Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1)

by Pearl Darling

  The man was not from London. Agatha frowned. He was from Devon, Ottery St Mary even, near where Peter, her brother was living.

  She waited, but still he said nothing but stared into his coffee cup.

  “Sir, are you alright?”

  The man started and looked at her hard. Then his face softened. He pushed aside the coffee cup and turned to face her. “Miss Beauregard. I am sorry to come to you in this state. My name is Thomas Patrick.”

  His name did not ring any bells in her memory.

  “I have ridden day and night to get here, changing horses wherever I could. I’m afraid you must come with me.”

  Agatha’s spine ran cold. “What’s happened?” she asked slowly.

  “There’s been a dreadful accident. Your brother and his wife have been killed. Their daughter lives still but is in shock. When I left she had said nothing for eight hours. You are her only relative I know of.”

  “Killed.” Agatha fell back in her chair. “I am her only relative,” she said in a small voice.

  She could not quite take it in. Only two days ago she had been cursing her brother for leaving her in London. And now he was dead and his wife too. She put her hands flat on the table. “How—” She stopped and drew her hands into a fist. “How did it happen?”

  “The carriage that they were in overturned. I’ve never seen it happen before myself. If I did not know any better I would have assumed foul play, but there wasn’t anything to suggest that was the case. Your brother had only moved to Ottery St Mary recently.”

  Foul play? Blinking, Agatha pressed at her chest; she couldn’t breathe. Her brother was dead. Gone.

  The note.

  What if they hadn’t waited for her? What if they had gone ahead and harmed her family anyway? Suddenly Agatha’s heart beat faster and her chest felt tight. Her niece was by herself in the depths of Devon being looked after by somebody that she did not know. She was alone. Even more alone than Agatha had ever been.

  Agatha took a deep breath and pushed back all thoughts of the fact that her brother was dead. That her sister-in-law was dead. That she no longer had any family apart from her niece.

  “Where is she?” she asked in a dead voice.

  “In the orphanage at Honiton.” The magistrate picked up the coffee cup and gulped at it again like a drowning man. “There was no one else to take her in. I would have done, but to have a young girl in your household… no one else would take her in…” he repeated.

  Agatha clasped a hand to her face as her rib cage tightened. Her niece was stuck in an orphanage and someone had killed her brother and sister-in-law. It was all her fault. Leaning over the table, she bit back a sob and rang for the butler.

  “What time does the post coach go to Honiton?” Her voice emerged from her throat shrill and shaking. She could not take Henry’s coach all that way. It would cost too much money to stay in the inns overnight and be too slow as she would need to change horses en route.

  The butler shook his head. “I will have to check, m’lady…”

  “Do it, Smythe.” Her voice was even louder this time.

  Agatha grabbed the magistrate by the arm. Her hand came away covered in filth. She had been going to tell the man to come with her, but judging by the state he was in, it wouldn’t have been fair.

  Smythe returned, gasping. “Post coach to Honiton leaves in fifty minutes, miss.”

  It was much less time than she had thought. It would take her twenty minutes to get to where the coach left from, and then she would still need to buy a ticket.

  She stood, and rubbed a hand across her face. “Smythe, get the coach ready to go to the Five Horse Inn for the post coach. I must leave for Devon, immediately.”

  “What about your maid, miss?”

  “I won’t need her where I’m going.”

  “And… Lord Anglethorpe, Miss Aggie… What about him?” The fear in Smythe’s voice was palpable.

  A cold shiver worked its way down Agatha’s spine. “I’m… not sure,” she said, uncertainly.

  As she turned, the magistrate moved from his frozen position. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a scrap of brightly covered fabric.

  “Here, you need this,” he said softly.

  Agatha gazed at it in incomprehension. What had that to do with Henry?

  “If you are ever to reclaim a child from this orphanage, you need to have this scrap of cloth. It is a piece of her dress. The orphanage has kept the other part. I…” The man faltered. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to find you.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Henry slept late and woke from a deep sleep. He had tossed and turned before he had fallen into a slumber. Something niggled at him, and he still didn’t know what it was. His valet entered the room silently with a steaming pitcher of water in one hand and a towel over the other. It was the snick of the door latch that had woken him.

  After laying the towel on the washstand and placing the steaming jug carefully beside the large porcelain washbowl, Ames carefully opened the door to the hall, glanced left and right then stepped out quickly and re-entered bearing a tray of hot chocolate and pastries.

  Henry plucked a pastry from the tray and took a bite, cream and sugar clouding the air. It was delicious. Before he knew it, he had finished the entire tray. With extra energy, he jumped lithely from the bed and washed quickly in the rapidly cooling water. He dressed himself quickly, ruefully patting his stomach where the extra pastries seemed to have made the already snug breeches an even tighter fit.

  Looking in the full-length mirror, Henry examined himself. He hadn’t forgotten his resolution of the night before. He was going to ask Agatha to marry him.

  Checking to make sure that his valet hadn’t reappeared silently as was his wont, he crossed to a portrait of a pack of hunting dogs that hung on the paneled wall to the side of his bed. With ease, he swung the heavy picture to the floor and slid back the panel that lay behind. Pulling back his cuffs, he reached in and drew out a dainty black jewelry box in chinoiserie style decorated with birds and lilies. It seemed as if a gust of perfume had flown with it as he took a deep breath and opened the box. Inside lay an assortment of his mother’s rings, family heirlooms and other fancies his father had bought her when they were both alive.

  He paused before pulling out the delicate top layer of felt. At the bottom lay a heavy gold ring in which was set a large diamond, the Anglethorpe wedding ring. He considered it for a short while and then set it aside. Instead he selected the other ring that lay next to it, a rose gold delicate affair with three sapphire stones inlaid on its rim. He could not remember when it had come into his mother’s possession, but it was the only ring apart from the Anglethorpe wedding ring that the doctor had removed from his mother’s hand after she had died.

  Slowly withdrawing the intricate ring, he closed and returned the box to the hidden panel. Straining with his arms, he heaved the painting back into position. After a cursory examination, he pushed the ring into the breast pocket of his undercoat and, leaving his bedroom behind, descended the stairs to the great hall. Even though he was resolute in what he was about to do, it still seemed as if the stairs descended miles and miles—

  Halfway down the steps he paused. Miles Trebin. That’s what Betsy had called Charles Fashington the night before. And there had been a Miles in Vauxhall Gardens, discussing a young girl who counted her steps as she danced and how he was going to find someone to get rid of her permanently—

  Hell, he had to find Agatha and quickly. What if he had been wrong about Charles? Taking the steps two at a time, he strode into the drawing room. Henry did not see the man properly until he was fully into the room, but the smell of dirt, horses and sweat was overpowering.

  Smythe appeared behind him.

  “Lord Anglethorpe, Sir. I… ahhh.”

  Henry took out a handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. “Get on with it, Smythe.”

  “Ah…”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  �
�Magistrate, your lordship!” the butler gabbled. “He asked for Miss Beauregard. I don’t know what he said, but Miss Beauregard asked for the times of the next post coach to Honiton.”

  “What?” Henry swung round to face the butler.

  The butler quivered. “Yes, your lordship. She left two hours ago!”

  Henry dropped his handkerchief to the floor. She’d done it again. His eyes turned towards to the magistrate, who was beginning to dribble on the tablecloth. Ignoring the smell, he strode into the room and shook the man by the shoulder.

  “Wake up man!”

  The man gargled in response and turned his face away.

  “Get me some cold water, Smythe.”

  “At once, sir!” The butler hurried from the room and returned shortly, staggering under a large jug of cold water.

  Grabbing the sides of the jug with his hands, Henry tipped the contents over the magistrate’s head.

  “Umphaagggh!” yelled the man as his shocked waking was interrupted by water pouring down his throat and down the back of his neck. He continued to yell further, as it ran down his back and into his breeches. Electrified, he jumped to his feet, hitting his stomach on the table, and subsided back onto his chair again. With a dazed look, he turned to the two men staring at him.

  Henry dropped the tureen to the table with a clang. “State your business, sir, and tell me what you have done to my… my… Miss Beauregard!”

  The man continued to gape like a stunned fish. Henry growled in dissatisfaction.

  “Smythe, take him away. Get him washed up, give him food and new clothes then bring him back to me in my study in quarter of an hour.”

  The butler led the rather broken man away. Henry marched to the hall and swept up his handkerchief. Should he go straight after Agatha? Or should he find out why she had left? Even if he went straight after her, he wouldn’t catch her, as the post coach had the fastest teams of horses and drove day and night. He could not be guaranteed that he could get fresh horses at every inn that he had to stop at. And she had a two hour head start on him.

  He took in the morning room; at least she had had time for breakfast, but what was she going to do for money?

  He pounded up the stairs and, without knocking, strode into his sister’s room. “Agatha has gone to Devon. Do you know why? Where would she get the money?”

  Victoria arched an eyebrow at him. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Good god Victoria, answer the bloody question. Yes, of course I’ve had breakfast.”

  “No. Agatha can’t be gone. She would have said goodbye if she had.”

  “She bloody well has! Smythe waved her off two hours ago.”

  Victoria frowned and stood. “I’m sure she must have a good reason for it,” she said slowly. “She has her own money. She said she kept it for emergencies, for if she ever needed to escape.”

  “Escape!”

  “Yes, don’t repeat me, brother. Escape.”

  “But she doesn’t need to escape!”

  Victoria raised an eyebrow and coughed.

  Henry slammed his hand against the door jamb. Had Agatha suspected that he wanted to ask her to marry him? Was she running away from it? Hell and damnation. The kiss… what had she thought of that? “I was going to make everything right.”

  The whiteness of Victoria’s knuckles showed visibly as she grasped her pomade bottle. “Surely she left a note?”

  “No, only an incomprehensible man who came up from Devon to see her.”

  “Why aren’t you asking him, then? I’m sure that had something to do with it. Isn’t her brother in Devon?” Hands shaking, Victoria dabbed pomade at her face, spreading the white powder into her hair.

  Henry hadn’t considered that last one. Peter was in Devon with his family. But why hadn’t he come up instead of the magistrate? Suddenly he felt a shiver of cold.

  Shutting Victoria’s door with a bang, he retook the stairs to his study, immediately feeling more controlled in its calm confines. It was just how he liked it, dark green with a heavy wooden desk and book cases. Rattling the drawers to his desk, he found an old tin of fudge. Levering up the lid, he looked inside with disbelief. The tin was empty.

  Smythe knocked and opened the door slowly. “The magistrate, sir, he says his name is Thomas Patrick.”

  “Send him in.” Henry slammed the lid on the tin and threw it back in the desk drawer.

  Patrick entered the room gingerly. The butler pushed him towards the chair that sat on the opposite side of the desk. Bowing his head, Smythe closed the door to the study.

  Henry sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The magistrate leaned forward.

  “Thank you for the clean towels and clothes m’ lord. I’m a magistrate, the name’s Thomas Patrick. I came with news for Miss Beauregard.”

  Henry nodded. This much he knew already anyway.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it… her brother and sister-in-law have been killed.”

  His friend, Peter, dead? Hand shaking, he felt for the desk drawer again and looked inside. The empty tin of fudge rattled in the drawer as he slammed the drawer closed with lifeless fingers. Someone was lying. Things like that did not happen in Devon. He hadn’t seen Peter for a while, and he hadn’t been answering his letters about Agatha, but still… “How did it happen?”

  “Carriage overturned, my lord. I suspect foul play but can’t be sure.”

  Henry cleared his throat and stared at the empty top of his desk. No wonder why Agatha had gone in a hurry, but why go at all? Why not wait so that they could all travel down in comfort, and she could have their support?

  Patrick spoke again. “There’s a daughter. She’s still alive, in an orphanage.”

  Of course there was, she must have been all of twelve or thirteen years old. Peter’s infrequent letters were full of her doings. Agatha spoke of being an aunt occasionally, but he had paid no notice.

  “Orphanage?” he roared.

  Patrick cowered in his chair. “I thought it best… there was no one else, I mean no one else came forward to claim her or take her in.”

  Henry stood and banged his desk. “Smythe! Smythe!” The butler stepped into the room immediately. “Take this man away and find out where Agatha’s niece is. Ready the coach and men. We leave for Devon immediately.”

  “What about lunch, my lord?”

  “Never mind lunch!”

  Striding into the hall, Henry pulled open the under-stairs cupboard. On his hands and knees, he pulled up the mops and buckets and pails. But he couldn’t find it, no glass jar of moldy jam could be seen.

  She really wasn’t coming back.

  As Smythe hauled the unfortunate magistrate past the under-stairs cupboard, Henry bowed his head and patted the breast pocket of his coat. Slowly, he traced his finger around the delicate gold band. Leaving it in his pocket, he grabbed his coat from a waiting footman. Thank god he was already wearing breeches. The journey to Honiton was a long one.

  CHAPTER 17

  The post coach was full of passengers. Being last to buy a ticket, Agatha found herself wedged into the corner of the coach. She sat next to a large woman who began to chatter the moment the horses moved.

  Agatha did not feel like talking. She wanted to sob for her brother and his wife. Despite their differences, they had been family. She rebuffed the round lady’s advances and hung grimly onto the window as the coach rattled at high speed along the west road out of London. The lady sat back with a huff and spoke to the other passengers, who were more receptive. She spitefully dug her elbow into Agatha’s side, making the small space that she was wedged into even more crammed, but soon gave up in surprise as her elbow clashed against the jar of jam Agatha had pushed under her coat. Mrs. B. had not mentioned jam and mold in her conversations with Caroline and Emily in Conversations on Science. She had wanted to write to the author, Jane Marcet, to consider covering it in her next volume; after all, Mrs. B. was forever prattling about covering highly interesting topics in th
eir next conversations, and yet those conversations did not materialize in the book.

  Against all odds, Agatha fell asleep, cradling her last memories of the house in Mount Street to her. She awoke as they passed through Newbury. Night had drawn in, and the coach was halting at an inn for dinner.

  “Ten minutes stop,” shouted the coach driver. “Anyone not back on the coach will be left behind.”

  As Agatha fell from the coach, she looked immediately for the privies. An outhouse at the back of the inn provided some room and overflowing chamber pots. She sighed, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  As she returned to the coach, she became aware that she hadn’t thought to pack anything to eat. Young boys hawked trays of pies in the courtyard of the inn where the carriage stood. As her stomach rumbled, Agatha realized that she did not have any money readily available to buy one of the delicious smelling pies, as it was all tied up against her bodice. She dithered for a minute, wondering whether to go back to the privy and take out a coin. Her grief made her actions fuddled and slow.

  “One minute warning!”

  She scrambled back on the coach. She had been hungry before, and she had eaten a large breakfast. She would hold out till the next stop. She would.

  It took a day and a half to reach Honiton. The large lady left early the next day. No one took her place. With relief, Agatha was able to stretch out. She managed to extract some money at the next stop the coach made. The boy selling food at this inn looked at her suspiciously as she handed over the golden coin. He did not ask too many questions. However, Agatha noticed that she did not get as much back in change as she should have done. As she fumbled with the coins, she nearly cried. She had so little and now she and her niece, oh god, her niece, had even less.

  As the coach arrived in Honiton, Agatha looked out wearily at the picturesque little town. It was crowded with lace shops and overflowing with market day visitors from the surrounding villages. After leaving the coach and asking directions, she arrived stumbling at the orphanage on the edge of the town.

  Apprehensively, Agatha looked for a bell to ring at the front door. Seeing none, she banged her fist against its peeling wooden panels. The door opened a crack; a large, broad figure stood immobile behind it. When the figure did not move, she pushed on the door herself, pressing it open with her bag.