understanding, so confident of his support. All of those beliefs had shattered like the fragile illusions that they were. Her stepfather had clearly misread Walter Praxton’s character to have agreed to such a devious plan. She swallowed down the pain as she recalled his zealous principles in which he had instructed them all. His actions made a mockery of them. She did not doubt for one minute that he would make good on his threat. He had made it clear what would happen if she made any appeal to Mama. And, if she refused Mr Praxton, her life was effectively over—her papa’s influence would see to that. She would be an example to Prudence so that he would never have to deal with such insurgent behaviour from her little stepsister, or from Francis or Theo for that matter. The dapple-grey mare shied away from the street hawkers’ carts, forcing Georgiana to leave her troubled thoughts and concentrate on Main Street and its normal chaos. It was not long before they reached Tythecock Crescent and home.
Immediately that she entered the house Harry, the youngest footman, directed her to her father’s study.
‘Where have you been?’ Her stepfather was standing by the window and had obviously witnessed her return.
She smoothed the midnight-blue riding habit beneath her fingers and tried to appear calm. ‘I called on Lady Farleigh. She asked if I would visit and I wanted to thank her for her kind hospitality.’ Georgiana was just about to explain that the lady had not been present when Mr Raithwaite interrupted.
‘I hardly think such a trip is in order. If you remember correctly, my dear, you left Lady Farleigh with rather a tawdry view of your reputation and it wouldn’t do to remind her of that until we’ve remedied the affair. Once you’re married then I’ve no objection to your seeing her, and I don’t suppose that Mr Praxton will have either.’ He touched his hands together as if he were about to pray, moving them until the tips of his fingers rested against his grizzled grey beard.
What would he say if he knew the extent of that which she had confided in Mirabelle? Georgiana looked directly at her stepfather, unaware that distaste and pity were displayed so clearly on her face.
Edward Raithwaite saw the emotions and they stirred nothing but contempt and frustration. ‘In fact, it would be better if you remained within this house until the day of the wedding. We don’t want to encourage any idle chatter, now, do we?’
‘I’m to be a prisoner in my own home?’ Georgiana could not prevent the words’ escape.
‘Let’s just say confined for your protection, and in my home, Georgiana.’
She glowered at him, but said nothing.
‘The wedding will take place in two weeks’ time at All Hallows Church. Your mother has arranged for a mantua-maker to attend you here tomorrow to prepare your trousseau.’ He looked away and picked distractedly at the nail on his left thumb. ‘That will be all, at present.’
And with that summary dismissal Georgiana made her way to her room.
The moon was high in the night sky and still Georgiana lay rigid upon the bed. Thoughts of her stepfather’s and Walter Praxton’s treachery whirled in her brain, ceaseless in their battery, until her head felt as if it would burst. Such a tirade would not help her situation. She must stop. Think. Not the same angry thoughts of injustice and self-pity, but those of the options that lay before her. What options? Marry Mr Praxton and ally herself with the very devil, or have her sanity questioned and be sent to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital in London? Neither choice was to Georgiana’s liking. She calmed herself and set to more productive thinking. Why had Papa confined her to the house? What was it that he was so afraid of? And quite suddenly she knew the answer to the question—a runaway stepdaughter. With the realisation came the seed of an idea that might just prove her salvation.
Within five minutes she was standing alone inside the laundry room, her bare feet cold against the stone-flagged floor, the candle in her hand sending ghostly shadows to dance upon the whitewashed walls. It did not take long to locate what she was looking for and, stuffing her prize inside the wrapper of her dressing gown, she crept back up to her bedroom. After her booty had been carefully stowed under the bed, she climbed once more beneath the covers, blew out the candle and fell straight to sleep. A smile curved upon her lips and her dreams were filled with her plan to foil Papa’s curfew and his arrangement for marriage.
During the subsequent days, it appeared that Georgiana was content to pass her time in harmless activity, and all within the confines of the house in Tythecock Crescent. She amused her youngest siblings Prudence and Theo and spent some considerable time conversing with her stepbrother Francis who, at fourteen, had been summoned home from school to attend the wedding. Surprisingly Francis’s bored manner, while still managing to insult his sister at any given opportunity, did not seem to annoy Georgiana, who was the very model of a well-bred young lady.
Mrs Raithwaite was much impressed by this novel behaviour, attributing it to Mr Raithwaite’s firm stance. It seemed that her daughter had at last overcome her initial reservations to an alliance with Mr Praxton. Not that Clara Raithwaite had an inkling of comprehension as to just why Georgiana had taken such an apparently unprovoked dislike for that perfectly respectable gentleman. He seemed to Clara a most handsome fellow with commendable prospects. And he had so far managed to ignore Georgiana’s stubborn tendencies.
Mrs Raithwaite’s delight abounded when her daughter entered a conversation regarding Madame Chantel and her wedding dress. Quite clearly Georgiana had resigned herself to the marriage and the Raithwaite household could at last breathe easy. They, therefore, were most understanding when two days later Georgiana complained of the headache and was forced to retire early to bed. Mrs Raithwaite ascribed it to a combination of excitement and nerves, which she proclaimed were perfectly normal in any young lady about to be married. And when Georgiana hugged her mother and told her that she loved her and hoped she would be forgiven for being such a troublesome daughter, Mrs Raithwaite knew she was right. For once, Clara Raithwaite’s diagnosis of her eldest daughter’s emotional state was accurate.
Georgiana had forced herself to lie still beneath the bedcovers, feigning sleep when her mother came in to check on her. Only once the door had closed and her mother’s footsteps receded along the passageway did she throw back the covers and set about her activity. With all the precision of the best-planned ventures, Georgiana moved without sound, aided only by the occasional shaft of moonlight stealing through her window. Her actions held a certain deliberation, a calm efficiency rather than a frenzied rushing.
From beneath the bed she retrieved her looted goods and set about stripping off her night attire, never pausing even for one minute. Time was of the essence and there was none to spare. With one fell snip of the scissors, purloined from Mrs Andrew’s kitchen, her long braid of hair had been removed. Georgiana suppressed a sigh. This was not the time for sentimentality. At last she had finished and raised the hand mirror from the dressing table to survey the final result. An approving smile beamed back at her, and deepened to become a most unladylike grin. The effect was really rather good, better even than she had anticipated. Now all she had to do was hope that the coachman and postboys would not see through the disguise.
She loosed the few paltry coins that she could call her own upon the bed and, gathering them up, tucked them carefully into her pocket. The rest of her meagre provisions were stowed within a rather shabby bag that she’d managed to acquire from one of the footmen. Everything was in place. It was time to go.
She could only hope that Mama would forgive her. It wasn’t as if she was just running away. No. She’d never been a coward and didn’t mean to start now. It was advice and help that she needed, and Lady Farleigh had offered both. The trouble was that Mirabelle Farleigh had gone to Collingborne. And so it was to precisely that same destination that Georgiana intended to travel. Fleetingly she remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern. Who are you afraid of? If Mr Praxton has done aught that he should not have … Would it have come to this if she’d told him the truth? Too late for such thoughts. One last look around her bedroom, then she turned, and slowly walked towards the window.
If a casual observer had happened to glance in the direction of Number 42 Tythecock Crescent at that particular time, a most peculiar sight would have greeted his