Amelia's Intrigue (Regency Idyll Book 1)

by Judith A. Lansdowne

  “You wrote it because you knew what a dull time we were having of it and wanted us to come home,” accused his younger son, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Yes, I admit I wished the both of you in London, but that is hardly mysterious.”

  “And what about my letter, sir, and Chet’s?” Northampton asked quietly. “You did write them, did you not?”

  “Well, now, I did, Robert, and I didn't.”

  “They are in your handwriting, Father,” David pointed out helpfully, “We are all sure of it.”

  “Yes, definitely my handwriting,” agreed Lord Mapleton with a nod. “But not my words. Another gentleman’s words.”

  “Rutlidge's,” suggested Bristol quietly.

  “Yes,” nodded Lord Mapleton. “Why do you all stare so? May one man not do another a favour without being implicated in some dastardly treachery?”

  “But, Father,” protested David, “how do you come to be writing letters for Lord Rutlidge, and about Amy, too? Why, the man don't even know Amy. Does he?”

  “They have only recently met,” Lord Mapleton murmured, struggling to keep a serious countenance, “but he has known of her for a while. Since she was seventeen, I believe.”

  “How?” asked Kit.

  “Why, I have been telling him all about her, of course. He loves to hear stories of your sister’s antics, and hearing that Amelia was to come to London for the Season, he requested my assistance in writing to Northampton and Bristol. Geordan cannot write,” he added, seeing the puzzled looks on his sons’ faces.

  “Nor read neither,” sighed Bristol, “no matter how hard he tries. You have been to Westerley then, sir?”

  “Yes, Chet, the last time was a month ago. It was then we wrote to you. I got to thinking about it, though, and thought perhaps you and Robert might like David’s and Kit's help.”

  David grinned, leaning comfortably back in his chair. “We want to know what is going on and how we have all come to be involved in’t.”

  ''Very well then,'' sighed Lord Mapleton. “Lord Rutlidge wishes his brother to marry Amelia, and want the four of you to, ah, give Talbot a few pushes in that direction.”

  “But the letters don't mention marriage,” Northampton mused. “He only says he wishes us to get them to know each other.”

  “Yes, that's right, But he’s hoping Tony and she will fall in love and be married. He has already asked my permission for Talbot to pay his addresses to Amy.”

  “He ain't'?” asked Bristol on a shaky intake of breath.

  “Do not laugh, Bristol,” Lord Mapleton warned with a seriously endangered frown. “He did it very properly, I'll have you know, and despite the fact Talbot knew nothing of it, I was most impressed. And I consented. He is right, you know, Amelia and Tony would be a perfect match. It will never come about, however, without a bit of manipulation. Which,” he added, a finger in the air for emphasis, “is what 1 am attempting to deliver.

  “Well, but, suppose Amy does not like this Talbot person,” Kit asked with a lifted eyebrow.

  “She thinks he is odious,” Northampton supplied.

  “She does?” David asked. “Well then, oughtn't you tell Rutlidge so? You are certainly not going to force her into marrying the man, are you, Father?”

  Lord Mapleton eyed his elder son with a look of pride. “Do you honestly believe that I could, David? Well, I am pleased and proud you think so. But I could not, and well I know it. Nor would I. But I think Geordan is right. It is at least worth an effort to bring the two of them together.”

  “And that is all, Uncle Max?” Northampton aske, rather crestfallen. “There really is no more to it?”

  “Not that I am aware of, Robert. No mystery involved. Just a secret plan is all, though it may be very hard to keep it secret with six of us involved in't. Still, I thought ’twould be helpful to have David and Kit. About time they got to know Talbot, anyway, if he's to become their brother-in-law.”

  BY the time Lord Mapleton had left his offspring behind and strolled at a moderate pace back to his snug little home in Brook Street, the clock was nearing midnight. He let himself in the front door, hoping to avoid Smythe and any of the other staff likely to be waiting up for Catherine and Amelia. Quietly, he mounted the winding staircase to the second floor and made his way down the hall to his own bedchamber. As he eased the door open and slipped inside, he heard a rustle from the dressing room beyond and sighed. “I thought I told you to take the rest of the evening off, Bernard. Why do I find you still at work?”

  “I beg pardon, my lord,” replied the long, lean valets sticking his head in through the archway, “but some of us have things that need to be done.”

  “And some of us have a deep desire for privacy,” muttered Lord Mapleton with a wry twist to his mouth.

  “And some of us also have need of a brain surgeon,” replied Bernard, his lanky body coming into full view. “You are not about to do what I suppose you to be about to do, are you, my lord?”

  “Yes,” replied Mapleton. “And do not tell me how old I will be upon my next birthday either. Since you are here, help me out of this coat and my boots and fetch my riding clothes.”

  “But, my lord.”

  “Fine, Bernard, then do not. But if you cannot be of service, get out of here and let me shift for myself in peace.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders and a look of concern on his narrow face, Bernard went to help Lord Mapleton extricate his broad shoulders from the tightly fitting coat of Weston's cut, carrying the garment to the armoire. Then he bent to pull off the gentleman's impeccably shined Hessians. In a rather tense silence, he carried these back to the dressing room as well and returned with a pair of white buckskin breeches, a patterned cambric shirt, and a shamefully neglected pair of riding boots. “Which coat, my lord?” he asked in a voice filled with reproach.

  “The double-breasted one with the brass buttons. “

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And my hat, Bernard. You know which.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Mapleton slipped into the breeches and shirt and strolled to the trunk at the foot of his bed. From it he pulled a short sword which he buckled around his waist. He was busily collecting his duelling pistols when Bernard re-entered. “And I suppose you will slip down the back stairs as well, and saddle your own horse.”

  “Yes, Bernard, I will.”

  “And what shall I tell her ladyship when they find you dead in the street in the morning, my lord?” Bernard sighed, sitting down limply upon the bed.

  “If they find me dead in the street, Bernard,” grinned Lord Mapleton, “you shall tell her ladyship that my will is in the second volume of Cowper on the library shelves and that there is a letter for David in my left hand desk drawer. And that Amelia may have that mare of Montgomery’s she craves.”

  “No, but really, my lord.”

  “But really, Bernard. Get up and help me on with these boots, will you please? And this time, do not wait up for me. I will not return much before four or five, and I shall be extraordinarily angry to find you anywhere in my chambers!”

  LADY MAPLETON and Amelia entered the house on Brook Sheet just after Lord Mapleton’s departure. She had, in fact, recognized her husband's fine figure turning the corner at the end or the street and galloping off in the direction of the Thames. Her heart had actually leapt to see him disappear into the night shadows and the swirling streamers of fog. She hoped Amelia had not seen him. “Well, and I vow I am at the end of my stamina,” she murmured, as Smythe helped her off with her wrap. “You will excuse me if I go directly to bed, darling, for I cannot keep my eyes open a minute longer.”

  She accepted her daughter's proffered arm and climbed the stairway to the second floor, leaning heavily upon her child as if she were indeed exhausted. Sending Amelia off to her own chambers with soft kiss, she entered her own rooms and found Liddy waiting to help her undress. By the time she was alone, her heart was beating quite rapidly, and a hint of tickl
ed behind her eyes, but she refused to let them stream down her cheeks, walking quietly instead into the sitting room which separated her bedchamber from Max's own. She listened at his door, and hearing nothing, let herself into the room. She opened the trunk at the foot of his bed and saw that his short sword no longer lay within. With quiet steps she fetched his footstool and moved it to the shelves. Standing upon it, she searched for his pistols and found the box empty. “Oh, Max,” she murmured. “Will it never end?” She climbed down and wandered to the over-stuffed chair that stood before the empty grate. With a sigh, she curled into it and closed her eyes.

  ANTHONY ANDREW TALBOT stood silently in the darkness beside his brother’s bed, staring fondly down at the earl’s sleeping form. He reached out with one hand to brush the tangled curls back from the tanned brow and then leaned down to kiss the narrow scar that lay a dull white against the suntanned skin from the left temple to the corner of the Earl’s left eye. “I love you, Geordan,” he whispered quietly, and then pulled the bedcovers up to the earl’s chin.

  He made his way quietly out the door, down the back stairs, and into the stables where he saddled the little Welsh mare. She played with the bit and danced in the stall, eager for a run. He kept her at a sedate trot through the neighbourhoods, but as he neared the City, he let her choose her own pace on the nearly deserted streets. She cult through the night like a two-year-old, enjoying it the more as they neared the Thames and the fog increased. He did not try to slow her. He was very late. It had taken forever to convince Geordie to seek his bed. And by the time he had finally left the house, the Watch had been crying two o'clock. The chances were, he thought, that he was much too late and had forfeited even the slightest chance at a meeting this night, but he rode on regardless.

  As he turned into the path along the river, he brought the mare back to a canter and then to a trot, finally slowing her to a sedate walk. The path took him along the docks where some noise still broke the silence. Then it twisted along the Thames toward the bridge. The fog had grown so thick that the lights that flared there could not be distinguished. He brought the mare to a halt once when he thought he heard movement beside the path and once again when he was sure he heard hoofbeats approaching slowly behind him. But no one appeared either time, and he began to curse the fog for distorting sound as well as vision.

  At last he passed the bridge, able to distinguish only a single flambeau at the outermost edge of it. He rode on in the direction of the Tower, which he could not see at all. Beneath him the little mare shivered and tossed her head, her ears struggling to distinguish the direction of a sound that he could not even hear. In the spot where the path dipped almost to the level of the river and the water could be heard nipping at the shoreline, a figure disengaged itself from the fog not three feet before him.

  “’Tis a night for smugglers and fools,” a voice floated through the mist. “Which would ye have me believe ye to be?”

  “Neither,” answered Tony hoarsely, his hand moving slowly toward the duelling pistol in a leather case at his saddle bow.

  “Do not, lad,” the voice warned. “I am not as blinded by the fog as ye think me to be. Return your hand to your thigh if ye please. Aye, that be much better. Now tell me who ye seek at the river this time of th'mornin'.”

  “Justice,” Tony murmured. A breeze heavy with moisture swirled the fog up and away from the two men only a moment, but the moment was long enough to give Talbot a clear look at the heavily muscled, broad-shouldered man confronting him.

  A rich, deep laughter met Tony's answer. “Ye be a fool, then. Justice be no longer on the river.”

  “I am not a fool,” Tony muttered. “Justice is along the Thames; if not tonight, then the next or the one that follows.”

  “Ye have a name, lad?” the man asked quietly.

  “Indeed, but ’twill not be given into your keeping.”

  The rich laughter came again. “The fires die even as speak; the gathering has dispersed; Justice fades into dawn.”

  “Dawn is far away.”

  “Aye, Justice is closer, but ye'll not meet ’im”

  “I will,” declared Tony, moved to a vehemence he could not check. “And only one of us will walk from the meeting ground.”

  “Turn yer mount, lad, and go home,” ordered the deep voice silkily. “Justice'll not be yours tonight.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE Dowager Duchess of Richmond was a fierce, energetic, highly opinionated lady of sixty-plus years with the piercing eyes of a falcon and a personality to match. Her power had not waned with her son's ascension to the title nor with his marriage. She ruled her family down to the merest fourth cousin with a strength and determination born of another era, and held them all rigidly to the precepts and principles of a nobility long since belittled and berated by generations devoted to indolence and spoilt grandeur. She believed in such outmoded ideals as loyalty, charity, and hard work, and her claws, though now more brittle than in times past, were seldom sheathed when facing the present generation.

  When Lady Mapleton opened the finely engraved invitation and spied the dowager's name, she immediately warned Amelia that an appearance at Richmond House demanded the greatest attention to protocol, “… for she will ring a peal over you, my dear, right where you stand, should you insult her ideas of propriety,” Lady Mapleton said with a little shiver.

  “Did you ever insult her ideas of propriety, Mama?” Amelia asked, smiling. “Is that why she frightens so?”

  “No, never,” replied her mother with a little laugh, “but your father did, and he knew better, too.”

  “What did he do, Mama?” asked Kit, setting aside the letter he had just begun and turning to grin at his sister.

  “Yes, Mama,” David joined in, pulling a chair up next to his mother;s. “Tell us.”

  “I really should not,” Lady Mapleton declared, looking around at her bright-eyed children. “You have all grown up so wonderfully in spite of your father, you know.” -know.” She grinned at them and gave a little shake of her head. “I have told too many tales on him already.”

  “Did she invite him to a musicale, Mama?” Amelia asked, giving her brothers a wink. “Is it one of the musicalestories?”

  “No, no, it was only a drawing room, but your father and Tracy—the present Duke of Richmond—both left the room in the midst of a piece Lady Belle, Tracy's sister, was performing upon the pianoforte. Poor Belle. She blushed so, and stumbled over her fingering. I remember that I thought them both great boors.”

  “And did the duchess ring a peal over them?” asked Kit.

  “The moment they returned, in front of all of us—which, of course, embarrassed poor Belle even more.”

  “What did Papa do?” David asked, grinning.

  “When the duchess had finished, your father walked over to Belle, sank to his knees, and apologized for everyone to hear, like an actor in the midst of a Cheltenham tragedy. Then he stood up, took her in his arms, and kissed her soundly on the lips.”

  “He didn't!” Amelia gasped. “Oh, the poor girl.”

  “Actually,” Lady Mapleton grinned, “Belle had a frightful tendre for your father in those days, and I could tell she quite enjoyed the kiss, though she did turn beet red.”

  “What did the duchess do then?”

  “Well, first Tracy broke into laughter, and then your father did, and then Belle did as well, and all three of them joined hands and bowed to us. That made the duchess laugh, but she called your father a scapegrace and ordered him from the house.”

  “Did he go?”

  “Certainly. But he was back next day. He ran tame in their house for years, you know, as Robert does here.”

  “Will Papa attend the ball, do you think?” Amelia asked.

  “Yes, indeed he will, and so will David and Christopher, and they will all wear knee breeches.”

  “Oh, no, Mama,” groaned both her sons at once.

  “Oh, yes, my dears. And your father will not get out of it
either. It is next Thursday, so you will be sure not to have any other engagements on that evening.”

  “THE time has come, old man,” Talbot announced, holding an invitation similar to Lady Mapleton's in his own hand as he lingered over his coffee at the breakfast table.

  “The t-time for what, T-Tony?” the earl asked, carefully spreading jam across a piece of toast.

  “The time for your entrance into polite society, Geord.”

  “B-But I have been in society for three whole w-weeks.”

  “No, no, you ain't, scoundrel. You have been in London for three weeks, but you have not yet set foot into polite society.”

  “Well, I thought everyone was v-very p-polite, Tony.”

  Talbot laughed and tossed the invitation onto the tabletop. “Yes, but this is a different thing altogether, Geord. Aunt Theckla has invited us to a party, and it will be very staid and proper, and we shall have to dress up like beaux in knee breeches and silk stockings and lace.”

  “N-no, really, Tony?”

  Talbot laughed harder at the wide-eyed look on his brother's face. “Well, perhaps we may forego the lace, rascal, but we must wear intricately tied neckcloths at the very least.”

  “I'd rather n-not,” the earl said. “I c-cannot wear my new Hessians with knee breeches, c-can I?”

  “No, you cannot. We shall both be forced to wear dancing shoes, I’m afraid. Can you dance, Geord?”

  “Only the w-waltz. Mama t-taught me.”

  “Good enough. You do want to visit Aunt Theckla, don’t you, Geord? We really should have gone before now.”

  “Y-yes, I g-guess so. W-will she like me, Tony?”

  “She has always liked you, gudgeon. Aunt Theckla is Tracy's mama, the one who writes to you every week and sends you presents.”

  “Oh!” the earl gasped. “Jeanie!”

  “Yes, exactly. I had forgotten. She is Jeanie. But you are the only one calls her that.”