards? I fear your stepmother and grandmama will find me and I shall have to provide insight into flowers.”
Tom nodded, eager for the distraction. The two fell into an easy step toward the billiards room, the sound of their boots clicking on the tiled foyer. His father hailed a footman to light the room when Benedict approached Tom.
“Excuse me, your lordship,” he said, bowing to both gentlemen. “Mr. Worthington, there is someone here to see you. I tried to send her away, but she was rather insistent.”
Tom exchanged a look with his father before turning back to Benedict. “Did she leave a name?”
“Miss Duigood, sir.”
Duigood. The name sounded familiar, but Tom could not place it.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
Benedict shook his head. “She only said her business is of an extremely urgent nature and involves a common acquaintance.”
“I will wait for you,” his father said, taking the glass out of Tom’s hand. “See to your business. Anyone calling at this hour is not bringing good news. If I can be of assistance, you know where I am.”
The viscount continued on his way, while Tom followed Benedict to a small front parlor. He entered to see a woman of small stature with thick dark hair pinned into a simple knot at the back of her head. Recognition dawned as she turned to face him. Though she may have been only a few years Georgie’s senior, she had been Georgie’s chaperone.
She looked up at him with such a mix of relief and urgency it immediately unsettled him.
“Mr. Worthington,” she said, dipping into a little curtsy. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You are Georg—that is, Lady Georgiana’s servant?”
“I was,” she said. “I acted as her companion while she was staying with Baroness D’Anville. She was under her protection during her stay in London.”
Tom did not miss the implication of her words.
“What has happened?”
“Lord Ashcombe arrived yesterday, with Viscount Hawthorne,” she said. “They have removed Lady Georgiana to their home.”
“I see,” he said.
“No, you do not see,” she said, impatient. “We have learned that Lord Sharpe is also in London. She was not home two hours when this note was delivered to the baroness.”
“She has come to beg for Mr. Osbourne’s immediate assistance,” she said, handing Tom the note. “She wishes to leave for Scotland as soon as might be possible.”
She handed Tom the note, written in Georgie’s hand. His stomach dropped as he read it once, then again. Her fatherintended to marry her off to Lord Sharpe five days hence, when the special license would be issued. Tom raked his fingers through his hair. While the note was short, the urgency of her words could not be mistaken. She was terrified.
“Has her father found out about this?” he asked, gesturing toward the Lyon’s Den. “Has he sent for her?”
“Lord Sharpe is not a man to be trusted, I fear,” Miss Duigood said. “He is not a man known for his kindness. I fear for her if she becomes tied to him.”
“Why did you come to me?” he asked. “Lady Georgiana is asking for Mr. Osbourne’s help. He will be her husband.”
“We did not know where to find Mr. Osbourne,” she said. “And I do believe that you are Lady Georgiana’s friend, are you not?”
That descriptor twisted like a knife in his chest, but it was correct. He would always love Georgiana. And if he could not be her husband, he would be her friend. There was no way he was going to leave her to fend for herself. He looked down at the note once, running his finger over the ink she’d put there.
“I am,” he said, announcing it like a vow. “Thank you for coming to me.”