First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(52)

“Not Mr. Rokesby, ma’am,” Marcy-or-Darcy said, “Jameson the groom.”

“I hardly—I’m sorry,” Georgie said. She could not go on like this. “Are you Marcy or Darcy?”

“Marcy, ma’am. You can tell us apart by our freckles.”

“Your freckles?”

Marcy leaned farther in, although the effect was somewhat comical since her chin was on level with the floor of the carriage. “I have more than she does,” she said, motioning to her cheeks. “See?”

“Perhaps one of you could consider wearing your hair differently,” Georgie suggested.

“We used to do,” Marcy confirmed, “but Mama said we must wear it back in proper tight buns now that we’re in service.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, as if only just then remembering that she was speaking with her new employer. Unfortunately for her, this caused her to thunk her chin on the carriage floor.

“Ow!” she let out.

In Georgie’s lap, Cat-Head shifted position.

Everyone froze. Well, at least Georgie and Marian did. Marcy clutched her cheek with her hand and jumped up and down as she whimpered in pain.

“Is she bleeding?” Georgie asked.

“Don’t move,” Marian begged before turning back to Marcy. “Are you bleeding?”

“I think I bit my tongue.”

Georgie gasped when Marian moved to the side and Marcy’s head came into view. Marcy was trying to smile, but all that did was reveal blood-coated teeth.

“Oh, dear,” Georgie said. The poor girl looked positively ghoulish. “You’d better fetch Mr. Rokesby. He will know what to do.”

“He’s a doctor,” Marian assured her.

“He will be a doctor,” Georgie corrected. “Soon.”

Marcy scurried off, and Georgie continued to watch Marian as she hung out of the carriage to try to figure out what was going on.

“You might as well just get out,” Georgie muttered. She looked down at Cat-Head, still asleep in her lap. “Since I can’t.”

Marian gave her a look, as if to get one last verification that Georgie didn’t mind if she fled the scene.

“Go,” Georgie said. “But see if you can find out why we’ve stopped!”

Marian nodded, then sat on the floor, dangling her legs out before hopping down. Georgie heard her land with an oooff, but she was clearly unhurt because she dashed off.

“Well,” Georgie said, not quite daring to direct her soft comment at Cat-Head. “It’s just you and me.”

Blanche looked up and yawned.

“And you and Judyth,” Georgie said, giving Blanche a little nod. “But if you can endeavor to make me forget you again, we’ll all be happier.”

Blanche gave her a disdainful sniff but she lay back down, clearly pleased that the death-stare she’d been directing at Georgie for the past few hours had had its intended effect—that was to say, the carriage had stopped moving.

But just as Blanche got settled, Cat-Head began to stir, and after a wide yawn it became clear that he was awake and planned to stay that way.

But again, they weren’t moving, so at least he was quiet. Georgie set him down on the seat beside her and scooted toward the open carriage door. She might as well stretch her own legs now that she no longer had to hold Cat-Head still. Everyone else seemed to be walking about.

One of the Aubrey Hall footmen saw her in the doorway and rushed over to help her down. But before Georgie could make her way to Nicholas—still in deep conversation with Jameson—Marian came dashing over.

“Oh, it’s terrible, Miss Georgiana,” she said, out of breath from running. “London is overrun with plague!”





Chapter 14





God save him from hysterical women.

“London is not overrun with plague,” Nicholas ground out, chasing after Marian before she started a riot.

“Not even a little bit?” the maid asked.

“Do you want it to be?” he asked, somewhat perplexed by the hopeful tone of her question.

“No!” She turned to Georgie. “My goodness, such a thing to say.”

Nicholas resisted a retort, but only barely. In any case, his attention was diverted by Marian’s next outburst.

“Brimstone and pestilence!”

He stared at her. “What?”

“It’s what Jameson said,” Marian explained.

“No,” Nicholas countered, “that’s not what he said.” But technically that was almost precisely what Jameson had said. He’d just said it with a lot of swearing and not-fit-for-the-ears-of-ladies modifiers.

God save him from hysterical men.

He took a breath and turned to Georgie. “There are several cases of influenza at Manston House. Nothing approaching the level of brimstone. And certainly no plague.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

“Inasmuch as it’s better than black death, yes,” he said dryly. “But influenza is no trivial matter. We will have to bypass London. There is no way we can stay at Manston House.”

“Surely it cannot be so dangerous,” Georgie said. “It’s such a large building. We need not go near the affected section.”