Page 44 of This Earl of Mine

Wylde was ready when they pulled up in front of the Tricorn Club. He bounded down the front steps, leapt up into the carriage before Pieter could get down from the box, and settled himself on the opposite, rather threadbare seat across from Georgie.

“Morning, Georgie girl.”

She curbed the urge to call him “Benny boy” in retaliation and adopted a businesslike tone. “Good morning, Mr. Wylde.”

He gave her modest attire a lingering look that somehow made her feel as if she were wearing something far more alluring than a plain blue worsted dress. Or wearing nothing at all.

Her skin tingled. She’d never met anyone who had such an effect on her. It was animal attraction, obviously, the kind described in dramatic prose in Juliet’s gothic romances. The kind that made otherwise sensible people do foolish things in Simeon’s epic poems.

Wylde himself was clothed equally plainly, in buff breeches, boots, and a navy jacket—none of which lessened his unholy appeal. He should have looked like a tradesman or a schoolteacher, someone dull and anonymous, but if anything, he appeared to greater advantage without the distraction of exquisite tailoring. His natural confidence shone through, as it had in Newgate.

He had the athletic body of a manual worker, lean, yet muscled. He certainly didn’t need the padding, sawdust, or male corsets used by many gentlemen to improve his figure. Instead of a cravat, he’d knotted a neckerchief casually around his strong throat, and Georgie tried not to notice the way the thin linen of his shirt clung to his chest.

She fidgeted in her seat as they rattled along the Strand and past Somerset House, the venue for the Royal Academy of Arts annual exhibition, then indicated the cardboard tube he’d placed on the seat. “The plans, I take it?”

“Yes. This Harrison of yours will need to take a look.”

They bowled down Fleet Street, then past Doctors’ Commons and along Thames Street, with the river on their right. As soon as they passed London Bridge, Georgie leaned forward to see one of her favorite sights on the whole trip: the vast open-air fish market of Billingsgate.

Even with the window closed, the overpowering odor of the place—a vile combination of roach and plaice, flounders and eels—permeated the carriage, and she wrinkled her nose.

The lively scene always fascinated her. She caught a glimpse of an auctioneer standing on a barrel next to thestalls that had been set out around the dock, reducing the sum he requested until one of the rowdy fishwives thrust up a hand to bid for a parcel of fish. A grey-haired old crone sat on a basket smoking a clay pipe, while another took a swig from a dark green bottle. A couple of cats wound hopefully around their legs.

The reassuringly solid walls of the Tower of London appeared next. The route was familiar to Georgie; she and Pieter took it at least once every month, but the sheer variety of sights it offered never failed to entertain.

The houses became more crushed together as they headed east. Many had upper stories that were wider than the ones below. They leaned so close, they almost touched, blocking out the light to the narrow alleys they created below. Churches squeezed in cheek by jowl with shops and taverns, and the streets teemed with sailors and merchants’ wives, coaches and horses, clergymen and whores. Georgie smiled as they passed a ragtag child driving a cart pulled by a rangy dog. The pair narrowly missed a liveried footman on an errand and a laundress with a basket of clothes balanced precariously on her head.

As they skirted the rough edges of Limehouse and Cheapside, she breathed a thankful prayer that she’d been born to a life of comfort instead of misery in such a squalid place.

Considering how aware she was of Wylde’s presence, she’d thought the journey would be awkward, but they’d settled into a companionable silence. Mama and Juliet always seemed to feel the need to fill every minute of a journey with chatter, but he seemed content to gaze out of the window and savor the view. Every so often, he would point something out to her—like a woman in a ridiculously oversized bonnet battling against the wind—and they would share a smile. The tension that always seemed to fizz between them was still present, but it waslayered with an odd sense of easy contentment. She felt as if they were becoming friends, and yet she knew so very little about him.

“Tell me about your family,” she said suddenly.

His muscles tensed, and she cursed herself for ruining the convivial atmosphere, but then he shrugged.

“There’s not much to tell. My parents had a classic marriage of convenience. I have an older brother, John, eighteen months my senior. Not long after I was born, my mother declared that she hated the country. She promptly decamped to the London town house, where she lived quite separate from my father until she died a few years ago. John and I grew up on the estate, and since Father paid us very little attention until we were old enough to play a decent hand of cards, we were left to a succession of nannies, nursemaids, and tutors.”

He glanced up and must have seen the pitying look on her face because he sent her a reassuring grin. “It was an idyllic childhood, truly. Those nannies and tutors were easy to escape. John and I spent much of our time romping in the fields and woods on the estate, riding, fishing, and swimming.”

Georgie frowned down at her hands. “That’s so different to my own experience. It sounds as though your parents had nothing in common, as if they barely tolerated one another, whereas my parents’ marriage was a love match. Mother was devastated when Father died so suddenly.”

Georgie quelled a sad little smile. It seemed both their parents’ marriages were cautionary tales; her own parents’ against the risk of loving and potentially losing, his about marrying with no love on either side.

Benedict nodded. “My parents didn’t dislike one another, per se, it’s just that they had different interests, different lives. They stayed on friendly terms—at least untilthe extent of father’s gambling losses became apparent.” A shadow crossed his face. “I was away in Portugal when everything came to a head, but Mother died just before he lost the London house in a game of whist. Things got worse after that. Father refused to stop gambling. When he died, only a year later, there was nothing left except that which was entailed.”

“Is that why you need money?” Georgie asked quietly. “To help your brother repay your father’s debts?”

He nodded. “John shouldn’t have to shoulder it alone. We both grew up at Morcott Hall. Its servants and tenants practically raised us, they’re as much family as my own flesh and blood. We need to support them, to keep the village school open so their children have a chance to better themselves. Just think of all the wasted talent if you’d never been taught to add a column of figures. You’d never have discovered your own abilities, never had the chance to get so far in life.”

His eyes gleamed as he spoke, his face was animated; he was clearly passionate about the subject.

“One of those children might end up being the next Shakespeare or Sir Christopher Wren.” He glanced out of the carriage window and waved his hand at the narrow, crowded streets. “I’ve seen the results of a lack of education, a lack of options, both here in London, and during the war in France and Spain. It’s awful. Children forced to beg and steal, to work in foul conditions for a pittance. Young girls selling themselves for a scrap of bread. We owe it to our tenants to give them that chance. A new landlord might not be so caring.”

Georgie nodded, delighted that his thoughts on the subject so closely correlated with her own beliefs. Wylde was the polar opposite of her cousin; Josiah firmly believed that the lower classes should stay where they had been put and be grateful.

Feeling the need to lighten the atmosphere, she sent him a sparkling glance. “You’re so lucky to have had such adventures. And a brother. I confess I’m a little jealous. Juliet was never daring enough for me. I could never convince her to climb trees or come sailing on the lake. It’s always better with friends. To have someone with whom to say, ‘Remember that time we—’ instead of, ‘This one time, I—’ don’t you think?”

Wylde sent her a smile that, while clearly meant to be more friendly than flirtatious, nevertheless warmed her insides with a happy glow.

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