The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  “Oh, no,” Ramsbury assured him. “We don’t mind a bit.”

  Sybilla gritted her teeth, but she had no idea how to stop him from accompanying her. Sitwell’s attitude and the maid’s had made it clear to her that her brother did not hover at the brink of death, but she could not be easy of mind until she saw for herself that he would recover from his wounds.

  When they reached the landing, the maidservant opened the nearest door and put her head in. “Visitors, sir.” She stood aside, and Sybilla stepped quickly past her.

  “Brandon, my love, how badly are you hurt?”

  The slim, fair-haired young man in the bed was propped up on a pile of pillows, reading a book, which he promptly put aside. Grinning at her, he said, “I knew you’d come. Hope you didn’t have a devilish trip.”

  “Of course I came,” she said, bending to kiss him. “Mr. Sitwell’s letter frightened me witless. I expected to find you at death’s door.”

  “No such thing,” he retorted with a laugh. “Just a trifle down pin. Mind, I thought I’d taken a real rasper when that damned bear sank his teeth into me, and my leg bled like a river in spate where he tore the flesh, but the worst was when he pulled me off his back and lunged at my throat. I put up my arm, of course, so he got that too, but if the others didn’t—”

  “Manningford, for God’s sake, shut up!” Ramsbury snapped when Sybilla turned white as a sheet, clutched at her own throat, and swayed where she stood, her eyes glazing as the images her brother described leapt only too clearly to her mind. The earl’s tone steadied her, but she was nonetheless grateful to feel his strong hand at her elbow.

  Brandon had not seen him enter the room behind Sybilla, and he started visibly at the harsh command, then demanded, “What the devil is he doing here?”

  “He was with me when Mr. Sitwell’s letter arrived,” Sybilla explained. “What happened, Brandon? How came you to be mauled by a bear, for goodness’ sake?”

  The young man shrugged, and when he winced, she realized that his shoulder was bandaged beneath the baggy nightshirt he wore. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, laughing again but casting a wary eye toward the earl. “Only a wager. Sitwell dared me to ride the damned beast into a dinner party. I did it, too. Old Nolly was tame as a kitchen cat until the lads began roaring at him. I rode him right up to the table though, before he’d had enough and managed to pull me off his back.”

  “Told you it was a lark,” Ramsbury muttered at her side. “Damned young whelp. I’ve a good mind—”

  “Hush, Ned,” she said, still watching her brother. He seemed to be well enough, but he was very pale, and she could not be easy again until she had seen his wounds for herself and knew they were being properly tended. But when she informed him of her wishes, he shook his head, his blue-green eyes atwinkle.

  “I’ve got a good sawbones looking after me,” he said. “Not one of your London men, but good enough. Don’t mind telling you, I thought I was done for when they pulled the damned bear off me, but the lads soon had it under control and the doctor was there in a twink. Sitwell sent off that letter before we knew I should do.” He seemed about to say something more, but glancing at Ramsbury again, he fell silent.

  The earl said, “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to send another letter, explaining that you were not at death’s door.”

  “No, why should I? I knew she would want to see for herself, after all. And I cannot think what business it is of yours, in any case.”

  Sybilla, feeling Ramsbury stiffen beside her, said, “Ned, I will require a bedchamber and a sitting room. Will you speak to the landlord, please?”

  When he did not agree at once, she looked at him, her gaze meeting his steadily. He shrugged. “As you wish.”

  When he had gone, Brandon said pettishly, “Why did you bring him with you? I thought we were long since rid of him.”

  “I told you, he was at the house when Mr. Sitwell’s letter came. Once he learned what had happened, he insisted on coming with me. He is my husband, Brandon. I could scarcely tell him he couldn’t come.”

  “Why not? You generally speak your mind, as I recall.”

  “Yes, but Ned does not always heed my wishes.”

  “Dammit, Sybby, you ain’t thinking of taking him back!”

  “No, I am not. Nor do I wish to discuss him. I wish—”

  “You can’t take him back! The fellow’s a nuisance. Why, he’s always putting his long nose in where it don’t belong, and I daresay that with the least encouragement, he’d even beat you, if he hasn’t already done so.”

  “He hasn’t,” she said, striving to retain her calm. “I don’t wish to discuss him. I want to see your wounds, so stop behaving like a child and turn back that blanket.”

  “Well, I won’t,” he retorted. “And if you ain’t thinking of taking him back, what was he doing sniffing around in Bath? It ain’t his kind of town, not by a long chalk.”

  “He was visiting his Aunt Lucretia,” Sybilla said hastily.

  But her brother shook his head. “Hasn’t visited her in years that I know of. No reason to begin now. Cut line, Sybby. He wants you back, and when he crooks his damned finger, you’ll go, and then he’ll start ordering us all about.”

  “He’s never ordered you—”

  “Much you know. I just chose not to heed him.”

  “Oh, Brandon, if he ever wanted you to heed him, you would have no choice in the matter.”

  “Pooh, I’d like to see him try. But you’ve just answered me, have you not? He’ll beckon, and you’ll trot along like a good, obedient wife.”

  “I will not! If you must know, he came to Bath to accuse me of borrowing money from his mother to pay your debts, so there!”

  “What debts? I never asked you—”

  “I know, but someone borrowed money in my name, and Ned wouldn’t believe me when I said I didn’t do it.”

  “Well, I think it’s damned offensive of him,” Brandon said, but his tone was sulky, and when Sybilla looked at him more closely, he glared at her, adding, “Well, it is offensive. What’s more, I haven’t asked for a sou, and I don’t intend to.”

  But now she recognized his expression as one of guilt and realized that he had probably intended to ask her for money. By telling him of Ramsbury’s suspicions, she had effectively prevented him from making his usual request. Still, there were bound to be expenses he could not ignore.

  She said quietly, “Mr. Sitwell seemed to think you would require funds to pay for the doctor and your lodging here.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he retorted huffily, regarding her with the defiant air that had been his since childhood. “Didn’t I tell you, not ten minutes since, that I rode that fool bear for a wager? I won, after all. I can pay my shot well enough.”

  “But surely—”

  “I don’t need your damned money, Sybilla, and so you can tell your precious Ramsbury! He don’t know all there is to know. Even if I hadn’t won the wager, I’m well enough to pass. Now, go away and leave me to rest. My leg hurts damnably.”

  She looked at him closely, noting the color that had leapt to his cheeks and the way he refused to meet her gaze. He was healthy enough, she decided, turning away toward the door. Then she smiled to think that he actually thought she would believe he had all the money he required. She would see that Ramsbury paid his shot at the inn, and the doctor, at least.

  VI

  THE MAIDSERVANT WAS ON the landing when Sybilla stepped out of Brandon’s bedchamber. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady,” she said, curtsying, “but ‘is lordship said ye’d be wantin’ ter refresh yerself afore ye sup. I’ll show ye t’ yer bedchamber.”

  “Thank you.” Sybilla followed the woman, still reflecting on Brandon’s odd behavior. But by the time she had entered the comfortable bedchamber overlooking the rear yard of the inn, she decided his attitude was due to nothing more alarming than his dislike of Ramsbury. Thought of the earl drew another thought upon its heels, and she shot a look at th
e maid. “Where is his lordship’s chamber, if you please?”

  The woman shook her head, sending a bolt of alarm racing through Sybilla’s body. But then the woman said, “Only other bedchamber not bein’ used be at the top o’ the house. Not a room for the likes of him, and so I told him, but he insisted you should have this room to yourself, m’lady. Said you didn’t sleep easy after a journey. Thoughtful, he is, not like most.”

  Sybilla didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until it came out in a near whoosh of air, but she collected herself at once and said, “Yes, he can be thoughtful when it suits him. Is there hot water in that ewer?”

  “Aye, m’lady. Will there be aught else?”

  “No. How long before supper will be ready?”

  “Not half an hour. ’Twas already on the hob for the young lads, but missus will be stirrin’ up a bit more, since company’s doubled, as ye might say. His lordship said ye’d be wantin’ yours served before the fire in yon coffee room.”

  “I should prefer a sitting room,” Sybilla said. “He was to have arranged for one.”

  The maid shook her head. “Bless ye, m’lady, we don’t run to sitting rooms, not bein’ a house what caters to quality folk.”

  “Very well, then the coffee room will do.”

  It occurred to her then that it might still prove difficult to keep Ramsbury at arm’s length, so she was very glad to see that young Sitwell was with him when she descended to the coffee room half an hour later. Both men rose, then sat again when she told them to do so. Noting the three place settings on the long table, she raised her brows.

  “Do you not dine with my brother, Mr. Sitwell?”

  He shook his head. “Went off to sleep right after you left him, ma’am. Leech said he ought to sleep as much as possible, so we decided not to wake him. He can eat any time, after all.”

  “Yes, I daresay he can.” She glanced at Ramsbury, who was regarding her from under his brows, a mocking gleam in his eyes. Looking away quickly, she moved to the fireplace, holding her hands out to the blaze. “How lovely and warm this room is.”

  “Is there no fire in your bedchamber?” Ramsbury asked.

  “Oh, yes, but it probably had not been going for very long. The room was chilly. This is much better.”

  “Sitwell has told me the doctor means to visit Brandon this evening,” Ramsbury said then. “He also says they have been informed that the lad will be fit enough to travel by the day after tomorrow.”

  “Excellent,” she said, turning to face him. “We will take him back to Bath with us.”

  “The phaeton is scarcely—”

  “Don’t be daft, Ned. We shall hire a more comfortable carriage for him, of course.”

  “Begging your pardon, Lady Ramsbury,” Mr. Sitwell said diffidently, “but I am not altogether certain that Bran will wish to go to Bath.”

  “Brandon will do as he is told,” she said firmly. “I must be certain that his wounds do not become infected, and I know well that he will not look after himself properly.”

  “But we had plans to—”

  “Your plans must wait, I’m afraid,” she said. “They certainly are not so important as his health.”

  “But—”

  “Do you play piquet, Mr. Sitwell?” Ramsbury asked gently.

  “Aye, of course, but—”

  “Then perhaps you will honor me by playing a hand or two while we wait for them to serve our supper.”

  Mr. Sitwell looked from Sybilla’s set expression to Ramsbury’s politely inquiring one and shrugged. “As you wish, sir. I shall be happy to play. There are cards in the drawer of that table by your left hand, I believe.”

  “So there are.” Ramsbury glanced again at Sybilla, and she returned his look with a grimace before turning back to the fire.

  She paid little heed to them after that, pulling up a straight-backed chair to the fire and sitting, watching the leaping flames, letting her body relax and shed the tensions of the day. So lost in thought was she that she did not hear the maidservant approach, and started when the woman spoke.

  “A glass of wine, mistress?” She held a tray with one glass upon it.

  “But I didn’t …”

  “His lordship ordered it, ma’am. Said it wouldn’t come amiss.”

  Sybilla glanced at Ramsbury to see that he had a tankard in his hand. Sitwell had another. She shook her head to clear it and accepted the wine. A few moments later, the landlord entered with a heavy platter, and their supper was served.

  The meal was plain but well cooked, and before they were done, Sybilla became aware of increasing fatigue. By the time the doctor arrived, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Dr. Martin was an elderly man with a cheerful expression and merry blue eyes, and he seemed pleased to meet her. Shaking his head, he said, “These young scamps nowadays—one never knows what next they will do. Daresay it gave you a fright, m’lady, but he’ll recover quick enough, and there’s little danger of infection after all that bleeding, you know. Got him all stitched up, we did, and poured a whole bottle of mine host’s best brandy over the lot. Good stuff, with never a lick of duty paid on it, I’ll be bound, so it ought to see him through.” He chuckled, then patted her arm in a familiar manner that would have been unheard of in a London doctor, and added, “He will be right as a trivet in no time. You’ve my word on it.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Mr. Sitwell has said it will be safe to take my brother home to Bath in a day or so. Is that correct?”

  “Certainly, certainly, but I thought the young man said he was going into Leicestershire from here.”

  “He might have said so, but what he will do is another matter.” She meant it, but half an hour later when she entered Brandon’s bedchamber to find him sitting up in bed, his dinner on a tray before him, she soon discovered that he had other notions.

  “Go to Bath? I should say not!” he exclaimed when she told him what she had decided. “No, really, Syb, I’ve plans to visit friends in Leicestershire. A neat little hunting box with all the trimmings, even a French cook. You’d not want me to miss that! I ought to be there now but for this deuced accident.”

  “You will perhaps do as you are told, for once,” Ramsbury said sternly from behind Sybilla’s shoulder.

  “The devil I will,” Brandon retorted furiously, “and you’ve not the least right to command me, so do not attempt it!”

  “Please, Ned,” Sybilla said hastily when she saw the earl’s brows knit together in that look she knew so well. “It cannot be good for him to fly into a temper. Perhaps, if the doctor does not think it unwise—”

  “It don’t matter a hoot what the sawbones thinks,” Brandon snapped, shooting an unloving glare at the gentleman in question.

  The doctor said with a smile, “As it happens, I see nothing amiss in the young gentleman’s driving into Leicestershire if his friend means to go with him. Driving himself is out of the question until that shoulder heals, and I doubt he will want to do any hunting for several weeks, but—”

  “Much you know,” Brandon muttered, scowling, but his temper cooled rapidly once he saw the doctor did not mean to oppose him, and a moment later he was grinning at Sybilla. “Goose, you worry too much. Don’t bother your head about me. You can see for yourself that nothing’s truly amiss.”

  She couldn’t agree, but she knew from long experience that having made up his mind, he would do as he pleased. If she tried to dissuade him, he would fly into a passion, and that could do him no good at all. Ignoring Ramsbury’s grim look, she thanked the doctor, bade her brother good night, and retired to her bedchamber to fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

  The following day was spent entertaining the invalid, who insisted by afternoon, despite the doctor’s orders, that he was fit enough to come downstairs for his supper. If the ordeal tired him, he concealed the fact beneath a charmingly cheerful countenance and a bantering manner, insisting upon playing whist for penny points until his weary sister proclaimed
herself exhausted and took herself off to bed.

  Though she had not then given up the notion of persuading him at least to keep to the inn for a few more days, she did so the next morning when it became obvious that he intended to depart just as soon as he had consumed a hearty breakfast.

  When she opened her mouth to debate the decision, he shook his head. “Don’t say it, Syb. I’m going, and that’s all there is about it.”

  She sighed. “Very well, then, but I will depend upon you not to behave too foolishly. And you, Mr. Sitwell, must give your word to sit upon him if he tries to ride a horse before he is truly mended. Do you promise?”

  “Aye, ma’am,” replied Mr. Sitwell doubtfully.

  Ramsbury made no attempt to take part in the conversation, and when the two younger gentlemen had gone upstairs to attend to last-minute details before their departure, Sybilla looked at him searchingly. “I daresay you think I ought to have insisted that he heed my wishes, or that I ought to have let you force him to do so. Which is it, Ned? You have been very silent.”

  He grimaced. “I think neither of those things. Indeed, I believe you concern yourself unnecessarily over that brat. He won’t thank you for it.”

  “I don’t require his thanks. I know my duty, and I care very deeply for Brandon.”

  “I know that, though God and everyone else of sense knows he doesn’t deserve your concern. And don’t snap my nose off for speaking the truth to you,” he added harshly. “If you wish to do anything else before we depart from this place, you’d better attend to it now. I’ve ordered the phaeton for ten o’clock, and we’ve lingered rather long over breakfast.”

  She stiffened. “There is no reason for you to continue dancing attendance on me, sir. I have decided to return by way of Westerleigh Hall, since it lies this side of Bristol and thus is nearer to us than Bath is. You cannot think I require your escort when I visit my brother Charles and his family.”

  “You will not be rid of me so easily as that, Sybilla,” he said with a tired smile. “Not only is the weather steadily growing worse, but the road from Charfield to Westerleigh cannot be familiar to you. I know you won’t get lost, but it would be folly to chance losing a wheel or breaking an axle where you don’t know the country. Moreover, ’tis my tiger who attends us, you will recall, not your groom.”