The Emerald Comb. Kathleen McGurl

a half-smile on her face, as though she was as pleased to see him as he was to see her.

      He entered the drawing room, where a log fire was blazing in the grate, even though the day was warm and sunny. Charles Holland was sitting in an armchair near the fire, his back to the window. He had a brandy glass in his hand, and as Bartholomew approached he gulped it back and motioned for Peters to pour another.

      ‘Welcome, welcome, St Clair,’ he said, waving at Bartholomew to sit opposite him.

      Pulling the chair a little away from the fire, Bartholomew sat down, but declined the brandy offered to him by Peters. He’d have welcomed its warming glow, but one brandy often led to another, and another. It was early yet, and he wanted to keep his wits about him during this interview with Georgia’s uncle.

      ‘I thank you for your hospitality, sir,’ he said. ‘It is most kind of you to offer me room in your house.’

      Holland snorted. ‘You’re here because I assume you are going to propose to my niece, sooner or later. I thought if you were here under her nose for a few weeks it might hurry things along. She’s got money, you know. Plenty of it. In trust now, but goes to whichever poor blighter marries her.’

      Bartholomew blinked. ‘Sir, I am not after her money, please don’t think that …’

      ‘Hmph. Most of ’em are. Granted, she’s a pretty enough little thing but there’s too little flesh on her for some men’s liking, and she can be far too spirited. You’ll need to tame her, somewhat. You ready for that, man?’

      ‘I like her spirit,’ Bartholomew said, remembering the night they’d met, when she’d walked in the snow in dancing slippers, and made him carry her.

      ‘So did a young chap she met last week,’ said Holland. ‘Son of a wine merchant, I believe, name of Perry. He’s called here every day. She’s having her portrait painted, and the poor sop waited mutely for hours while she sat for the artist. If you want my niece – and Lord knows you’re welcome to her, I make no secret of the fact I want her off my hands – you’ll need to act quickly. I’ll give my blessing. Frankly I think an older, settled chap like yourself will be better for her than a love-struck pup like Perry.’ He gulped back his brandy and reached for the decanter to pour another. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

      ‘Perhaps just a small one.’

      Holland poured a generous measure into a large brandy glass and handed it to him. ‘So, St Clair, as Georgia’s official guardian I should ask you about your property and income and such like. Don’t give a damn, myself, but it’s the done thing as I understand it, and sooner or later some busybody’s bound to ask about my niece’s fiancé. So I’d best have the detail, man.’

      Bartholomew cleared his throat. He’d been expecting this question, but not quite in this form. ‘Well, sir, I am comfortably off. I have a townhouse in Mayfair which is my usual residence when in town, and two other properties near the Regent’s Park, which are let out. I expect to inherit a small country estate in Hampshire from my father in time, but I may not keep that for long.’ Best not to mention that all the London properties were mortgaged to the hilt, and he was barely able to keep up the repayments.

      ‘Hampshire? Nice county. Know it well, from my youth. Where’s your father’s place, exactly?’

      ‘North Kingsley, on the London road out of Winchester. The house is called Kingsley House.’

      Holland snorted. ‘Never heard of it.’

      The captain’s dismissal made Bartholomew feel defensive about his childhood home. ‘It’s not large, but is comfortable, and very pleasantly situated. Any woman would be happy living there.’ He swallowed his brandy, and set the glass on a small table beside his chair.

      Holland immediately reached for it and poured him another. ‘How long till you inherit?’

      Bartholomew blinked. The directness of the man! ‘Sir, my father is old and frail. Only the Lord above knows how much longer he will live, but I would not expect it to be more than a couple of years.’

      ‘Until then, what’s your income?’

      ‘I have upwards of £800 a year from my investments. Your niece, should she accept me, will want for nothing.’ At least, he had been generating £800 a year from his investments, up until losing thousands when an East Indiaman had sunk off the Cape. Bartholomew drank again from his brandy glass.

      ‘Well, that’s settled then. I’ll ring for her to join us.’ Holland heaved himself out of his chair and pulled on a bell-cord which hung beside the fireplace.

      Bartholomew frowned. ‘I believe your footman said she was indisposed?’

      ‘Indisposed, my foot. She was dancing late at the Assembly Rooms last night with young Perry, and gave herself a headache. Fetch my niece,’ he said to Peters, who responded with a small bow. ‘Tell her she has an important visitor and I want her downstairs at once.’

      Peters left the room. Holland nodded at Bartholomew’s glass, and raised his eyebrow. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, thought Bartholomew, as he held out his glass for yet another refill. It was indeed a fine brandy.

      A moment later there was a tap at the door. Bartholomew stood, straightened his collar and arranged a smile on his face to greet Georgia.

      But when Holland called ‘Come!’ and the door was pushed open, it was Agnes, the maid, who stepped quietly into the room, her attitude deferential but at the same time, her head held high and confident.

      ‘Beg pardon, sir, but Miss Georgia is not well. She asks your forgiveness, and sends her apologies to Mr St Clair, but fears she cannot be in company for today.’ She gave a pretty curtsey, then turned to Bartholomew. ‘If it please you, sir, she says she would like to meet you after breakfast tomorrow, and if the weather be fine, perhaps take a stroll along the beach.’

      She nodded, curtsied once more, and left the room, not waiting for an answer.

      Bartholomew smiled. A fine woman, and one who, if he played his cards right, would soon be a part of his household.

      ‘Thought you’d be upset, man,’ said Holland. ‘Travelling all this way to see my niece, only for her to stay abed. Well, plenty more days I suppose. You need to supplant that young Perry in her affections. Give her some jewellery – the ladies always like that kind of thing.’

      ‘I am indeed sorry I cannot renew my acquaintance with Miss Holland this evening,’ said Bartholomew, sounding formal even to his own ears, as he struggled to compose himself. Why did that maid have such an effect on him every time he caught a glimpse of her? He’d barely said two words to the woman since he’d met her, but something about her made his pulse race. And if he was not mistaken, she was also attracted to him.

      ‘Well then, if my niece is not to join us for dinner, we may as well have another brandy. Hand me your glass, man, I’ll top it up.’

      The following morning, it was a bleary-eyed Bartholomew who made his way down to the breakfast room. Thankfully the room was empty when he arrived. Peters informed him that Holland would not rise until eleven, and Georgia usually had breakfast brought up to her in her room. Bartholomew sat down to a plate of cold meat and cheese, and worked his way through a whole jug of coffee. When it was finished, he felt a little more ready to face the day. He resolved to be more careful the next time he was in company with Holland and the brandy decanter.

      He had not yet seen Agnes, the maid, that morning, but his night had been disturbed by vivid dreams of her. He tried to bring his thoughts back to Georgia – it was she he was here to court – but it was Agnes’s face he saw in his mind’s eye, Agnes’s voice he heard, Agnes’s hands he imagined caressing him.

      He shook his head. He had to pull himself together. Agnes was a maid, too lowly for him to consider as a wife. He needed a woman with status, and definitely one with money. He had to focus on Georgia. The two women were superficially alike – both were blonde with green eyes, slight figures