The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  Startled, she glared at him, then glanced guiltily at Sydney, who regarded them both with an air of polite inquiry. “Dangerous?” he said.

  Carolyn held her breath, but Brandon only laughed again. “She challenged me to a run through the woods north of here. Know them like the back of my hand, of course, but she’ll have to think about what she’s doing. Gives me an edge, don’t you agree? Care to lay odds?”

  Carolyn shut her eyes, waiting for Sydney to announce that he would accompany them, but once again he surprised her. “You’re taking Cleves, I trust.” He was smiling, but she was glad she had not ordered her groom to remain behind.

  Affecting an offended attitude, Brandon murmured that certain people seemed to have no faith in him, and both men laughed. Annoyed with them, Carolyn waited only until she and Brandon had ridden out of the gates, with Cleves a discreet distance behind them, before expressing her displeasure.

  “You ought never to have said such a thing!”

  “What would you have had me say?” he demanded. “Unless you wanted me to tell him a real bouncer, that was the best thing I could think of to put him off. He knows you, don’t he? Knows that’s precisely the sort of nonsense you’d like better than a new gown. What’s more, we are riding in the woods, and you will have to think about what you’re doing, or you’re likely to have that pretty blue riding habit of yours stolen right off your back by the Romanys. I’m only hoping that fellow will give me back my watch and not just nip off with the money I’ve brought him. Still, he can’t think I’d send him more custom if he played me false, can he?”

  “No, I don’t suppose he can.” A moment later she said, “What is it like, the gypsy camp?”

  “Like any gypsy camp, I imagine.”

  “Don’t be maddening, Brandon.”

  He glanced at her. “Sorry, but I’ve seen more than one, you know, and they all look the same.”

  “I have never seen one,” she said with forced patience.

  “Oh, well then, let me see.” He frowned, evidently collecting an image of the place in his mind. Finally, just as she was about to demand that he get on with it, he said, “Mostly caravans and animal pens and people. Surely, you’ve seen their caravans. A fellow can’t drive on a highroad anywhere in England without being delayed by one somewhere along the way.”

  “I’ve seen them,” she agreed. “Very colorful, but the people always seem a trifle … well, a trifle unwashed.”

  “Lord, of course they are. You don’t think they bathe along the way, do you? Dashed uncivilized that would be, and doubtless complaints would be lodged against them first time they tried it on. Dash it, complain m’self if water was sloshin’ out the back of the caravan onto the road. M’ horses would slip.”

  She laughed. “Are you never serious?”

  “Never.” He grinned at her. “Fact is, it will be better if you see the place for yourself. I’m no hand at describing things.” He was silent for several moments after that. Then he glanced at her again before saying ruefully, “Look here, Caro, I’ve been thinking about last night, and the fact is I didn’t behave well. You were right about that. Never should have walked off without making sure you were right behind me. Not that you ought to have been, of course. No place for a lady, that bowling green. Not then, at all events.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ll accept your apology and thank you for it. I didn’t think you would offer me one.”

  He shrugged. “I can be civil when I want to be. Hope nothing awkward occurred. Notice you didn’t say anything about where you went after I abandoned you.”

  “No.” She felt warmth flooding her face at the memory of Lyndhurst’s aggression and the embarrassment of being discovered in such a fix by Sydney.

  “What happened?” When she looked away, he said more sharply, “What? Good Lord, Caro, you weren’t—”

  “No, no,” she said before he could say aloud what he was so clearly thinking. “Nothing like that. Only Lyndhurst found me where you left me and made rather a nuisance of himself.”

  “Oh, did he?” Brandon’s brows snapped together, and for once he looked as dangerous as any romantic young lady might wish. “I shall have a word with his lordship,” he said grimly.

  Instead of pleasing her, however, his look and tone of voice dismayed her, and she said hastily, “There is no need for that, truly. Nothing happened except that Sydney came along and saw us standing there together. I’d have preferred anything else, believe me, which was why I was so annoyed with you for leaving me. Only try to imagine how mortified I was!”

  But to her consternation, Brandon seemed not to comprehend her feelings. At the mention of Sydney’s name, he relaxed in his saddle and smiled at her, saying, “Oh, Saint-Denis was there, was he? That’s all right then, except I daresay he’ll have a few things to say to me about the impropriety of leaving ladies alone in gardens. Deserve to hear them, of course, but perhaps if I steer clear of him for a few days, he’ll forget. Want to let the fidgets out of that nag of yours?”

  Believing any further attempt to make him understand must prove futile, she agreed, and they put their mounts to a canter. The path they were on led through a shady wood and was hard-packed and well-tended. The air was crisp with a suggestion of approaching winter, and the leaves were bright with color. In no time at all, Carolyn was so taken up with the sights, sounds, and smells of the wood and the pounding of hooves on the dirt path that all other thoughts faded from her mind.

  Brandon was ahead of her, and when the path widened sufficiently, she urged her mount to a faster pace to catch him. He let her draw abreast, then leaned lower across his horse’s neck and eased his hold on his rein, giving the animal its head. The pace was a reckless one, but Carolyn didn’t mind in the least, and when it appeared that she might fall behind, she touched the black on the flank with the tip of her whip.

  It was enough. The gelding sprang forward, closing the distance again. Seeing Brandon duck down, hugging the roan’s back to avoid a low-hanging branch, she did the same, and while the movement stopped her from seeing the tree root that rose several inches above the path ahead, it saved her from flying headlong out of the saddle when the gelding stumbled and nearly fell with her. Its pace dropped to a halting walk in the space of a breath or two, and as she sat up again, her hat askew, she realized immediately that her horse was injured.

  Brandon, looking back over his shoulder, saw what had happened and jerked his mount sharply about, reaching her at nearly the same time Cleves did.

  “Miss Carolyn,” the wiry, middle-aged groom exclaimed, drawing up beside her, “I thought you was a goner! What the master will say, I can’t think!”

  “Then don’t think,” Brandon snapped, bringing the roan to a plunging halt and leaping from the saddle. “Better yet, don’t tell him. You hurt?” He flung the words over his shoulder at Carolyn as he bent to examine the black’s leg.

  “Are you talking to me or to the horse?” she demanded as she straightened her hat and shoved an errant strand of hair back into place.

  “Don’t be nonsensical,” he said sharply. “You’ll have to dismount. He’s strained a fetlock. Here, Cleves,” he added, taking her reins and handing them up to the groom, “make yourself useful and lead him. I’ll take Miss Carolyn up behind me.”

  “Why don’t you just order poor Cleves to give me his horse,” Carolyn asked as Brandon helped her down. “Surely, you won’t want that poor nag of yours to carry a double burden.”

  “No, I don’t, but it don’t signify, for we’ve only a short distance to go now.” Then he looked at her as though he had just become aware of the irony in her voice. “You miffed? I didn’t let him stumble. You did. Ought to be ashamed, riding neck or nothing like that. I can’t think what Lady Skipton will say.”

  “Well, don’t think to cozen me into thinking you’ll tell her,” Carolyn retorted, “for I know you won’t, and if I was riding neck or nothing, ’twas only because you challenged me to do so. And after telling Syd
ney you’d take care of me, too.”

  “Well, if he don’t know how difficult that is, no one does,” Brandon replied, returning his attention to the fetlock.

  “Want me to have a look at that, sir?” Cleves asked.

  “No, what for? Know as much as any groom does, m’self, don’t I? Going to need compresses, and the sooner the better, but I daresay they’ll have what we want at the camp.”

  “Camp, sir?”

  Brandon looked at him. “Gypsy camp, and don’t go giving me any lip, my man. ’Tain’t your place to be saying where we should or shouldn’t go.”

  Cleves looked shocked. “No, sir, and like as not them gypsies know a sight more than both of us together about strained fetlocks. Some of ’em ’ave got magic in their fingers.”

  Satisfied, Brandon lifted Carolyn to his saddle and swung up behind her. A quarter hour later they entered the camp.

  Seven caravans nestled beneath the trees surrounding a clearing, and steam curled from pots bubbling over campfires near all but one, where a girl with long black hair tied back from her face with a red scarf, and golden hoops dangling from her ears, turned a small roasting animal on a spit. Other plump, dark-haired children played all-hide among the trees, shrieking and laughing, ignored by the several adults who could be seen nearby.

  The whole scene fascinated Carolyn, but she was particularly captivated by the women, whose tight bodices and full skirts looked as though they had been made up of odd bits of bright fabric and contrasting braid. Despite the unmistakable curiosity flashing in their black eyes as they watched the visitors, not one moved to greet them.

  “You seek help for your gree?” a gruff voice demanded.

  Carolyn’s view of the man’s approach had been blocked by Brandon’s left shoulder, so it seemed almost as though he had appeared out of thin air. He was of middle age, large and brawny, and he carried himself like a lord.

  Brandon said casually, “I am looking for the Rom called Salas. I owe him money.”

  “You owe my son roop or suhakie?” the man demanded. “Silver or gold?” Then he shook his head, realizing that Brandon still did not understand him. “Little or much, and for what?”

  “For a horse, a gree,” Brandon said. He grinned. “Much to him, I think. He has my watch. I want it back.”

  The big man smiled back, showing yellowing, crooked teeth, one blackened in front, before his gaze flicked briefly over Carolyn and back to Brandon. “You wish to sell your raiena, your lady? My son needs wife, and she is much pretty.”

  “Well, as to that,” Brandon murmured, as though he were giving thought to the matter, “I should have to—”

  “Brandon!” Carolyn dug him in the ribs with her elbow.

  He grinned again. “Fact is, sir, she ain’t mine to sell. You’d have to talk to her—Ouch, Carolyn, quit that!”

  But she didn’t answer him for the simple reason that her attention had been diverted by the sight of one of the most handsome young men she had ever laid eyes on. He walked up behind the older Romany, his dark eyes gleaming with interest as he looked her over, his teeth flashing white in a huge smile when he caught her gaze. Flushing, she looked away.

  Brandon, too, had seen the younger man. “Ah, there you are Salas, old man. I’ve come to redeem my watch and to pay what I owe you for this nag.”

  “A fine gree,” the young man said. “He goes well for you?”

  “Very well,” Brandon said, shifting Carolyn a bit in order to extract his purse from his waistcoat. “Here’s your money. Where’s my watch?”

  The young man’s eyes sparkled with humor as he reached into the pocket of his coat and extracted a gold watch. “Salas has a better one than this. You may have it back.”

  “Thank you.” Brandon grinned at him. “Think you could take a look at the lady’s nag there. Strained a fetlock on the trail. Daresay it needs a compress applied to it, soonest.”

  The gypsy nodded and knelt to examine the injury. Carolyn saw that his hands were large but gentle as they moved swiftly over the leg. Now that he was not looking at her, she found it difficult to take her eyes from him. Muscles rippled beneath his coat, and his manner was as lordly as his father’s, his profile positively princely. Except for such trifling distinctions as the contrasting colors of their hair, skin, and eyes, he looked just as she had imagined Sir Bartholomew Lancelot must look.

  When Salas turned toward them as he arose again, she noted the natural grace with which he moved, and a daring notion shot into her mind. She tried to suppress it, calling herself a fool, but it remained to tantalize her with possibilities. She had wanted to teach Sydney a much needed lesson. Was it possible that the opportunity had come to do just that?

  IV

  SALAS’S VOICE INTERRUPTED CAROLYN’S reverie. “The gree should not walk farther today, lady,” he said. “We will keep him here, and you may return for him tomorrow.”

  Brandon said, “I don’t know if—”

  “Leave him,” Carolyn said, adding when the two gypsies looked at her in astonishment, “Shadow is mine, you see, and I should take it kindly if you would tend to him. My groom said your people have got magic in their fingers.”

  “Magic in many limbs, pretty one,” Salas said, flashing her a wide, teasing smile. “I would be pleased to show you.”

  “Thank you,” she said crisply, “but I should be grateful if you will confine your attention to my horse, and perhaps be so kind as to lend me another to ride home.”

  “As you wish,” he responded, unoffended. “You will then, all of you, return tomorrow?”

  “We shall,” she said firmly. “Thank you.”

  “Are you daft, Caro?” Brandon demanded when she was mounted again and they had ridden some distance from the camp. “You don’t want to have anything more to do with those fellows.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she said, grinning at him. “I have the most delightful plan for that beautiful man.”

  “Look here, my girl, if you think for one minute that I’ll let you make a cake of yourself over some damned gypsy—”

  “Don’t be nonsensical,” she said, laughing. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she added, “Fall back a bit, Cleves. Mr. Manningford and I wish to speak privately.”

  “Very well, miss, but beggin’ yer pardon, am I to tell anyone you’ve gone and left that black with them gypsies?”

  “Good gracious, I never thought about that! And we’ve this horse to explain as well,” she added, patting the bay she rode. “What can we tell them, Brandon? It won’t do for Sydney to discover we’ve been to the gypsy camp.”

  “What, running scared?” he said. “Serves you right. It’s his nag, after all, not yours as you told those fellows. And since Shadow’s better bred than that slug you’re riding now, Saint-Denis might not have any more confidence in their returning him than I have. I think you’ll come a cropper this time.”

  “No, I won’t. They won’t wish to offend him, after all, if they are camped on his land, so I doubt that they will steal Shadow. Salas looked much too gentle to do such a thing.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t count on that. Just what do you think you can tell Saint-Denis, or his stable man, for that matter?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon,” Cleves said, “but I could say as I’d left ’im at one o’ the tenant farms ’n borried that nag in ’is place, ’n that I’ll trade ’em round again come mornin’.”

  “Good enough,” Brandon said. “You do that. But you,” he added to Carolyn when the groom had fallen behind, “will leave well enough alone. Cleves can fetch the nag without us.”

  “Oh, no, he cannot,” Carolyn said. “That would not suit me at all, Brandon, and I’ll need you there to help me.”

  He looked suspiciously at her. “Help you with what?”

  “Salas is a perfect foreign count,” she declared, twinkling.

  Brandon’s eyes widened. “You’re daft.”

  “No, I’m not. Sydney will never guess Salas is a gypsy if we dress him sui
tably and tell him not to talk very much. Can’t you just imagine what he will look like in evening breeches and a snugly fitting coat?”

  “And where,” Brandon demanded grimly, “does your fruitful imagination suggest he’s going to get such stuff, if you please? No, don’t tell me. I am to manufacture it out of whole cloth.”

  “I don’t think you will have to do that,” she said. “Surely you must know someone of his size who would lend you a coat and a decent pair of breeches.”

  “Well, I don’t,” he said flatly.

  “Brandon, don’t be difficult. I am doing this on your account as well as my own.” Faced with his blatant disbelief, she flushed and said, “Well, nearly, anyway. It was when I said I had no reason not to trust you to take me into the gardens that Sydney said I was a poor judge of men and must trust his judgment above my own. Now, I ask you, was that fair of him? All I want to do,” she added hastily when he did not at once reply, “is to give him back a bit of his own, to prove to him that he doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.”

  “I don’t know,” Brandon said. “A canny fellow, Saint-Denis. I doubt you can fool him so easily as that.”

  “Well, I can. You wait. I saw how Salas moves and how he carries himself. In his way, he’s as puffed up with his own esteem as Sydney’s brother, Skipton, is. I mean to get Godmama to invite Salas to dinner, thinking he’s a foreign count, you know, and then you just watch. Sydney will be as polite as can be to him and will never suspect he’s entertaining a gypsy.”

  “You’d better hope he doesn’t,” Brandon said, but his eyes were alight now with mischief. “I say, Caro, it will be a fine hoax if we can carry it off. M’ sister Ramsbury’s husband is of a size with that fellow. Daresay there are a few of his rags about the house somewhere that I can filch.”

  “Even if Sydney isn’t fooled,” she said, relaxing now that he had entered into the plan, “he won’t be angry. For one thing, he never is, and for another, he is accustomed to my pranks. Indeed, I mean for him to know,” she added with a chuckle, “just not until after we have succeeded in hoodwinking him.”