George Hardwick III Posted January 6, 2017 Share Posted January 6, 2017 Sat in his carriage, Hardwick's thumb idly rubbed the top of his silver topped cane as the streets slipped past his eyes. All about was iced with snow, he could almost taste an almond fondant beneath, before teeth might meet a spiced fruit cake. London looked beautiful at this time of year. It was good to be back home. His journey today brought him to a house he'd visited often enough, left his mark upon even, if you considered chipped paint and splintered wood. No doubt that had all been repaired by now, the new master of Lucinda Wyatt house would have refurbished with a theme more masculine and less heretical George supposed with a wry twist of lips. He was a tad jealous really, he'd have been rival for the houses purchase if it had hit the open market. It was as collectable in the same way as a voodoo doll full of pins, or a treasure map with a red X marks the spot, or the grave cloth of Oliver Cromwell (what had happened to that when he'd been exhumed?) George would not have redecorated, but then neither would he had taken up living there either. * But here he was; at Maldons House. * He rapped on the door with his cane, then stepped back with hands folded behind him to wait. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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