The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  Neall glowered at her, and she glared back, determined that he should never guess how dreadfully he frightened her. That determination steadied her. Reminding herself that he would not shoot unless he believed the duke didn’t want her, she wracked her brain for a way to save herself before that moment came.

  She feared from what she had seen of him that Salas would be no help to her. Not only had he expressed greater concern over the injured horse than over her abduction, but he would no doubt continue to put his own skin before hers. And while she thought she could depend upon Cumberland not to cheer her abduction, she could place no dependence upon his vetoing her murder. If only, she mused, she could be granted one small stroke of luck.

  A rattle of hoofbeats and shouts from the roadway diverted Neall’s attention just then, and Carolyn seized her opportunity. Remembering what Sydney had taught her, she made a fist with her right hand, hoisted her skirt above her knees with her left, and leapt forward, jabbing him twice in the throat with her knuckles. Then, as he grabbed for his throat with his free hand, she elbowed the pistol aside and brought her right knee up hard between his legs. The pistol exploded harmlessly as Neall collapsed, moaning and clutching himself, at her feet.

  Carolyn spared no time to look down at him, let alone to congratulate herself, for the hoofbeats she had heard had come from the wrong direction. Holding her skirt high, she turned and dived deeper into the thicket, but as soon as she knew she could not be seen from the field, she wriggled into a space between two evergreen bushes and peered back through the foliage.

  To her profound satisfaction, she saw that Neall still lay writhing where he had fallen, but she jumped back involuntarily when Cumberland rode through the hedge into the field. The sight of Salas behind him was slightly reassuring, but she decided to remain where she was.

  Dismounting, the duke strode to where Neall lay, and it was evident at once that he was angry. “Get up, you dolt,” he snapped, his gruff voice carrying easily to Carolyn’s ears since most of the noise on the road had stopped. “Where’s the girl?”

  Neall made only a token effort to rise, and she couldn’t hear what he said, but when Cumberland looked toward the thicket, she held her breath. The gypsy, still mounted, said something to him, but he shook his head, and she heard him say clearly, “No, no, she must be found at once. Go call the others.”

  Salas said something else, and thinking furiously as she watched and tried to hear them, Carolyn decided that running would do her no good, and unless she was willing to leave her red cloak behind, she would be easily visible to anyone coming nearer than Cumberland was now. She had nearly decided to stand up and hope that, between them, she and Salas could prevent her murder when there came a fresh disturbance as Sydney Saint-Denis, mounted on a his sleek bay hack, trotted through what was now a rather wide gap in the hedge.

  He appeared to be alone, and when he drew to a halt near the gypsy and raised his quizzing glass to look down with faint interest, first at Cumberland and then at the still moaning Neall, Carolyn leaned forward to get a better view, choking back a sudden, nearly overpowering urge to laugh.

  The duke evidently saw nothing humorous in Sydney’s attitude. “I knew nothing of this, Saint-Denis,” he snapped.

  “No?” Sydney drawled. “How intelligent of you not to pretend that nothing has happened, Cumberland, and for that, I shall reward you by believing that you are, if not innocent, at least not actively involved. But what, if I may be so bold as to ask, have you done with Miss Hardy?”

  “Neall tells me he thinks she ran into the thicket,” Cumberland growled. “She, and not I, must take the credit for his present painful condition.

  “I am glad to hear that,” Sydney said, adding, “She was, I suppose, in that coach yonder?”

  “She was,” Cumberland admitted. “This fool thought … well, it is of no purpose to say what he thought, but—”

  “Oh,” said Sydney gently, “I daresay he thought you might wish to be revenged upon me, and perhaps upon Miss Hardy as well, but I cannot think why he took no more care than he did with his abduction. Surely he must have known I’d be hard on his heels.”

  Neall struggled up, glaring at him. “I can’t think what you’d have done, you spineless fop! That little bitch is wor—”

  “Shut your mouth!” the duke snapped, kicking him.

  “How wise you are, Cumberland,” Sydney said softly, “I should dislike doing more harm to Mr. Neall than has already been done to him, but I find my temper a trifle uncertain, so perhaps, having shut him up, you will make certain he stays that way until I have got Miss Hardy safely out of here. And, Cumberland,” he added in that same soft tone, “I should make all haste to leave the country if I were you. I feel sure that your mission must keep you away for several weeks at least.”

  Cumberland looked at him sharply. “I am beginning to think that perhaps this mission—”

  “You would be wiser not to finish that statement, sir, and to continue in the belief that your immediate presence on the Continent is of grave import. No, no,” he added as the duke cast a shrewd glance at Salas, “do not think that like the ancient Caesars you can, with impunity, expend your ill humor on the messenger. I’ve no doubt his friends on the Continent look daily to see his safe arrival there, and it is never safe to betray the Romanys, for their reach is long and their respect for authority capricious at best. Do you understand me?”

  “Damn you, Saint-Denis, you know too much! Do you dare to threaten me, sir?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think of it as a threat, your royal highness, but surely you must understand that when the Regent learns, as he certainly will if he has not already done so, that you have most foolishly dared to abduct a gentlewoman—”

  “I didn’t abduct her!”

  “But you, sir, of all people,” Sydney said with a faint smile, “know the power of a delicately placed rumor, particularly when there is a modicum of truth upon which to base it.”

  Cumberland glared at him, silenced.

  Neall growled defiantly, “They might the both of them be made to disappear, highness.”

  Sydney smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve. “I doubt you would be so stupid, Cumberland, but I ought perhaps to warn you that I’ve got men with me, beyond the hedge. I thought it as well that they hear none of this, but that can be altered if you prefer it so.”

  Cumberland said grimly to Salas, “Get down and carry that fool back to his coach, and we’ll go on ahead.” He paused, then looked thoughtfully up at Sydney and said in a milder tone, “I’d take it kindly, Saint-Denis, if you would do what you can to sort this out with George. It won’t do him the good you think it will to have it noised about that I had aught to do with this.”

  Sydney pretended to give his words consideration before he said, “I suppose that if I can assure him your mission will keep you away for a fortnight, Cumberland, or maybe even three weeks, I might perhaps see my way clear to smoothing over the rest.”

  “Very well, damn you.”

  “Then you may leave me to find Miss Hardy on my own,” Sydney told him. “You will understand that she may be reluctant to look at you or that pond scum Neall again anytime soon.”

  Cumberland stiffened. “You would do well to remember who I am and not be so quick to flaunt your disrespect, Saint-Denis.”

  “I have a lamentable memory, I believe,” Sydney murmured.

  Cumberland scowled but said no more, turning on his heel to follow Salas, who had dismounted and was supporting the hunched-over Neall back to the road.

  Sydney waited until the others had passed through the gap in the hedge before he said, “You can come out now.”

  Carolyn stood up and stepped forward, pulling her cloak more tightly around her. “You saw me?”

  “Red is rather a noticeable color,” he said apologetically, swinging his right leg over the pommel and sliding down from the saddle. “You did well to get away. Did they harm you?”

  She shook her head, watch
ing him, as her heart began to pound. “How did you know?” she asked. “Did Godmama tell you about that stupid note?”

  “Hercules told us,” he said, regarding her with a warm glow in his eyes that sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.

  “Hercules?” She hardly knew what she was saying.

  “Yes, Hercules.”

  Carolyn gave herself a shake. “Sydney, that’s nonsense. Hercules is a dog.”

  “A very rude and obstreperous dog. Matilda was returning from her walk when she came upon him, trying to keep my head gardener confined to his shed. The silly clunch was afraid Hercules would bite him. When Matilda brought the little monster into the house, we knew something had happened to you. Neall must have thought no one would bother to follow.”

  “Cumberland never told him the truth about what happened at the grotto,” Carolyn said. “And Hercules bit Neall.”

  “Good for him,” Sydney said. “I never said he wasn’t intelligent. It was fortunate for him that Matilda came along when she did, however, for she was able to deter Frachet from bashing him with his shovel. Matilda has thus redeemed herself in Mama’s eyes by saving Hercules’ life. Mama demanded that I sack Frachet, of course, but I don’t think I shall.” He opened his arms to her. “Come here, my love.”

  She went to him, and when his arms closed around her, she sighed with contentment. “Oh, Sydney, say that again.”

  “I shall say it many times, no doubt.” He tilted her face up and kissed her on the lips. “I don’t doubt I shall regret this to my dying day, but I believe I must ask you to marry me, Caro. Do you think you can bring yourself to do so?”

  “Why should you regret it?” she demanded, trying to pull away and finding, to her great satisfaction, that he would not let her do so.

  He kissed her again and then said as though he recited a litany, “Emotional upsets, apple pie beds, very expensive chinaware that has to be thrown into the dustbin—”

  “No, did you really have to throw it out? I thought hot water would dissolve that glue.”

  “It doesn’t. Ching Ho did the unhappy deed. ’Twas a very fine bit of Sevres, but I prefer Chinese porcelain and no doubt it was never happy in its ignoble role and was just as glad to meet its end at your fair hands.”

  She chuckled. “Tell me, sir, is this your notion of a properly romantic proposal and the sweet talk that ought to accompany such a moment, because I must regretfully inform you that it is not mine. Only look at us! And at this place!” She gestured toward the barren, weed-filled field around them.

  “I see nothing amiss,” he said, looking down into her eyes. There was no laughter in his expression now, nor the least sign of affectation, and she found it suddenly a little difficult to meet his steady gaze. “Must you have roses and candlelight to answer my question, Caro?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I was only teasing. Oh, Sydney, I knew you would come, but when you did, it wasn’t in the least like I imagined it would be.”

  He smiled at her. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t suppose it would have been at all the thing to have knocked the duke down again—”

  “No.”

  “But you might have done so to Neall!”

  “My dearest love, you had already completely incapacitated the poor fellow! What would you have had me do?”

  She grimaced. “I know, it was not necessary.”

  “More than that, you unnatural woman, it would have been viciously and most needlessly cruel.”

  “Well, I don’t care for that. He is a dreadful man.”

  “You,” Sydney said shrewdly, “wanted a knight on a white charger.” He glanced at the hack, grazing placidly nearby. “My poor fellow’s not even the right color. How dismal for you!”

  She laughed. “You are a wretch. I won’t deny that over the past weeks, I have frequently felt as though I were dwelling in the pages of one of those books written by my gentlewoman of Bath. Whoever that industrious lady may be, I should like to pull a few caps with her, for she most grossly misled me.”

  “And how is that?” he inquired, bending to kiss her again.

  “Sydney,” she protested, “there are doubtless any number of persons watching us from the other side of that hedge!”

  “I don’t mind if they watch. Do you?”

  His arms were tight around her, and she realized she didn’t care a whit who was watching, for delicious new feelings were running rampant through her body, and with each new one, she looked forward to the next. When his right hand moved beneath her cloak and gently over her breast to her waist, she caught her breath but made no attempt to move away from him. Indeed, she moved closer, placing her hands at his waist and standing on tiptoe to encourage him to kiss her again.

  “Tell me, how were you led astray, my love?”

  She blinked at him. “Led astray? Oh, well, I thought love must be the way it is in books, or not be at all.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, of course not.” But she paused, and when her lips parted, he kissed her again, much more thoroughly than before. When she could speak, she looked at him, bemused. “At least, I didn’t think it was. I kept waiting for true love to strike me like a lightning bolt, but it never did. The books didn’t say it could start with just liking and trusting someone, and finding comfort in being with him, and then grow until one day when he frowns or goes away—even if it’s just out of the room—one is miserable until he comes back again. Love isn’t a great flash, Sydney. It starts small and grows and grows, and sometimes where one least expects to find it.”

  “Like a weed?” he suggested, grinning at her now.

  “Don’t be rude. You certainly won’t tell me that you just saw me and fell flat.”

  “No, only the time you pasted my slippers to the—”

  “Sydney,” she said, striving to sound very firm, “if you mean to talk nonsense, I think we should go home.”

  “I don’t have to talk at all,” he said, kissing her again, “but I do agree that we will be more comfortable at home. I shall carry you back in true heroic style, my love, upon my saddlebow. Just don’t muss my coat.”

  THE END

  The Bath Eccentric’s Son

  The Bath Trilogy

  Amanda Scott

  To Tom Sawyer for the frame.

  To Lady Peel for the gilded edging.

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  Author’s Note

  I

  “MURDERING HIM IS OUT of the question, I suppose,” Lady Flavia Bradbourne said wistfully as she straightened the frothy lace cap perched atop her snow-white curls. A thin little woman dressed in a wide-skirted gown fashionable twenty years before, she sat in one of the two armchairs flanking the drawing-room hearth, well out of the way of drafts from the tall, narrow windows, her tiny feet propped on a tapestry stool.

  “My dear ma’am!” Petite, auburn-haired Nell Bradbourne, her dark-blue eyes alight with unaccustomed laughter, turned from the window through which she had been contemplating the serenity of Laura Place with its gently-spraying central fountain, and the broad, deserted, rain-dampened length of Great Pulteney Street beyond. Her great-aunt’s tone, as much as the words themselves, having successfully distracted her from the brown study into which she had fallen during a pause in their conversation, she shook her head in fond reproval. “You cannot mean it.”

  “I suppose you are right, but your father’s cousin Jarvis seems to be no better than his own sire, and that generation of Bradbournes was sadly lacking, I fear, though the worst anyone ever said of your papa—until last year, at all events—was that he was bringing an abbey to a grange and had no sense. Jarvis now … Well, all I can say of him is
that if the world would be better without him …” She paused significantly.

  Nell choked back a gurgle of laughter. “No, no, Aunt Flavia. You know that that was not at all what I meant when I said I should prefer the world with him out of it. I shan’t deny that I haven’t wished from time to time that I might make him disappear in a puff of smoke, or that—”

  “Oh, I daresay it would not be so easy as that,” Lady Flavia said, twinkling, “and poison will not do, for I cannot imagine how one might prevail upon him to ingest it. Nasty tasting stuff, it must be, for one cannot expect to be so fortunate as to come by one of those mysterious, unnoticeable Oriental poisons one so frequently encounters in Gothic romances, particularly when one does not know a single mysterious Oriental person from whom one might acquire such a thing. But wait.” She held up a hand with the index finger extended for a brief, thoughtful moment before adding, “I believe Sydney Saint-Denis, up on Bathwick Hill, has an Oriental servant. Perhaps he might—”

  Nell’s laughter could no longer be contained. “Aunt, will you be serious for a moment,” she implored when she could speak. “We must think of a solution far more practical than murder.”

  “But, my dear,” Lady Flavia protested, “though I may have suggested murder only to make you laugh, you cannot call it impractical. Not with everything in such a tangle, what with your father’s losing Highgate in that idiotic wager, and then your brother’s duel, and the tragedy that followed. You even suspect that Jarvis had a hand in Nigel’s trouble, if not in your father’s death, so if he now believes the only way to salvage your reputation from the ashes of theirs is to ally yourself with him, you must know you will never convince him otherwise.”