Chapter 13: Georgiana

"A maid," I said. "Georgiana's own maid."

"Twenty pounds," said the Dowager, "and a promise of twenty more."

She picked up her coffee cup, found it had sherry in it, and drank anyway.

"The girl is nineteen and sick with shame.

"She told my woman on the back stairs at six this morning.

"My woman is the only person in London who gives her tea without asking questions.

"Brayne's agent wants every letter Georgiana writes and every letter she gets."

Gervase had not moved.

His valet came in with the coffee, a stooped man who had dressed him for nine years and never said good morning.

He saw our faces and went out again so quickly he left the pot behind.

"It's before breakfast," I said to my husband. "I believe you owe me something."

"I do."

He turned his chair to face me.

It was the first time I had seen him do it without being asked.

"The letters from Bath," he said. "I never opened them.

"I knew what they said, because she told me what they'd say, a year ago, at Fane Park, in a churchyard.

"She wants leave to tell the truth.

"She has written to ask me for it every month since.

"If I read one I would have to answer, and I did not want to say yes."

"Why not?"

"Because they'd have hanged her," he said. "Or something very like it."

The Dowager set down the cup.

"Georgiana swore before the Lords' committee that she had been your mistress," she said.

"That was a sworn lie. A sworn lie to the Lords has a name, and the name has a pillory in it."

"Yes," said Gervase. "So I let the lie stand, and I told myself it was for her."

I looked at his hands, bare on the cloth, and found I wasn't angry.

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