Mayhem in Bath

by Sandra Heath

  She hurried inside to issue instructions. It was twenty-five miles to Bath, but she reckoned to be there before nightfall.

  Chapter 4

  The Bath road descended very gradually from the heights of Horditall. It passed through rich farmland, where cattle and sheep grazed, the fields were plowed for winter, and the orchards were mellow with fruit. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys or hung above gardens where autumn leaves were being burned. The swallows had gone now, and the hedgerows were heavy with rose hips and hawthorn berries, as well as sloes and the ubiquitous wild clematis—known as old man’s beard—that rambled so thick and dusty white at this time of year. It was all very beautiful and tranquil, but Polly was too anxious to draw any enjoyment from the passing scene. There were still twelve miles to go, and the light was already copper and hazy as the sun began to sink.

  Sitting impatiently in the slow-moving carriage, she willed the final miles away. She was dressed in an ivory woolen gown, with a three-quarter-length lilac velvet pelisse over it, and her hair was pinned up beneath a lilac velvet jockey bonnet. A long filmy white scarf fell from the back of the bonnet, and her hands were encased in gray kid gloves. Her reticule lay on the seat beside her, together with her volume of The Castle of Otranto, intended to make the time pass, but now discarded. She stared out of the window, wondering how far ahead the other carriage was. Almost in Bath, she judged, listening to the slow trot of her team as they negotiated a slight hill. Oh, hurry, hurry, for I want this to be over with.

  Dominic’s carriage was indeed coming toward journey’s end. The sun was setting fast as his carriage bowled down into the Avon valley, and then joined the Bristol turnpike on the outskirts of Bath. The fashionable spa tumbled down the valley sides to the river’s edge, where the tower of the abbey rose in medieval splendor. Row upon row of handsome golden stone houses graced the steep slopes, and as the carriage rattled into the elegant cobbled streets, the oil lamps were already being lit.

  Huddled amid the luggage. Bodkin was still in a boggart rage. He was wedged between a trunk and a portmanteau, and was very glad of his thick fur because the autumn evening had grown cold. All the way from Horditall, he had dwelt hard and long about how to exact revenge upon Hordwell and Lord Benjamin; indeed those gentlemen’s ears should have ignited as he imagined all kinds of dire punishment. Oh, they were going to rue the day they took his beloved Nutmeg away!

  It should have been a simple matter to drive up to Royal Crescent from the edge of the town, past Marlborough Buildings, but that route was closed because of work on the road, so Jeffries had to continue into the center in order to approach the crescent from the other side. Dominic’s hapless coachman was in better spirits now, for at the fateful signpost east of Horditall, he had been able to point out to Dominic that it had indeed been tampered with. There was no need to wonder who might do such a thing, for a certain farmer’s eagerly outstretched palm was all the evidence required.

  Dominic observed Bath’s fine streets and squares, and noticed the preponderance of sedan chairs and bath chairs, as well as gathering groups of torchbearers—universally known as linkboys— whose task it was to light the way through the darkness. Next he became aware of a great number of uniforms. Foremost among these he recognized those of his former hussar regiment, the Duke of York’s Own Light Dragoons, which he’d quit on his father’s sudden death two years ago. What was afoot? he wondered. A review of some sort? A stir of interest crept over him as he hoped the entire regiment was in the vicinity, because if so, he’d be able to call on many of his old friends.

  As the carriage progressed through Bath, he had to concede that in spite of his great reluctance to be here at all, the resort was very handsome indeed. But, oh, how much better he would feel if he were in London now, with Georgiana in his arms, his ring on her finger. No woman would ever compare with her. Still, when it came to his marriage bed, he could always imagine it was Georgiana he had between the sheets.

  His fingers drummed on the window ledge as the carriage swung around Queen Square, where an obelisk graced the railed central garden. Please let his sojourn here be brief, he thought, his fingers pausing a moment as Jeffries maneuvered the team north out of the square toward the Circus. Passing the junction with George Street, he noticed the premises of the renowned pastry cook, Wilhelm Zuder. The illuminated windows displayed a magnificent selection of pastries, cakes, fudge, bonbons, jellies, preserves, honey, and all manner of other sweet delicacies. A queue of ladies, gentlemen, maids, and footmen was waiting at the oak counter, and the portion of the premises that had been turned into a teashop was so crowded that not a single seat was to be had. Bodkin had also seen the pastry cook’s. He feasted boggart eyes upon the treasure hoard of sweet temptation, and his conscience became nonexistent as he resolved to pay Zuder’s a clandestine visit later that night. It was his birthday, and he was going to sample everything on the premises without paying a penny!

  The shop fell away behind as the carriage climbed up to the Circus, a fine ring of town houses intersected by three streets, one of which. Brock Street, led directly to the eastern end of Royal Crescent. At last the matchless sweep of Bath’s most desirable address came into view. It was a truly superb sight in the final moments of daylight, a masterpiece of thirty town houses situated above sloping common land with an uninterrupted view across the Avon valley.

  As Jeffries drew the carriage to a standstill outside of Lord Benjamin’s residence, and Dominic prepared to alight. Bodkin peered over the side of the boot. He’d seen the name Royal Crescent written on the first house in the curve and could hardly believe his luck that his unknowing transport had brought him to the very street he sought! The brownie gazed along the pavement, belatedly wishing he’d thought of asking Polly the number of Beddem’s residence. Nutmeg was in one of these houses, but which one?

  Suddenly the front door of the house by which the carriage had halted opened, and several footmen emerged to attend to the unloading of the luggage. Bodkin jumped hastily down with his bundle and the pumpkin, and bent low as he hurried to the unlit entrance of the property next door, and from there he watched as Dominic entered his house. As the last item of luggage was carried inside, and Jeffries drove the carriage around to the nearby mews, the brownie emerged from his doorway to consider what to do next. How was he going to find out which house it was? Inspiration struck almost immediately. All he had to do was find the mews and ascertain which coach house contained Hordwell’s carriage! The coach house would surely have the same number as the house to which it belonged! Yes, that was it. He swung his cumbersome belongings over his shoulder again and set off along the pavement. Soon he went around the large house at the beginning of the crescent, and then disappeared from view.

  It was very dark indeed when Polly’s carriage reached Bath and was obliged to take the same circuitous route to the crescent. At Lord Benjamin’s house, Polly paused apprehensively before alighting. Oh, how she was going to loathe the coming hours, for being anywhere near Lord Benjamin was always purgatory to her. He was a true scion of that long, long line of philanderers, clammy and lascivious, always eyeing her, whispering supposed compliments, and trying to brush against her as if by accident. If ever there was a prime example of the house of Beddem, it was he! She climbed reluctantly down to the pavement and braced herself for the ordeal ahead. The air was cold, and her breath was visible as she went up to the door to rap the gleaming brass knocker. She felt a little embarrassed, realizing that unescorted ladies who called at doors after dark were frequently not ladies at all, but at least her name would soon dispel any such unwelcome conclusions.

  After a moment a footman answered, but her name did not seem to convey anything at all. “Er, is Sir Dominic expecting you, madam?” he inquired.

  “Sir Who?” Polly was startled, and further dismayed to see that the footman’s livery was an unfamiliar green and gold.

  “Sir Dominic Fortune, madam. This is his residence.”

  She glanced h
astily at the number painted in black beside the door. Yes, she was at the right address. “There must be a mistake, I—” She broke off on a gasp as she saw Dominic descending the staircase at the end of the entrance hall. He had changed out of his dirty clothes, and after a good hot bath now wore a long gray paisley dressing gown.

  He paused on realizing something was amiss at the door. “What is it?” he inquired.

  “A Miss Peach has called, sir.”

  Dominic approached reluctantly. He inclined his head to Polly, not recognizing her at first. “Sir Dominic Fortune, your servant, madam. May I be of some assistance?” he murmured.

  His eyes were a clear, steady gray; disconcertingly steady. She found herself blushing before their gaze, for she was again obliged to judge him the most handsome man ever. The intense feeling of attraction returned quite unnervingly, and she felt her pulse quicken with anticipation. Oh, this wouldn’t do! She forced herself to recall his manner earlier in the day. He might be handsome beyond belief, but he was also unpleasant!

  “Have we met?” he asked, beginning to realize he’d seen her somewhere before.

  “Er, no, sir, we haven’t. I... I was seeking the residence of Lord Benjamin Beddem, where my uncle is staying, but I’ve come to the wrong house. If you’ll excuse me ...” She turned to leave, but he spoke again.

  “If we have not met, you seem strangely familiar, Miss Peach.”

  “Well, you may have noticed me earlier today,” she confessed, facing him again.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, when you drove through Horditall.”

  His expression cooled. “Ah, yes, the gardening goddess who could so easily have spared me the ignominy of the pig farm.”

  Her eyes flashed at that. “And you, sir, could quite easily have omitted to be so disdainful when you passed.”

  “So I deserved to be covered in filth and rooked by that villain. Is that what you’re saying?” he answered stiffly.

  She didn’t reply, but her expression spoke volumes.

  He was stung into an accusation he knew had to be unjust. “I can only presume you are the ruffian’s accomplice?”

  She bridled indignantly. “I certainly am not, sir!”

  His glance was filled with the disdain of which she’d accused him a moment before. “I’m relieved to hear it. Well, madam, unhelpful you may have been, but I will not stoop to that level. Since you reside in Horditall, I can only imagine your uncle to be Mr. Hordwell Horditall. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, sir, you are.”

  “Then in a manner of speaking you have the correct address after all. Lord Benjamin is indeed the leaseholder here, but he has temporarily rented the property to me.”

  She was taken aback. “Then please, sir, can you inform me where I may find my uncle?”

  “Lord Benjamin’s father, the Duke of Lawless, has taken 1 Royal Crescent in readiness for the Christmas season, although he himself will not take up residence until nearer that time. Lord Benjamin decided he preferred the extra grandeur of that property to this, so he moved there a week ago, and naturally your uncle went with him.”

  Polly had noticed that the crescent’s end houses were very regal indeed. How prudent of Lord Benjamin to go there, and let someone else take up the lease here. Not only did he not have to pay a penny for the larger property, but could further impress Uncle Hordwell. She wondered about Nutmeg. Was the brownie here, or had Lord Benjamin taken her to 1 Royal Crescent? Momentarily she pondered asking Dominic, but then discarded the notion, for not only did he seem the sort of man who would dismiss any suggestion of brownies even existing, but she could also see his luggage in the hallway, signifying he hadn’t merely been in the Horditall area for a day’s excursion out of Bath, but had come by that route on his way here. He was therefore unlikely to know about any of the staff, let alone an invisible brownie! She made herself look at him again. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.” But as she turned away once more, he stepped quickly after her.

  “Allow me to attend you to your carriage, Miss Peach.”

  “There is no need. Sir Dominic,” she replied, not wishing to be in his debt for even so small a service.

  “There is every need. Miss Peach, for in spite of your prejudgment, I am a gentleman.”

  “I did not question that, sir. I merely found fault with your conduct.”

  “As I in turn found fault with yours, so I believe we are even, Miss Peach,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it firmly over his sleeve.

  Polly said nothing as he escorted her across the pavement to the waiting carriage. He handed her inside, then bowed coolly before closing the door. He turned to instruct the coachman to turn around at the far end of the crescent in order to return to the first house on the comer with Brock Street. He remained on the pavement as the carriage drew away from the curb, but had gone inside by the time it drove past again. Polly felt that not only had she been somehow bested, but also that in spite of everything, she still found him diabolically attractive. Oh, how very vexing! She wanted to loathe every inch of him; instead she wondered what it would be like to be in his arms!

  Chapter 5

  The carriage halted once more, this time at the much grander entrance of the end house. Polly alighted again, forced aside all thought of Sir Dominic Fortune, and then went up the flight of stone steps to the pedimented front door. She employed the gleaming brass knocker, and the sound echoed through the house beyond. At last she heard footsteps approaching, and a footman in the crimson and silver colors of the Beddems opened the door.

  When she gave her name this time, it was recognized immediately; indeed the footman’s reaction was such that she could not help but realize indignantly that Lord Benjamin’s offer of marriage was common knowledge below stairs. And the footman’s deferential manner suggested her acceptance was thought to be a mere formality! She stepped a little crossly into the warmth of a stone-flagged entrance hall with walls that had been painted to resemble pale golden marble. Various doors led off on either side, and at the far end there was a curving stone staircase carpeted in green. A glass-sided brass lamp was suspended from the ceiling, with four bright candles that cast a good light.

  “Is my uncle at home?” she asked the footman.

  “Indeed so, madam, but Lord Benjamin has been called away to London and will not be back until the morning of Halloween.”

  She could hardly believe her luck. “Oh, well, it cannot be helped,” she murmured, for to give a whoop of delight would hardly be the thing.

  “Mr. Horditall is in the library, so if you will please be seated, I will announce you.” The footman indicated a dark mahogany chair.

  “There’s no need to announce me, er...?”

  “Giles, madam.”

  “I’ll announce myself, Giles,” she replied firmly. If the fellow thought she was to be Lady Benjamin Beddem, she might as well use the authority bestowed by that mistaken belief. “Where is the library?”

  He was a little uneasy as he indicated a door on the right, for there was a glint in her eye he knew did not bode well for her uncle. But what could a mere footman do when confronted by Lord Benjamin’s bride?

  As he turned to beckon another footman waiting by the door to the kitchens, Polly realized they were about to attend to her luggage. She spoke quickly. “Oh, no, please don’t unload the carriage, for I intend to stay at a hotel or inn.”

  “I beg your pardon, madam?” Giles gaped at her.

  “I believe I made myself quite clear,” she replied, still making full use of her supposed future rank.

  “Very well, Miss Peach.” Bemused, he bowed, and then he and his companion withdrew below stairs.

  Polly drew a deep breath before opening the door. The library was warm and cozy, with dancing firelight moving over the fawn silk walls and biscuit-colored carpet. Two very fine mahogany secretaire bookcases stood on either side of the white marble fireplace, and there was a garniture of Bristol delftware on the mantelshelf. Above the
fireplace was a portrait of one of the royal princes, she wasn’t quite sure which, and on other walls were various landscapes, some watercolor, some oil. The furniture was upholstered in chestnut velvet, including the elegant sofa, and the Hepplewhite fireside chair in which her uncle reposed asleep, his mouth open as he snored.

  In appearance, Hordwell Horditall wasn’t at all what one would have expected of so miserly a character, for he was plump and rosy-cheeked, and outwardly seemed very amiable indeed. However, in his case appearances were definitely deceptive. He was dressed in a beige velvet-collared coat and gray breeches, and his marcella waistcoat buttons were strained across his ample middle. His walking sticks rested against the chair, and his gouty foot was cushioned on a stool before the fire. His small gray wig was askew on his balding head, and his muslin neck cloth was undone, resting crumpled against his stomach. On the table beside him were the remains of a cold chicken supper and an empty decanter of port, which was hardly to be recommended for someone suffering from gout. Nor would costly port have graced his evenings at Horditall House, where his suppers consisted of bread, Cheddar cheese, and a tankard of ale.

  She was cross. He was supposed to be here to cure his gout, not make it worse! She needed no further proof that he’d come to Bath to negotiate her marriage to Lord Benjamin. She bent to speak loudly in Hordwell’s ear. “Good evening, Uncle!”

  He sat forward with a jolt. “Eh? What? Dear God above!” he cried, and then his jaw dropped as he saw his niece. “Polly?”

  “The same.”

  “Whatever brings you here?” he asked, snatching off his napkin, and tossing it guiltily over the telltale supper.