The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  The anger that leapt to his eyes made her step hastily away from him, but he made no move toward her, nor did he say anything at all for a long minute. Then, bowing slightly, he said, “I will return within the hour. Please have the good sense to eat something before you go up to change your dress. You will do yourself no good—or Brandon, either—by starving yourself.”

  When he had gone, she sighed with relief and moved to follow him out of the room. But at the door she hesitated, looking at the teapot on the table, and the rack of toast beside it. He was right. She would be foolish not to eat, particularly since she had given her word not to leave until he returned.

  The tea was lukewarm, the toast cold. She did not sit down, stopping by the table only long enough to pour herself a cup and to smear jam on two pieces of the toast. She munched slowly, standing by the window, staring out at the garden and wondering why she was not angered more by Ramsbury’s high-handed ways. His arrogance, as the Lord knew well, had angered her often enough before. She had forgotten how irritating it was to be commanded to do what she did not wish to do, for until she had become Ramsbury’s wife, such incidents had been practically unknown to her. She had issued the commands, and others had obeyed.

  She remembered his courting, her only Season in London. Many men had wooed her, complimented her, begged for her attention. Posies were delivered daily to her aunt’s house, and bucks and beaux had flocked to her side at assemblies and parties. Poems were written to her flaming tresses, her satin skin, her emerald eyes, even one to her dainty hands. Not, of course, that Ramsbury had written any of them.

  She smiled at the lone marguerite on the bush across the gravel path. He was no hand at speaking fancy words, he had told her, or at writing them. Such stuff was for fops, not men, he had said. But she had liked the fact that he had his own opinions and did not hesitate to express them, even when they ran counter to hers. He had credited her with intelligence and good sense, and did not whisper insincerities into her ears. Instead, he had let her handle his curricle and high-bred team in Hyde Park; and, after he had tested her skill, he had even allowed her to help him train a young colt to accept town traffic.

  She had known he had the reputation of a gamester and a rake, known that he deserved that reputation as did many other young men in his position, who had nothing much to do until their fathers passed on and left them their inheritances, and she had been flattered by his attention, puffed up in her own conceit at having attracted the notice of such a man, of having distracted him from his mistress. All those young men had had mistresses, of course. No self-respecting rake would be without one. But Sybilla had been certain she had made Ramsbury forget the cool blond Mandeville with her cat-green eyes. Those were the good times, she thought, before the Marquess of Axbridge had taken a hand in the matter, several months before the wedding.

  Having discovered Sybilla’s antecedents and been pleased by them, the marquess had promptly written to Sir Mortimer to inform him that a match between their offspring would have his blessing. He then accused his son of dilatory behavior and commanded him to get on with it. As far as Sybilla knew, Ramsbury had obeyed.

  Afterward he had changed. Where he had been merely carefree and cheerful, his behavior became nearly frenetic. He quarreled, not with her—not then—but with anyone else who disagreed with him or tried to press him to do what he did not wish to do. It was not until after the wedding, however, that she had discovered he had a temper to match her own.

  He had easily dominated her in the bedchamber, where she delighted in submitting to his skill, but he had then made the mistake of assuming she would accept his dominance in all other things. Their first disagreement had occurred when she had naively assumed that he would change his plan to attend a party in order to take her to a play she had wanted to see. When the discussion erupted into a full-scale argument before he informed her flatly that she would do as he wished, she had given in to him, but any pleasure she might have enjoyed at the party had been spoiled by Lady Mandeville’s presence. That he had not forgotten the woman was made plain by her attitude toward him that night. And despite his insistence on his own pleasures, he had quickly made it clear to Sybilla that he would not allow her to indulge in many of her own, though she had seen that other wives, including her younger sister, did.

  After that first argument there had been many more, until it seemed that they could not talk to each other without debate. He insisted one moment that his relationship with the Mandeville was no concern of hers, the next that there was no relationship. Worse than that had been his failure to understand her family’s dependence upon her. Indeed, upon that subject they had never agreed. His scathing description of poor Brandon the time—

  But here her thoughts broke off suddenly, as she recollected Brandon’s present predicament and the need for haste. She put down her cup and hurried from the room, taking the stairs at a run as she thought of how her younger brother must be longing for her presence at his side, to see that he was properly cared for. How he had come to be mauled by a bear her correspondent had not related, nor had he described the severity of Brandon’s wounds. But the very thought of any bear was terrifying to her. She had seen an angry one once at a fair and remembered the way it had lunged against its chain and waved its front paws about, showing long, murderous claws and pointed fangs, growling fiercely as though it would devour anyone who came near. Had it come loose …

  She shook the thought from her head. To dwell on such stuff would do no good at all. Better to get to Brandon as quickly as possible, to see for herself how bad his injuries were. When she entered her bedchamber a moment later to discover that Elsie had delivered her message and that Medlicott had already packed a portmanteau and was waiting with a dark green traveling dress ready for her to don, she was conscious again of anger with Ramsbury. How dared he seek to delay her.

  Flinging off the russet frock and kicking off her shoes, she allowed Medlicott to throw the green dress over her head and do up the hooks in the back.

  “Your hair now, m’lady. I’ll just brush it out and—”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort, Meddy,” she replied, seating herself on the dressing stool before the looking glass. “Just smooth it and confine the coil in a net. My hat will cover the rest. There’s no time for primping.”

  “I ought to go with you. What will you do—”

  “As I always do,” Sybilla said calmly. “I shall engage a chambermaid at the inn to wait upon me. Don’t trouble your head about it. There, that will do,” she added, settling her veiled, green felt hat in place with the veil raised. “My gloves?”

  “Here, and your half-boots as well.” Medlicott knelt swiftly and held out the first boot, ready to slip on. A moment later, Sybilla stood and turned, gathering a handful of material at the back of her skirt to lift the demitrain from the floor.

  “Well?” When Medlicott nodded, she smiled at her. “Thank you, Meddy. Ring for someone to carry my case down, will you?” She turned toward the door.

  “Of course.” Medlicott moved at once to pull the bell. “You’ll send word of Master Brandon, I expect.”

  “I will.” And with that, Sybilla hurried out of the room and down the stairs to the entrance hall, casting a glance at the clock on the landing along the way, and swearing under her breath that if Ramsbury dared to keep her waiting above ten minutes, she would go alone and damn the consequences.

  Fifteen had passed before he arrived, and she was pacing the floor, trying to convince herself that his threat had been an empty one, that she was not afraid to defy him. When the knock came, she nearly leapt forward to answer the door herself, and when he entered, she demanded to know what had kept him.

  He grimaced. “Are you ready to leave? Then don’t stand there snapping at me. Come along. The carriage is at the door.”

  “Aye, and has been this quarter hour past and more!”

  He took her arm in a firm grasp and said clearly, “Allow me to help you down the steps, my d
ear.” Then, bending a little nearer, he said softly into her ear, “And curb that temper of yours, my vixen, if you do not want your ears soundly boxed.”

  She snapped her head around to glare at him, but the answering gleam in his eyes told her he was not speaking idly, so she kept her tongue between her teeth until they reached the curbstone. Then, seeing Jem Lassiter standing at the near leader’s head, she turned in astonishment to Ramsbury.

  “What’s he doing there? Where’s Newton?”

  “I sent him away. We have no need for two of them, and I prefer to have Jem.”

  “Well, I prefer Newton, and it is my carriage, after all.”

  “I am going to drive, and Jem knows my ways. Newton does not.” When she drew breath to tell him it was of the supremest indifference to her what Jem knew or didn’t know, he added in the soft tone he had used earlier, “If you make a scene here on the pavement, Sybilla mine, I will carry you back into the house and give orders for them-to keep you there. If you wish to avoid that particular humiliation and go with me to Charfield, you will behave yourself in a seemly manner.”

  The effort to conceal her rising fury from the servants made it impossible for Sybilla to speak, but her expression gave her thoughts away. Ramsbury patted her shoulder.

  “I knew you would see reason, my dear, and I know you prefer that I drive. Though you can take a flea from a hound’s back with your whip and not wake the hound, I am the better driver and will make greater speed. That is what you want, is it not?”

  What she really wanted, she told herself, was to slap him, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how angry she was. Instead, she remained silent, assuming a cloak of haughty dignity that would have vied with anything Lady Lucretia might have managed and allowing him to hand her up onto the phaeton’s high seat and cover her knees with the heavy lap rug. Though the hood was up to offer them some protection, the day was a cold one, with a touch of snow in the air.

  The silence continued between them through the busy streets of town, until they had passed through the tollgate at Swainswick and turned onto the Gloucester Road. Then, glancing at her, Ramsbury said, “I think it will be best to change horses at Cold Ashton, where I know of a posting house that caters to the gentry. If you want to take the reins until then, you may.”

  “No, thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “Don’t be childish, Sybilla.”

  “Then don’t treat me like a child,” she snapped. “These are my horses, and if I wish to drive them, I will inform you of the fact. It was you who insisted upon driving in the first place, so why you should wish to foist the job onto me now that—”

  “For the love of heaven,” he began, only to break off when Jem Lassiter audibly choked back a laugh, to snap over his shoulder, “that will be enough out of you!”

  Lassiter fell silent at once, but the interlude did much to restore Sybilla’s calm. She straightened, stretching the muscles of her back and sides much like a cat, only to be thrown hard against the seatback when the team leapt forward in response to the sudden crack of Ramsbury’s whip. Righting herself and pushing her hat back where it belonged, she glanced at him, but his attention was fixed firmly upon his horses. Lowering her veil, though she generally disliked doing so, she told herself it was to protect her complexion from the cold, damp air.

  The road was a good one, and but for the traffic they would have made excellent time. As it was, Ramsbury was forced to slow the team a quarter hour later when they encountered first a stagecoach laden with passengers, then a flock of sheep, and soon after that a gypsy caravan. By the time the last gaily painted wagon was behind them, Sybilla was silently thanking God that the earl had insisted upon accompanying her. Her nerves, she knew, would have been in shreds by then, had she had to concentrate on driving, as worried as she was about Brandon’s condition.

  She was fretting badly, even so, before they reached Cold Ashton, and although the change was made with commendable speed, the horses were not nearly so good as her own team, and she chafed at the slower pace. Ramsbury held them well up to their bits, but there was more traffic, and long before they reached Chipping Sodbury, the wheelers were lagging and out of step with the leaders. They entered the town at a walk and soon turned into the yard of an ancient inn.

  “We’ll have some refreshment here, I think,” the earl said, unbuckling the rein ends and glancing up at the sky, where gray clouds played all-hide with the sun. “ ’Tis well after two.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Sybilla said quickly, lifting her veil back over her hat, not without a sigh of relief. “Please, Ned, it will be dark before we reach Charfield at this pace.”

  He patted her hand. “Did you think we would arrive sooner than that? It gets dark by four, Sybilla. But there won’t be so much traffic now, for we leave the Gloucester Road here, and we’ve less than eight miles to go. We may even get there before dark, though I doubt we’ll get any very speedy tits from this stable.” When she opened her mouth to protest further, he added, “Don’t be difficult. We won’t go inside. I’ll just order us a glass of mulled wine and a sandwich. I’m peckish if you’re not.”

  Lassiter spoke up as he jumped down from his perch. “Lord knows I wouldn’t turn down a hot drink, guv’nor.”

  “You never do,” the earl said wryly. “Very well, Jem, hale out the ostlers and see to the change, while I see what I can find to stave off starvation for the lot of us.”

  Though Sybilla fretted at the delay, she realized she was hungry, too, and when she saw that Lassiter had managed to procure a strong, steady team, she relaxed again and accepted with a polite thank you the refreshments that Ramsbury produced.

  He grinned at her. “That’s better. Now, eat up, and we’ll see what these beasts can do.”

  She felt better after the makeshift meal, but long before they reached the outskirts of the village of Charfield, she had begun to worry again and to imagine dreadful things. What if Brandon were hideously scarred? What if he had already died?

  By the time Ramsbury drew the team to a halt before the only inn in the village, a rundown place calling itself rather incredibly The King’s Rest, she was chewing her lower lip so steadily that she ran risk of piercing it through.

  Ramsbury looked at her for a long moment before he looped the reins around the brake handle. Then he said, “Pinch some color into your cheeks, Syb. If the lad isn’t dead yet, you’ll frighten him to death with that white face of yours.”

  Had he spoken sympathetically, she might well have burst into tears, so tense was she. As it was, she glared at him, her balance restored, and retorted, “The air is too cold for my cheeks to be anything but cherry-red, sir, so I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “That’s better,” he said, nodding his head. “You’ll do.” He stepped easily across her and jumped down, signing to Lassiter to take the team around to the back before he held up his hands to assist her. Had he got down on his own side, she would have jumped down unaided, and she saw by his expression that he knew that and had meant to prevent her from doing just that.

  His large hands were warm at her waist, and she realized as she had not before that she was chilled through. When her feet touched the ground, he did not let go but held her there, looking down into her face. “Courage, vixen,” he said softly.

  She smiled at him, grateful for his presence as she had not thought she could be. “I don’t deny that I’ll be glad to get warm again,” she said, trying her legs to be sure they would support her.

  Satisfied that she could walk, he released her and offered his arm, and they went into the inn together. The room they entered was a coffee room, shabby but clean and comfortable, with a huge fire roaring in a fireplace that seemed too big for the room. A woman in a gray dress and snowy mobcap bustled forward, and a lean young dark-haired gentleman who sprawled at his ease in a chair by the fire looked up curiously.

  “How do you do,” Sybilla said, stepping forward to greet the maidser
vant before Ramsbury could speak. “I am Lady Ramsbury. I believe you have my brother, Brandon Manningford, staying with you. I should like to see him at once, if you please.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey, but before she could reply, the young man by the fire leapt to his feet, sloshing ale from the tankard he held. “By Jove, Lady Ramsbury, am I glad to see you!”

  Sybilla smiled. “You must be Mr. Sitwell. I am very grateful that you sent for me.” She indicated the earl with a casual gesture. “This is Ramsbury.”

  Sitwell stood straighter, clearly shaken by the information, but recovered rapidly and, setting his tankard down, strode forward to shake hands. “How do you do, sir. We … that is, Bran … Well, we didn’t expect to see you here, and that’s a fact,” he went on in a rush.

  “I believe you,” Ramsbury said. “Tell us about the bear.”

  “Never mind the bear,” Sybilla said, stripping off her gloves and stepping nearer the fire, rubbing her hands together in an effort to warm them quickly. “First tell me how badly my brother is hurt. And where is he? I want to see him at once.”

  “How is the bear?” Ramsbury asked.

  She glared at him. “Pay him no heed, Mr. Sitwell. Where is my brother?”

  The maidservant spoke up. “I’ll take you up, m’lady. The poor lad’s room be just at the top of the stairs yonder.”

  “Thank you,” Sybilla said, turning to follow her when she realized that Ramsbury was at her side, she said abruptly, “There is no need for you to accompany me. Stay here with Mr. Sitwell and have some ale or something.”

  “No, Syb,” he said, taking her hand and tucking it in the crook of his arm. “I’ve no doubt Brandon would be offended if I did not pay my respects. Do you come with us, Sitwell?”

  The young man had been watching them nervously. He shook his head. “No, sir. Room’s too small for a crowd. I’ll just finish my ale, if you don’t mind.”