The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  “If it is any trouble to you,” Sir Mortimer snarled, “I will take it out of your hands. Did not Haviland tell you never to come here to plague me? Who the devil are you, anyway?”

  “I am Stanford Beak, at your service, sir, and I tell you at once, your money is not the least trouble to us, not the least. But we thought perhaps you would like some of the more recent unexpended income to be invested.”

  “Well, well, what do you want to do with it?”

  “Perhaps you would like forty thousand pounds invested,” Mr. Beak said, standing his ground. “Keeping forty thousand in available funds ought to suffice for the moment, I should think. I must tell you I have looked over your records of expenditure for the past several years, and I cannot find any cause for keeping a greater amount on hand than that. Even that, by most people, would be considered—”

  “I do not care a jot about most people,” Sir Mortimer snapped, “nor do I wish to hear your bleating. Is that all?”

  “Well, p-perhaps—”

  “No more perhapses, man. You are not welcome here. Tell that idiot Haviland—”

  “Mr. Haviland has b-been ill—”

  “More fool, he. You remind him that I don’t see people, and you take yourself off now and do whatever you like about the forty thousand. But if you come here again to trouble me about it, I shall remove it. At once! Do you understand me, you insignificant little nib-scuffer?”

  “Indeed, sir, thank you, sir.” Bobbing, Mr. Beak turned, crimson of face, handkerchief in hand, already wiping his dripping brow as he stumbled toward Sybilla, who held the door open for him.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said quietly as she followed the banker. A rumbling growl was the only response.

  With the door safely shut, Mr. Beak regarded her limply. “I had no idea,” he said.

  “Oh, you did very well, sir. You still seem to have most of your wits about you, in any case, but you will confess now that I did not lead you amiss. ’Tis fortunate for us both that he was in such excellent spirits today.”

  “Excellent?” Mr. Beak’s voice was weak with disbelief.

  Sybilla grinned at him. “I assure you. He would otherwise have had you ejected from the house without speaking so much as a syllable to you.”

  Mr. Beak said not another word, and out of consideration for his confusion, Sybilla walked all the way downstairs with him rather than returning to the drawing room or library and ringing for her footman to show him out. She was rewarded for this extraordinary courtesy by the dubious pleasure of encountering Lady Lucretia Calverton and the Earl of Ramsbury on the point of entering the downstairs hall.

  “There you are, Sybilla,” declared her ladyship in stentorian accents as she stepped grandly past the porter, her stout but magnificently garbed figure seeming at once to fill the hall with bright blue superfine and pink feathers. Pink ostrich plumes of a shade exactly matching the large feather muff she carried swayed majestically above her wide-brimmed hat, and the many capes of her blue pelisse swirled about her figure, rivaling in number those of any Corinthian gentleman boasting of his driving prowess. That they added to her already considerable bulk did not appear to disturb her in the least, for she carried herself, several chins and all, as though she were royalty. Indeed, she believed her own lineage to be cuts above that of the family she generally referred to, disparagingly, as “that dreadful Hanoverian lot.”

  “Ramsbury would have it,” she said now, looking down her Roman nose at no one in particular, “that we ought not do no more than leave our cards at this time of day, but I told him to his head that he was speaking nonsense.” Turning toward Mr. Beak, she withdrew a pearl-handled lorgnette from the recesses of her huge muff and peered suspiciously at him through it, demanding imperiously, “Who is this person, Sybilla? I believe I am not acquainted with him.”

  Mr. Beak, on the point of accepting with undisguised relief his hat and gloves from Robert, looked shaken again as he bobbed his stiff torso in Lady Lucretia’s direction and murmured hastily, “I am no one, madam, no one at all.”

  Sybilla, observing the responsive gleam in Ramsbury’s eyes, took firm control of her own sense of humor and then nearly lost it again when first a small black nose and then a silky white head emerged from the feather muff, and a pair of alert dark brown eyes fixed themselves upon the banker, much to that gentleman’s visible astonishment and discomfiture. She said with careful composure, “This is Mr. Beak, ma’am, from Father’s bank. He is on the point of leaving us, however, and there is no cause whatever to detain him. Thank you, sir, for your trouble in coming all this way.”

  “No trouble, ma’am, no trouble at all. Said so.” And, pointedly refraining from staring at the little dog so curiously regarding him from the muff, he whisked himself out the door and down the steps to the flagway with no more than a second fleeting, terrified glance at Lady Lucretia.

  “Will you come up, ma’am?” Sybilla asked.

  Lady Lucretia, who had turned her attention to the hall said, “Yes, of course, we shall. Why do you not refurbish this entry hall, Sybilla? I declare, that twig-brushing on the walls is sadly out of date and don’t look in the least like marble. And the staircase! Anyone who would believe it to be stonework must be a ninnyhammer!”

  “My father would not permit a change, ma’am,” Sybilla replied. “The fashion once appealed to his sense of humor.”

  “Idiotish fellow never had a sense of humor. No, man, not that,” Lady Lucretia added sharply when Robert, having relieved her of her pelisse, reached hesitantly toward the muff. “Henrietta stays with me, and she likes to sleep in it. You don’t object to Henrietta, do you, Sybilla?”

  “Much good it would do her if she did,” muttered Ramsbury, who had remained silent until then. “No more than if she wanted to repaint this hall, in point of fact.”

  Sybilla shot him a quelling glance. “Of course I do not mind, ma’am. I have never known one of your pets who was not perfectly well behaved, and Henrietta is quite my favorite.”

  “Not surprising,” Lady Lucretia said, turning toward the stair without waiting for Sybilla to lead the way. “Little bitch is better bred than most people, and her manners match her breeding, don’t they, my love?” She patted the silky head.

  By the time they reached the drawing room, Henrietta had retreated much as a rabbit might to its warren, and when Lady Lucretia had set the muff down gently upon one of the Hepplewhite chairs and taken her own seat in the other, Sybilla soon forgot all about the little dog.

  Once Robert had been sent for refreshment, she settled herself for a comfortable coze, knowing that Lady Lucretia prided herself upon her command of Bath gossip. Instead, she found herself being quizzed about Mr. Beak’s visit.

  “Thought he was one of your cicisbei at first,” Lady Lucretia said with a grimace of distaste. “You don’t mean to say that Sir Mortimer actually agreed to see him.”

  “He didn’t agree, precisely,” Sybilla said, and went on to explain what had happened.

  “Dreadful man,” was Lady Lucretia’s comment when she had finished, and Sybilla did not make the mistake of thinking she described Mr. Beak.

  Glancing at Ramsbury, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, she said in an attempt to lead the conversation in a less awkward direction, “Are you fixed in Bath for a time then, Ned? I thought you intended to leave immediately.” Her look challenged him to repeat his accusations before his aunt.

  He smiled lazily. “I could not leave without visiting Aunt Lucretia, and she has persuaded me to linger in Camden Place for a week or so.”

  She was certain then that he had not discussed the business of the so-called loans with Lady Lucretia for the simple reason that that lady would have been sure to have mentioned it by now, but she could not decide whether she was glad or sorry. She rather thought Lady Lucretia might have stood her friend. Still, she was the marquess’s sister, and perhaps he preferred not to risk telling her what his mother had done.

 
; Refreshments were soon served, and they chatted for twenty minutes, but just as Lady Lucretia was beginning to make noises about leaving and Ramsbury had got to his feet to assist her with her things, the door opened again and Robert announced Mr. Saint-Denis. The earl sat down again at once.

  Seeing this, Sybilla got up and stepped forward, saying cheerfully, “Sydney, how delightful! You know Ramsbury’s aunt, I believe, the Lady Lucretia Calverton.”

  “Certainly,” Sydney responded with a graceful bow, “and may I say that you are looking particularly fetching this morning, my lady? That harmonious blend of pink and blue—” He broke off when Ramsbury snorted in derision, then added with an air of gentle bewilderment, “You disagree, sir?”

  Sybilla nearly laughed aloud at Ramsbury’s strangled reaction and rapid disclaimer. He looked wildly at his aunt, whose eyebrows had shot upward and who looked at him as though she dared him to express a dislike for her costume. Before he could compound his error, however, Sydney spoke again.

  “This is a cozy party, I must say. I hope you will, none of you, object to an outsider intruding upon what appears to be a family gathering. I promise you, I shan’t stay long in any case. I merely stopped by to see if you, Sybilla, would like to drive out of the city with me this afternoon. Don’t answer at once,” he added hastily, as he moved toward the gilt-wood chair nearest him. “I won’t take no for an answer because my tiger complains about my driving at every turn and I know that your manners must be better than his.” Reaching for the feather muff that reposed upon the chair, he added casually, “You won’t mind if I just remove this lovely article onto the sofa yonder.”

  Before Lady Lucretia’s shriek or Sybilla’s gasp could stop him, Sydney tossed the muff toward the nearby claw-footed sofa. As Sybilla and Ramsbury leapt forward, and before the echo of Lady Lucretia’s cry had died away, Sydney’s hand shot out with lightning speed and caught the muff again before it landed.

  “By Jove,” he said, cradling the squirming pile of pink feathers in his arms, “the thing’s inhabited!”

  Ramsbury, half-standing and half-sitting, sat down again, shaking his head, but Lady Lucretia released a gusty sigh of relief. “Never saw anyone move so fast in all my life,” she said. “I thought poor Henrietta would be smashed to bits against that sofa.”

  “Not so bad as that, ma’am,” Sydney said, setting the muff down carefully and reaching to pat the little white head that emerged from it. “Must have startled her a bit, though.”

  Sybilla had been watching him. Now she said, “I’d never have thought you could move faster than a snail’s pace, Sydney. Indeed, I’d not have thought anyone could move fast enough to catch something already flying through the air like that.”

  He did not quite shrug her words aside, but he did smile at her. “What’s necessary can generally be done,” he said gently. “Of greater importance, however, is your response to my invitation. Will you drive out with me this afternoon?”

  “She will not,” Ramsbury said.

  Sybilla stared at him, but before she could tell him what she thought of his interference, or respond to Sydney, for that matter, Lady Lucretia said, “Sybilla is already engaged for the afternoon, Mr. Saint-Denis, and even if she were not, I do not believe it is proper for her to be driving about the countryside with only you for her escort, sir. Ramsbury might have made the point more politely than he did, but you must admit he had both duty and cause to speak up.”

  “He does not have cause,” Sybilla said, glaring at her husband, who had leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. “Nor does he have any manners. I am standing, Ned.”

  He blinked. “So you are, my love. You ought to sit down so that Mr. Saint-Denis can do likewise. He will not be so foolish as to object to my manners, but he might object to yours.”

  “Assure you,” that gentleman said, “no intention of objecting to anything whatever. Can’t think Sybilla cares much for such proprieties as the one Lady Lucretia mentioned, though. Her notion of acceptable behavior is to bolt about in that dashed improper high phaeton of hers without any escort whatever.”

  “Is that a fact?” Ramsbury asked gently. He sat up straighter, and Sybilla found herself avoiding his gaze. “You do that, do you, Syb?”

  “Don’t be nonsensical, Ned,” she said. “I’ve driven that phaeton everywhere for years without incident.” Then, when it appeared to her that he meant to say more on the topic, she turned to Lady Lucretia and said hastily, “What did you mean when you said I was engaged for the afternoon, ma’am? I am aware of no engagement.”

  With an airy gesture, Lady Lucretia said, “Oh, I had not told you yet, but I am persuaded you will not wish to disappoint me. I want you to dine with us this evening. We’ve scarcely had any time to talk of late, and I have not even asked you about your family. You must tell me all about Charles and Lady Symonds—Mally, you call her, do you not?—and dear Brandon.”

  “Charles is with his wife and family in Bristol,” Sybilla said, “and Brandon is off somewhere with some of his friends. Mally is in London at Symonds House, as I believe you know.”

  “Well, of course, I know where she is,” Lady Lucretia said, undaunted by either Sybilla’s gentle sarcasm or the look of mockery in Ramsbury’s eyes. “But have you not heard news of them in the past week, my dear?”

  “I had a letter from Mally only yesterday. Charles and Brandon are worse correspondents than I am, and since Charles’s wife detests me—”

  “Oh, surely not!” protested Lady Lucretia.

  Ramsbury chuckled. “No ‘surely not’ about it. The woman don’t like being interfered with any more than most people do.”

  Sybilla lilted her chin upward and said with careful dignity, “Mally’s letters are not particularly interesting, I’m afraid. At present, her husband is hunting in the ‘shires, and she complains of increasing boredom. That is all, really.” She did not think it necessary to mention her concern over what her younger sister was doing to relieve her boredom. Mally’s flirtation, or worse, with a man whose reputation would not bear scrutiny was scarcely a topic for polite conversation.

  “Well,” Lady Lucretia said with a pontifical nod of her head that sent her plumes swaying again, “one cannot be altogether surprised that nothing of note is occurring in London at this season. Surprising, really, that she chooses to remain in town at all when she might come to you for a visit, my dear.”

  Since Sybilla did not wish to explain that her sister hated Bath even more than she disliked being bored in London, she said only, “Mally does as she pleases, ma’am.” Then, hoping for assistance, she glanced at Sydney, but he was filling a glass from the wine tray, and when she encountered Ramsbury’s mocking gaze, she knew there would be no help from that quarter. At last she said, “I would be pleased to dine with you. Perhaps, Mr. Saint-Denis will deposit me at your doorstep after our drive.”

  “Well,” Lady Lucretia said thoughtfully, “I suppose that will do well enough—”

  “No, it won’t,” Ramsbury said. “You won’t know what time to expect her, and your precious Antoine will succumb to a fit of apoplexy if he prepares a dinner and no one is there to eat it. Besides, Sybilla’s got no business driving out alone with this rattle. Like as not, his horse will come up lame and he won’t know what to do about it.”

  Sydney blinked at him but said nothing.

  It was Sybilla who bristled. “Are you daring to forbid me to drive out with him, Ned? Because if you are—”

  “If he is,” Sydney said gently, “there’s an end to it. Man’s still your husband, m’dear, and I’ve no wish to rile ’im.”

  “Wise of you,” Ramsbury said in an equally gentle tone. The two men measured each other for a long moment while Lady Lucretia watched them with unfeigned interest and Sybilla with annoyance.

  “He has no right,” Sybilla said into the silence. Then she wished she had held her tongue, for even to herself she sounded childish rather than righteously indignant. Ramsbury glanced at he
r, and once again she saw amusement rather than anger in the look. She suddenly wished he were far away, that he had never come to Bath. All her peace was being cut to shreds. She had not looked away, and suddenly the look in his eyes warmed, reminding her of the one part of married life that had not been altogether disagreeable. Her cheeks flamed, and she wrenched her gaze from his.

  Lady Lucretia stood up. “I shall expect you at four, my dear. Ramsbury will call for you. Mr. Saint-Denis, you are likewise invited to dine with us, if you like. You know my house, I believe.”

  “I do, indeed,” he agreed, standing, “but if you will forgive me, I am engaged with friends for the evening. Good day, Sybilla.” And he was gone.

  “Puppy,” muttered Ramsbury under his breath.

  Sybilla ignored him, pointedly turning to fetch Lady Lucretia’s muff. Henrietta had emerged and curled up atop the pile of feathers but had no objection to raise against being returned to the muff’s interior.

  “I’ll take her,” Ramsbury said gently. He had come up behind her, and he stood very close. When she turned, her face was but a few inches from his broad chest, and only consideration for Henrietta kept her from shoving the muff at him and running from the room. As it was, she had all she could do to keep up a stream of light conversation for the short time that passed before she had seen her guests safely out the door.

  When they had gone, she could only wonder how it was that she had forgotten Ramsbury’s knack for turning her emotions on end merely by being in the same room with her. Somehow she could never seem to be with him without being irrational, furious, or otherwise agitated in spirit. She told herself firmly that she would simply have to do better.

  III

  SYBILLA WAS READY TO depart from Camden Place a full hour before Ramsbury arrived to collect her. This was despite the fact that she had tried on nearly every appropriate dress she owned before finally selecting a singularly attractive, long-sleeved, low-bosomed robe of apple-green poplin ornamented up the front with black velvet pea buttons and double edgings of narrow black velvet ribbon that matched the broad, diamond-buckled cestus confining her waist.