Page 2 of The Earl's Hired Bride
He nodded his thanks. “What have you heard of Georgina, then?”
Hestia frowned thoughtfully. “Let me recall . . . She was married to Charles Bolton, the great adventurer and scholar, correct?”
“Yes. It was a sensation, back in its day. Charles was a dashing, intelligent, handsome man. No one questioned why she wanted him.” He took a sip of tea. “What they should have wondered, and did not, was why she was allowed to choose him.”
“I should think the Whitton stubbornness was explanation enough.”
“It appears it was. But it wasn’t the real explanation.”
Hestia stilled.
“Yes, you’ve guessed it aright, I see. Georgina was compromised.” He held up a hand. “She was not harmed. She didn’t suffer physically, at least.” He sighed. “She fancied herself in love with a scoundrel though, as some girls are wont to do. He seduced her, got her in the family way and then demanded a snoot full of money to keep it quiet.”
“He wouldn’t marry her?” Hestia let her surprise show.
“He might have, but she wouldn’t have him once she discovered his true colors. She vowed she’d whelp in a barn and live there rather than face a lifetime tied to a liar and a vile betrayer.”
“As I said, the Whitton stubbornness.”
He nodded. “We most all of us live with a dose of it—and Georgina had more than most. A family consult was held, and my grandmother—a wicked wit of a harridan herself—took her offon tourto hide the situation. They let it out that they were for Europe, but headed north instead. A couple in Edinburgh was found to take the child. He was a successful linen draper, and well able to take good care of the girl.”
“Ah. Charles Bolton was from Edinburgh as well, was he not?”
Danby sighed. “Yes. He was home from one adventure or another and met Georgina while she lingered there, recovering. They were smitten from the first, or so the story goes. My sister learned from her mistakes, though, I’ll give her that. She took it slow with him—and she told him the truth about the babe. It didn’t deter him. In fact, they pledged to continue anonymous support for her—and they did, until she was grown and married.”
“Your sister was lucky—as was her daughter. I know so very many other women for whom things did not turn out so well.”
“Yes, well, that’s just it. I don’t think it’s ended.” Danby’s expression grew pained, but his tone remained earnest. “I never knew the full extent of the story until I stepped into the dukedom and by then it was over. I admit—I’ve had occasional pangs over it. After all, there’s a woman out there somewhere, my niece by blood, if not law.” He trailed off. “I made a few enquiries, once, when I had business in Edinburgh. The girl had moved on, though, and no one was left who could say where. I figured it was for the best.”
“And what has changed now?”
“I got a note from an old friend, who reported seeing a girl here in London. Young. And reputed to be the very image of Georgina.”
“I see.” Hestia thought that could very well mean something . . . or it could not.
“I thought at first that he must have encountered Glenna in her bookshop or about Town. She does bear a resemblance, although her hair has that auburn tint that Georgina’s never had.”
“But you don’t believe so now?”
“I got a second note last week—from a different acquaintance. Glenna hasn’t been in London since Christmas, as you know. She removed to Ellesworth’s estate right after the marriage. My friend remarked on the uncanny likeness the girl bore my sister—even down to the same thick, ebony hair.”
Hestia sat, silent.
“I came to investigate.”
“And you found . . . ?”
“There can be no doubt. I lay in wait at the park where my friend had seen her. We waited together and it took two days—just two old men loitering in the sun. We spotted her—and I swear I was transported back in time. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she marched up and scolded me for spoiling her doll’s dress. Shemustbe Georgina’s granddaughter.”
“You wouldn’t be here if it were that simple, Your Grace. What happened?”
His hand shook, just the slightest bit, as he sipped his tea. “She was dressed . . . like a servant. Or perhaps not that well. Just slightly better than a street urchin. She looked thin. You know the hungry look I mean, more than most.” He shook his head. “It rattled me.”
“Did you approach her?”
“I tried. The chit saw me. I got the notion that she knew who I was—and wanted none of me. She turned immediately and blended into the crowd. I followed. I’m not so old as to be given the slip by a bit of a girl.”
“Of course not.”
