First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(51)

“No, I’m sure he—”

GRAAAAAAOOOOOOOWWW!

Cat-Head let out a shriek of such unholy proportions that Georgie’s hand popped right off his head. The noise rent the air, and the cat, clearly bursting with the need to let it all out, thrust its legs and head out like a stiff, fuzzy, orange pentagon, howling at the injustice of the world until …

He stopped.

The three human occupants of the carriage held their collective breaths.

“Is it dead?” Nicholas finally asked.

Georgie looked at him in horror. “Why do you keep assuming my cats are dead?”

“But is it?”

“I think he fainted,” she said, peering down with concern. The cat was sprawled on its back, belly up, one paw thrown dramatically over its face. Gingerly, Georgie put her hand against his chest. “He’s still breathing,” she said.

Marian let out a sigh. Though not, Georgie thought, one of relief.

“Whatever you do,” Nicholas said in a low voice, “do not move. If you wake that thing up—”

“It’s a cat, Nicholas.”

“If you wake that cat up,” he amended, with no discernable remorse, “our misery will know no bounds.”

Marian peered out the window. “Are we slowing down?”

Georgie frowned and leaned forward to look.

“Don’t move!” Nicholas and Marian hissed.

“Are we here?” Georgie asked, making a great show of remaining in place.

“That depends on your definition of here,” Nicholas murmured, “but assuming you meant London, then no, we’re not.”

The carriage came to a complete stop.

“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll find out why we’ve stopped.”

Georgie and Marian watched as he hopped down. After a moment, Georgie said, “We can’t be that far from our destination.”

“No,” Marian murmured. “We’re meant to get there early evening. Lady Manston sent word ahead for the staff.”

Georgie nodded, suddenly very aware of the flock of butterflies taking root in her stomach. The only good thing to have come from Cat-Head’s caterwauling was that she hadn’t been able to think about the night that lay ahead.

The plan was to spend the night at Manston House, in London. It was the logical first layover on the journey north, and it meant that Georgie and Nicholas would not have to have their wedding night at an inn.

They also would not have to spend it with their families, who were back in Kent. Georgie could not imagine spending her wedding night at Crake, knowing that Nicholas’s family were all in their own bedchambers, just down the hall. The only thing worse would be spending the night at Aubrey Hall, with her own family right there.

“Can you see what’s happening?” she asked Marian, who was now fully out of her seat and hanging out the open door.

“Mr. Rokesby is speaking with Jameson,” Marian said.

“Jameson the groom?”

Marian nodded. “He looks peaked.”

“Jameson or Mr. Rokesby?”

“Jameson,” Marian confirmed. “Wasn’t he meant to be riding ahead to London?”

“He did ride ahead to London.”

“Well, he’s back.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Georgie countered.

Marian turned back to look at Georgie. “Sense or not, he’s here and he’s talking to Mr. Rokesby, and neither one looks pleased. Oh, hold up, here come Marcy and Darcy.”

Marcy and Darcy were Mrs. Hibbert’s twin daughters. Georgie wasn’t sure how old they were—fifteen? Sixteen? They were riding in the second coach along with their mother and Wheelock’s nephew (also called Wheelock). The traveling party was rounded out by two Aubrey Hall footmen serving as outriders, two Crake footmen (also serving as outriders), an Aubrey Hall coachman, a Crake coachman, an Aubrey Hall stable-boy, and Jameson, the groom from Crake who had ridden ahead to London.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Marian asked Marcy.

Or Darcy, Georgie wasn’t sure which. The two girls were wholly identical in appearance.

“Something about pestilence,” Marcy-or-Darcy said.

“Pestilence?” Georgie echoed, instinctively starting to rise.

“Don’t move!” Marian whisper-shrieked.

Georgie grumbled, but she did as bid. She didn’t want Cat-Head to awaken any more than Marian did.

“What was happening in your coach?” one of the twins asked Marian. The other wandered off, presumably in search of more interesting conversation.

“The noise?” Marian asked. “It was the cat.”

“There was no way they could hear him in the second coach,” Georgie protested.

The young maid shrugged. “It sounded like the devil himself was riding up here with you.”

“Again,” Georgie said, not that anyone was listening, “I don’t believe you could hear him.”

Marcy-or-Darcy (Georgie was really going to have to learn how to tell the two apart) poked her head in. “Did you kill it, ma’am?”

“No, I didn’t kill the cat,” Georgie snapped.

Marcy-or-Darcy looked unconvinced.

“I’m sure Mr. Rokesby didn’t say anything about pestilence,” Georgie said.