Salt Redux

by Lucinda Brant

  With her back turned and out of earshot, Sir Antony put his hand on the Earl’s sleeve to have his attention and said very low,

  “Salt, I give you my word that by the masquerade night’s end, you and your family will no longer be troubled by my sister. Ever.”

  Salt took a deep breath.

  “I made that same promise to Jane four years ago, and yet here we are…”

  “And I made a solemn promise before leaving ’Petersburg that I would do whatever it takes to keep you and your family safe. I mean it and I will. Whatever it takes…”

  The Earl swallowed his emotion and smiled crookedly.

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Plans have been put in place and I have men ready and waiting on the Continent. That is all you need know for now. Protecting Jane and the children should be your only concern.”

  “What about here, here in England? What plans do you have in place here?” When Sir Antony hesitated, the Earl grinned. He was not amused, nor was he convinced. “You have absolutely no idea, have you?”

  “To extricate her from society with the least fuss and no scandal? No, none yet,” Sir Antony confessed. “But there are three days until the masquerade…”

  “And the rest of her long life, given a castle in remote Wales could not hold her…?”

  “That,” Sir Antony said with conviction, “was decided before I left ’Petersburg.”

  ~

  “SEMPER, you will be orange with delight to know that I am being kicked upstairs,” Sir Antony informed his majordomo from the warm aromatic waters of his thinking tub.

  It was Ralph Semper who had dubbed the linen-lined copper bathtub, brought from St. Petersburg, the thinking tub. It was while stretched out and shoulder-deep in the hot scented waters of this bathtub that his master spent time with his thoughts. It served no other purpose; daily ablutions were performed in the hipbath by the warmth of the fireplace before entering the thinking tub.

  Semper took these dressing room arrangements in his stride, as he did the attendant ritual that went with his master’s tea-drinking ceremony. The silver samovar, like the copper bath, had been introduced on the advice of Prince Mikhail, and if such devices and their rituals kept his master from giving in to the temptation of the fermented grape, then Semper was all for them.

  He was, however, surprised when Sir Antony addressed him from the thinking tub. Usually, it was a time when Semper and the male servants tiptoed about the dressing room so as not to disturb their master who, sans wig, settled back against a cushion with eyes closed, diaphanous silk curtains pulled about the bath to keep in the heat and shut out the world. But the curtains remained flat against the painted wall of the niche and thus the majordomo paused in the middle of the Aubusson rug, Sir Antony’s discarded wig in one hand. He had been about to cross to the closet, and had heard one word in five of Sir Antony’s announcement.

  “An orange light on the stairs, my lord?”

  “I’m being kicked upstairs.”

  Semper moved a little closer to the thinking tub.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  Sir Antony did not open his eyes. He lifted an arm, elbow resting on the edge of the bathtub, and pointed skywards.

  “Up, Semper; up to the Lords. Viscount Temple and Baron Stowe. Lord Temple.”

  “Congratulations, my lord. That is very good news indeed. And fitting, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Sir Antony opened one eye.

  “I don’t mind you saying it now, Semper. All it means is that you may address me as my lord in good conscience, which you have stubbornly done since we sailed up the Neva. No! Don’t tell me it was because the Russians believed an English baronet with a weakness for embroidered silks and gold braid must be a lord.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I was not about to say so,” Semper stated seriously. “I addressed you as my lord because their Highnesses Prince Mikhail and Princess Ekaterina insisted I do so; and so, I did.”

  Sir Antony’s shoulders lifted slightly in surprise. “They did?” He settled again, and closed his eyes on a sigh of resignation. “I miss their company…”

  Semper remained inert, waiting to see if his master intended to offer any further insights, but when Sir Antony’s arm dropped languidly over the side of the bathtub, he scurried away to put aside his master’s wig. He did so in haste, because a great deal of noise was coming from the other side of the closed double doors, and thus he forgot to draw the curtains about the bath.

  If he was not very much mistaken a fracas was taking place in the sitting room, and from the heated exchange the Russian servants were involved, and there was a female. Which would explain why the exchange was heated. The female was trespassing, and as the Russians knew females were not permitted in the North wing, they were doing their best to enforce an eviction. Semper prayed the female was not Lady St. John.

  The majordomo slipped into the sitting room from the dressing room with all the stealth of a snake slithering undetected through tall grass. But as his gaze was at a man’s eye-level, and not on the polished wooden floor, he did not see, and thus was unaware, of the four-legged intruder who, the minute the door opened, shot through the space into the dressing room as Semper slowly closed the door on his back.

  The four-legged intruder scampered across the spacious dressing room with all the confidence and boundless energy of extreme youth. Its little stubby legs scrabbled along the polished wooden floor and then the deep carpet to the fireplace where the hipbath remained full of soapy water. After an interested sniff and then lick of the splash on the floorboards, a snuffle at the pile of wet towels, it nosed and then tackled a pair of discarded silk breeches as if they were the enemy. With great effort, the four-legged intruder dragged the breeches a little way in front of the fireplace, then lost interest, finding an opponent more its size in a silk stocking. After shaking this article of leg wear to and fro to ensure it was well and truly dead, and with this spoil firmly clamped between its jaws, the four-legged intruder then trotted over to a decoratively painted niche with its two classical stools either side of an enormous bathtub. Here the stocking was dropped, as if presented, with much tail wagging, to the hand on the end of the human arm that hung inert over the side of the bathtub.

  When the hand made no effort to pat the four-legged intruder for its good behavior and bravery in dealing with such a terrible foe, there was only one way to get its attention, and this produced immediate results.

  Sir Antony was beginning to doze, stretched out in the hot water with its blanket of bubbles, and was well on the way to clearing his mind of his troubles—most particularly how he was to take his sister into custody with least fuss and a suitable explanation—when his hand was nudged by something wet and cold. When his fingers were licked and nibbled, he sat up, and so swiftly a great wave of water splashed the end of the bath near his toes and cascaded over the side, spilling to the floor.

  He had no idea what had assaulted his hand and did not like to hazard a guess, so he took a peek over the side of the tub, both arms now immersed in the warm fragrant water. But what he saw quieted his heart and lifted his mouth into a grin. He extended his arm over the rim of the bathtub once more and offered the back of his wet and dripping hand in greeting.

  “Well, my fine little fellow, where is your master?”

  The fine little fellow was a black and fawn pug, just a puppy in fact, from which large protruding brown eyes stared up adoringly from out of a black wrinkled face. The pug recognized in the soft deep timbre of Sir Antony’s voice, and in offering the back of his large hand to lick, a friend, and so stood on his sturdy little hind legs, front paws against the bathtub. The tightly curled tail went into a frenzy of wagging, and when Sir Antony scratched the puppy affectionately behind the ears, the pug gave his wrist a big lick of thanks.

  “Oh, and you’ve brought me a gift!” Sir Antony said to the pug, as one addressing a small child, and scooped up his discarded s
tocking. He chuckled when the pug’s tail wagged in response, but then made a sad face, saying on a sigh, “Thank you so very much, but unfortunately I do not have a chop bone to offer you in exchange for your efforts.”

  He scrunched the stocking into a ball and threw it in the direction of the fireplace where his discarded clothes were now strewn. It fell dismally short of its target. He had not meant it to be a game, but the pug had other ideas. It dashed after the stocking. Half way across the carpet the stocking lost its appeal and the pug returned to snuffling about the wet towels. Finally, it trotted back to the bathtub where it obediently sat and looked up at Sir Antony with the adoration only a dog can offer its human master.

  “You are a fine little fellow but I still do not possess a bone to give you. When Semper returns I shall have him send to the kitchen…”

  Sir Antony did not have the opportunity to finish his sentence, and the pug stopped listening the moment a female voice, adored by both man and beast, was heard over the ensuing din that accompanied her entrance into the dressing room. Man and beast reacted in completely opposite ways. The pug dashed towards her; Sir Antony took a deep breath and plunged under the water to hide his discomfiture beneath a blanket of bubbles.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘YOU MAY ASK IT OF ME, you impertinent oaf, but I won’t tell you my name! It is none of your concern! Now have this bearded brute put me to firm ground before I have him arrested for assault!”

  Semper was not only at a loss he was lost for words. Never in all his years as a gentleman’s gentleman had he ever had a female storm the male bastion of an unmarried gentleman’s apartments. The Princess had upon occasion trespassed into the inner sanctum, but always when his master was wearing some sort of raiment, and because she was a princess and Russian and thus viewed servants as one did any piece of furniture, it was somehow less disconcerting.

  This female, who had been discovered by one of the Russians prowling about Sir Antony’s rooms in a red hooded cloak over not much else, had, upon discovery, not shown one ounce of remorse for her trespass. Granted her cheeks had turned as apple red as her fur-lined cloak but when she was politely asked to state her name and her business, she had reacted with indignation and demanded to be taken to Sir Antony at once.

  Hearing her imperious tone, if not understanding her words, and because she tried to brush past the majordomo, the Russian footman scooped her up into his arms and held her fast. It was then that the hood of her cloak fell back, revealing her tumble of strawberry blonde hair, and the Russian had a stab of memory. He had seen her before, at the soirée, as a guest in resplendent silks. Her gloriously bright hair was not easily forgotten, nor the fact his master had gone down on bended knee before her. Without a word to Semper, the Russian strode through the apartment and into the dressing room to present this female to his master, the majordomo on his heels.

  No sooner was Lady Caroline’s threat voiced than the Russian set her down, bowed with great courteousness and left the room, deserting a speechless Semper. He had no idea what he should do in such a novel situation. Instinct told him to do as the Russian had done and leave immediately, but there was a small part of him that felt duty-bound to remain to provide assistance to Sir Antony if he lost consciousness; his master remained submerged under the bubbles of his bathwater.

  “There you are, you naughty boy!” Lady Caroline playfully scolded the pug. She scooped him up and gave him a nuzzle. “Some hero you are, leaving me to fend off the nasty men by myself!” She glared at Semper as she said this, adding with her gaze firmly fixed on the majordomo, “A bowl of fresh water and something to gnaw on would be greatly appreciated.”

  Semper hovered in an agony of indecision. A great whoosh and gasp for breath from the bathtub followed by the pug puppy’s yap of excitement decided him. For the first time in his employ as valet to Sir Antony, he ignored the discarded clothes and towels, leaving them where they had been dropped. He bowed to Lady Caroline, and without turning to see if Sir Antony was still breathing, left the room in search of a bowl of fresh water and something to gnaw on.

  Lady Caroline put the pug to the floor, and with one eye on the male attire strewn across the carpet, carefully stepped over a pair of silk breeches and a lone silk stocking, as she crossed to the fireplace. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a hipbath and a pile of wet towels, while to her right was an enormous bathtub, set into a niche painted with figures reminiscent of those in the Etruscan Saloon, and in that bathtub was the man she had come to spend the night with.

  At the fireplace she stripped off her red kid gloves, placing these on the mantel before spreading her hands to the warmth of the smoldering coals. She was wearing a wool cloak to be sure but not very much underneath, just white silk stockings and a thin linen nightgown, and that was because her decision to visit Sir Antony under cover of darkness had been an impromptu one. She had spent the day in an agony of anticipation as to his reaction when she confessed all to him, and later that night tossing and turning in her bed, unable to sleep because of his kiss. The sooner she confessed and they shared a bed, the sooner they could both move forward with their lives, and she would again be able to sleep peacefully.

  Mind made up, she executed her plan, despite her personal maid’s squeak of horror, at the late hour, her ladyship’s lack of acceptable raiment, and the fact she was visiting an unmarried gentleman’s abode, all under cover of darkness. It all added up to disaster in her book. Lady Caroline remarked she had not read that particular book, swore her maid to secrecy, and scrambled out of bed. She threw on her wool cloak and took the pug puppy along for the journey. Somehow having the newest member of her animal family for company made her more resolute to confession.

  The hour and the addition of the puppy certainly had the burly chairmen mentally scratching their wigs in puzzlement as the Earl’s sister climbed into the Salt Hendon sedan chair parked in the entrance foyer, her four-legged companion happily sitting on her lap. It was not their place to make comment. If his lordship’s sister wished to go visiting in the middle of the night, then so be it.

  Sedan door emblazoned with the Salt Hendon coat of arms closed, long poles threaded and secured either side of the chair, one chairman up front, the other in the rear, and both with the leather straps across their shoulders, the sedan chair was lifted up and went out into the night air. Her ladyship was taken the short distance across the deserted Grosvenor Square, along South Audley street and up the two shallow steps and into the spacious foyer of Sir Antony Templestowe’s townhouse, a junior footman providing light from a burning taper for the journey on such a moonless night.

  Now Caroline stood before the fire, staring into the flames, but very much focused on the fact that Antony was over her right shoulder in his bathtub. She couldn’t keep the grin off her face. The anxiety that had set her heart racing on the short journey in the sedan chair, when she had questioned her outrageous actions several times and had her long-suffering chairmen stop, change direction, stop, then take up the poles again and continue, had evaporated, but her heart still beat just as fast as ever. But it was not anxiousness that caused the thudding to reverberate in her ears. It was the wicked thrill of not only having made it all the way into Antony’s dressing room, but knowing that just feet away, he was naked in his tub.

  In all the years she had known him, she had not so much as seen him without his cravat, and certainly never in his shirtsleeves. He was always dressed immaculately, regardless if he was playing royal tennis or rusticating in the country. In the country, even her illustrious brother cultivated a beard. Not Antony, who maintained the same sartorial standards no matter the setting. She wondered if he wore his wig while in his bath, and it was such a silly thought that it gave her the courage to turn about and face him; that and the fact her four-legged companion gave the hem of her cloak a tug with his little teeth.

  She scooped up the puppy, again delaying the inevitable, but finally lifted her gaze to the bathtub. What she discovered made he
r blink, face devoid of her thoughts for enough seconds that the occupant of the bathtub wished he possessed gills so he could remain underwater indefinitely. Finally, when she hunched her shoulders and smiled, a fist to her mouth, as if to stop a fit of girlish giggles, owning gills was unimportant; drowning was the only option.

  Bravely, Sir Antony remained upright, elbows resting either side of the bathtub, bare wide chest, wider shoulders, face unshaven, and head without covering, all on display for Lady Caroline’s gleeful inspection. It was only when her gaze remained riveted to his head of thick, short-cropped auburn hair, did he feel the heat intensify to a prickly heat, not in his face but across his scalp. His head actually tingled, as if each individual hair glowed with embarrassment. And when she gingerly approached the bathtub, head cocked to one side in silent contemplation, eyes never leaving his scalp, he swallowed hard and said, after clearing his throat,

  “I hope you realize how damnably unfair this is, Caro! I wonder at your reaction, if the situation were reversed.”

  “Your hair is the same color as Merry’s,” she remarked with surprise, ignoring his remark and his discomfort. “It would probably be just as wavy, too, if you let it grow…”

  “Probably! Will you stop staring at my head as if it is malformed?!”

  She smiled at his awkwardness.

  “Silly. Of course I must stare at your head because I have never seen you—ever—without your wig.” She frowned. “Come to think on it, I have not seen any gentleman of my acquaintance who wears a wig without his wig—”

  “I should hope not!”

  “In any situation,” she added with a raise of her eyebrows, and when he looked away she knew he understood. She retreated to the stool at the end of the bathtub, the pug on her lap. “Not that there was ever a situation for Aldershot to remove his wig—”