by Joan Smith
“I happen to be very fond of Lady Louise,” Salverton said coldly.
“Well, I am sorry. If Lady Louise shares your feelings, no doubt she will have a good laugh at this little contretemps.”
Salverton’s hopes did not soar so high as to hope for even a smile. Louise might, if she were caught in a good mood, forgive and commiserate. She would feel, as he did himself, that it was unfortunate. Though, as he considered it, it had been funny to see Carnford’s jaw drop. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
Besides, no one would believe it if Carnford were so indiscreet as to broadcast the tale. The Marquess of Salverton was not the devil-may-care sort of fellow to keep a lightskirt when he was courting a lady. But if anyone did believe it, at least they would have heard his chère amie was uncommonly pretty.
His carriage was recognized by two other acquaintances as he drove out of London. Brighton would be full of the ton as well. It was beginning to seem a good idea to stable his rig upon arrival there and hire an unmarked carriage.
Once on the highway to Brighton, they did not meet anyone else Salverton recognized, but at their rate of speed, they did pass a few carriages, and no doubt his crest was noticed.
Samantha paid little heed to the traffic. She gazed out the window at the swaying trees and setting sun that turned the sky a pretty peach color and gilded the rooftops, until the countryside looked like something from a book of fairy tales.
“It’s really quite lovely, isn’t it?” she said.
Salverton glanced out the window and said, “As soon as we reach Brighton, I’ll stable this rig and hire a plain carriage.”
“I’ve been a dreadful nuisance to you,” Samantha said. “Why do you not just go home and let me find Darren and Wanda?”
“It would not be fitting to abandon a lady in distress.”
For the next hour he asked Samantha questions about the welfare of their various relations. He was struck at the difference in their views of what constituted success. So long as relatives had married and were not living in penury, Samantha seemed to think they were doing well. She spoke with pride of someone he could not quite recall having set up a carriage, and of Cousin Francis Talbot having bought a small property near Bath.
“Why Bath?” he demanded. “Cousin Francis is a solicitor. He would do better in London. I could send some government business his way.”
“His wife’s mama is ailing. She makes her home with them, and they wanted her to be near Bath for the waters.”
“He’ll not make a name for himself in Bath. It seems a hard sacrifice to make for the sake of his wife’s mama,” he said, dissatisfied.
“But Francis loves Miriam, you see. He wants her to be happy, and she wants to have her mama where she can help her. Besides, he does very well in the way of wills and settling estates with all the older people there,” she explained.
“Francis had great potential. Honors in two subjects at Oxford, as I recall. He should have gone into politics. He might have been a cabinet minister.”
“I doubt he would be as happy as he is. Being a cabinet minister isn’t that important to some people, Cousin.”
This was like telling a Rothschild that money wasn’t important. Salverton couldn’t understand how any man would not choose to be at the helm of the ship of state. What greater accomplishment had life to offer? His own ambition was to be prime minister one day. He was about to explain this to his cousin, when she stifled a yawn and snuggled into the corner to sleep.
“The sun has nearly set,” she said. “It’s been such a nerve-racking day that I feel sleepy.”
Salverton realized that he was likely to be up most of the night, and closed his eyes. He pondered their discussion as he tried to doze off. How could people be so unambitious? Overweening ambition, Miss Oakleigh had said. Was it immoderately ambitious of him to want to use his God-given talents to help make England a better place, and to give himself a place in the history books while he was about it?
He thought, too, of Lady Louise and what she would do if rumors of this trip reached her ears. She would be demmed unhappy. He must make sure Louise didn’t get a look at Samantha, or she’d never believe it was all innocent. Carnford had taken one look and jumped to the obvious conclusion. A lady as pretty as Samantha had to be extra careful. If he’d let her come here alone, she would have had men falling over themselves in their eagerness to “help” her.
And she was such a greenhead, she would have taken them at their word. She was completely out of her depth in the city. A feeling of protectiveness welled up in him as he watched her in the fading twilight, her horrid bonnet askew and her long eyelashes fanning her cheeks. She looked about ten years old. He unfolded the blanket and tenderly arranged it over her lap. The carriage had grown chilly as the sun set.
They reached Brighton at eleven o’clock that night. Salverton directed his coachman to drive to a stable. Samantha woke up, covered her lips in a yawn, and said, “Are we here?” She noticed Salverton had placed the blanket over her and was surprised, but she didn’t mention it.
“We’re changing carriages,” he said.
“You mean horses?”
“That, too.”
When the change was made, he said to Samantha, “You know the whereabouts of this house Sir Geoffrey owns?”
“It is just to the east of Brighton, where the Marine Parade changes into—whatever it changes into. I cannot recall the name of the road. It is less than halfway to Rottingdean. Is that not a horrid name for a village? One imagines a dead dean decomposing.” Seeing that Salverton was not interested in her imagination, she added, “The cottage is right on the sea.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Yes,” she said, and drew her brows together in a hard frown.
“Well, what is it?” he asked impatiently.
“I am trying to think, if you’ll just be quiet,” she said with matching impatience.
Salverton glared, but she was paying him no heed. She had screwed her eyes shut to aid concentration.
“It has something to do with old Roman statues, like those damaged ones in your house,” she said.
“My statues are Greek!”
“You need not apologize, Cousin. No one would know the difference if you’d only get them patched up.”
It seemed pointless to inform her that the Greek originals, even when damaged by time, were preferable to Roman copies. “Surely Sir Geoffrey hasn’t the poor taste to call his cottage the Parthenon, or the Temple of Diana, or some such thing?”
“No, it wasn’t that. I have it! The Laurels.” Salverton blinked, wondering at such a modest name, when she had been speaking of classical antiquities. “Like the crowns of leaves they used to wear in those ancient times. Or was that bay leaves? In any case, the cottage is called The Laurels, so it should be easy to find. But before we leave, I fear I must ask you to stop somewhere for a moment.”
“It has been a longish trip. A cup of coffee or a glass of wine would not go amiss. Perhaps a bite, as we missed dinner.”
“That would be nice, but what I mean is I have to relieve myself,” she replied bluntly.
Salverton stared. “I shall ask John Groom to stop at an inn for refreshment,” he said in a damping voice. Really! These country girls!
“I’m sure it is nothing to be ashamed of, Cousin,” she said. “Don’t you have to go, too? If God hadn’t wanted us to—”
He raised a hand to interrupt her latest solecism.
“I take your meaning. It is not necessary to draw me a picture.” Hoyden! his glare said.
Her answering glare said, Prig!
In this unpromising mood they went to an inn to refresh and relieve themselves. Salverton chose a modest establishment where he was unlikely to meet anyone he knew. He hustled his guest into a private parlor and ordered dinner while she attended to necessities.
Samantha returned to find the table set with a raised partridge pie, cold ham, a roasted fowl, potatoes, and a plenti
ful array of vegetables. Her appetite had been in abeyance, but when she saw the food she realized she was hungry and they both enjoyed an excellent dinner. They finished a bottle of wine between them.
At the meal’s end, Salverton was in a much better mood. They would be at The Laurels within the half hour. He’d ring a peal over Darren, hustle him back to London—probably have to give Wanda some money to keep her quiet—and call on Lady Louise early in the morning to make his peace with her. He’d have the morning to finish his report for Liverpool.
The evening had been unusual, but not without some pleasure. A rescue mission of this sort seldom fell in Salverton’s way. He usually helped his relatives by procuring them positions or arranging a desirable match, without much personal inconvenience. He was aware of a pleasant sense of excitement, almost of daring as he offered Samantha his arm to lead her out to the carriage. He was even beginning to think the coquelicot ribbons were not so very gaudy.
He had a change of heart when he saw Mr. Herbert, another political colleague, entering a private parlor with a young lady not his wife. Mr. Herbert! He was fifty years old if he was a day, and the chit not a day over twenty. What was the world coming to? Fortunately Herbert didn’t spot him, but it made Salverton aware of the apparent impropriety of this mission, and urged him to keep his guard up.
He was happy to reach the safety of his carriage without seeing anyone else he knew.
Chapter Four
As Salverton looked at his groom standing by the hired carriage, it occurred to him that the ton would recognize Foley on sight. To see him on the perch of this somewhat dilapidated rig would cause curiosity as to the occupant. Those with the true evangelical spirit for gossip would peer inside, see himself and his cousin, and assume the worst. He must be rid of his coachman and hire a driver from Winkler’s stable.
Salverton explained the matter in quite different terms when he spoke to his groom.
“The carriage was making a rattling sound all the way from London,” he invented. "I’d like you to go over it and see what is amiss. Just take me to Winkler’s. I’ll hire a driver there for a brief stop I have to make just beyond Brighton. When you’ve looked over my own rig, we’ll meet you back here.”
“You’re returning to London tonight, then?” Foley asked.
“Yes.” He glanced at Samantha, who was beginning to show fatigue after her busy day. He realized that he was tired himself. By the time they found Darren and Wanda and settled matters, it would be one or two o’clock. With Darren to chaperon his sister, there would be no impropriety in remaining overnight. “No,” he said. “We’ll put up at a hotel, as it is so late, and return tomorrow morning.”
“Just as you say, your lordship. Where will you be staying, and what time do you want your rig at the door?”
“The Curzon at eight.”
They were driven back to the stable to find no drivers were to be had at that hour of the night. Salverton was a good customer, however, and Winkler wished to oblige him.
“I know a lad who turns his hand to a spot of driving from time to time. An excellent whip. Jonathon Sykes is your man. I’ll send for him. He’ll be here in no time.”
Salverton agreed. “No time” stretched to half an hour, but eventually Sykes appeared, arrayed not in a coachman’s outfit but in a black evening jacket with wadded shoulders and a nipped-in waist. He was a well-set-up, handsome rogue with blond curls and a laughing blue eye. He bowed punctiliously while his eyes slewed to examine Samantha.
“Your lordship. Jonathon Sykes, at your service,” he said.
This rogue in an evening suit sitting on his box would cause more curiosity than his own groom. Salverton turned a wrathful eye to Joe Winkler.
“I can lend Sykes a coachman’s coat and hat,” he said apologetically. “This is to be a driving job, Jonathon,” he explained to his friend, then went on to speak to Salverton. “Jonathon is a jack-of-all-trades.”
Sykes wrenched his gaze from Samantha to expound on his versatility. “I went into service at the age of seven, when my ma and pa died, bless their souls. Started out as backhouse boy at Lord Egremont’s and worked up from underfootman to butler, and even did a spot of clerking when the occasion demanded. I can read and write as well as a bishop. His lordship especially commended me on my penmanship. But I always had a love of the stables. I can drive anything, anywhere, anytime.”
“May one inquire why you left Lord Egremont, when you were making such strides in your career?” Salverton asked.
“He upped and died, didn’t he?”
“Sykes knows the neighborhood like the back of his hand,” Winkler mentioned.
“Do you know a place called The Laurels, between here and Rottingdean?” Salverton asked.
“The wee thatched cottage belonging to Sir Geoffrey Bayne? I know it h’intimately. Many’s the time I’ve taken a party to The Laurels for a bit of a frolic. A great one for parties, Sir Geoffrey. I could have you there in twenty minutes, your lordship.”
It was this that induced Salverton to hire Sykes against his better judgment. He wanted to get to The Laurels as quickly as possible. “Change your outfit, then, and let us get on with it.”
Sykes cleared his throat. “There’s a matter of remuneration, your lordship. Not to appear mercenary, but we wasn’t all born with a silver spoon in our craw.”
“A guinea,” Salverton said, choosing what he considered a generous sum.
Sykes quirked one eyebrow in derision. “I was torn away from a game that was likely to make me a richer man than that.”
“Very well, two guineas.”
“Taking into account there’s not another driver to be had and your lordship must be in an almighty rush to get to The Laurels, and considering the law of supply and demand—I was thinking five guineas.
“Three. Take it or be damned.”
“Three it is, sir. You do realize Sir Geoffrey ain’t at The Laurels? I heard he’s let it to a young lad—for his parents, they are saying about town.”
Salverton assumed the young lad was Darren, and his parents a pretext. If gossip flew on such silver wings as this in Brighton, it was indeed urgent to remove Darren at once. “That’s quite all right. I know Sir Geoffrey is in London.”
“Just trying to save you h’exasperation, your lordship. I know all about h’exasperation.”
“I’m rapidly learning about it,” Salverton said dampingly, and went to have a word with Foley.
Sykes, undeterred, continued chatting with Samantha as he removed his jacket, folded it up neatly, set his hat on top of it, and handed them both to Winkler. Before long he had the gist of her story, and was contemplating how to milk it to his best advantage. He put on the hat and coat the proprietor handed him and hopped up on the box, setting his own vestments carefully beside him. Even a misshapen hat and bulky coat didn’t completely conceal his physical charms.
“A trot, a canter, or a gallop, your lordship?” he inquired from the perch when Salverton returned. Sykes had no intention of hopping about and holding doors for his high-and-mighty lordship.
“You’re the expert. Just get us there and back as quickly as possible without risking an accident.”
A burst of Jovian laughter rumbled from Jonathon Sykes’s throat. “H’accident! You’ve no fear of that with Jonathon Sykes holding the reins. ‘Twas Lord Alvanley himself who dubbed me the finest fiddler he ever did see—and Lord Alvanley would know about fiddling.”
When Salverton held the carriage door for his cousin, he noticed she was wearing an insouciant smile. “An original,” she said.
“Trying extraordinarily hard to be one. His tongue certainly runs at a trot. We shall test his fiddling before granting him the palm.”
Even Salverton had to admit the carriage set off without so much as a small lurch. The trip out of Brighton was accomplished with expedition. Salverton’s attention was distracted by Samantha’s chatter.
“I wonder if Darren is the young man who is at The Lau
rels,” she said. “If he and Wanda are there, I would have thought they’d keep away from Brighton. He doesn’t know the money was stolen, but she knows it.”
“It has been obvious for some time the woman has no sense. I expect she’s been into town spending her ill-got gains.”
“We should have asked Sykes. I wager he would know Wanda by sight, as she summers here.”
“The less information we impart to Sykes, the better. He not only knows everything; he tells everything. I should have told Winkler not to reveal my identity.”
“He does chatter,” she agreed, “but it’s a good feeling knowing Sykes is so clever.” She turned her gaze out the window, wondering if she should confess to having told Sykes more than discretion warranted.
Salverton felt a little spurt of anger at her thoughtless comment. It was not Sykes but himself who was going to such pains to help her. She had not called him clever.
After another mile she said, “I thought we would see the sea from the road. The Laurels is on the sea.”
Salverton glanced out at a vista of meadows backed by a stand of waving trees on one side, and an open field on the other. “The road curves. The sea will come in sight presently,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure Sykes knows what he is about.”
“Have you ever seen the sea, Cousin?”
“Until the glimpse of it I had tonight at Brighton, I have seen only the Bristol Channel. The glimpse was lovely. The white moon shining on the black water—so romantic. Papa took me to Bristol once when he was there on business. We were at the docks in the morning. It was not at all romantic. Being in the middle of England, we’re far from the ocean at Milford, but you must not think us provincial. We go frequently to Bath.”
They continued peering out the windows for a view of the sea. After a mile, Salverton realized this was not the sea road and pulled the drawstring.
“It seems Sykes oversold himself,” he said, not without a trace of satisfaction. “He may know Brighton like the back of his hand, but he obviously doesn’t know the environs.”