Hiccupping, Agatha picked up her quill and grimaced. Look at her now, confined to a dark hovel, her niece all but lost, wanting to run back to the only people that had ever cared for her. Yes. Henry had cared for her, looked out for her. Even made the ultimate offer of marriage to help her. She hadn’t been as alone as she had thought.
No. She couldn’t go to him. The shame was still too great. She wouldn’t be able to strip the emotion from her words, the desperate need to wind time back. There had been too many times she had picked up the pen to write to Henry, to accept his offer to ask him to look after her, to take her away. Until it was too late, the succession of his mistresses a continued talking point in the village. It was just too late.
Gazing at the walls, Agatha inventoried their worldly possessions. Books, sewing basket and paintings. She had boxes for them all. The hunting knife would stay, it was not hers to take. It had been in the cottage when she had taken possession of it, pushed behind the grate in the hearth.
Shuffling her legs, her feet knocked against the jam jar which rolled away from her. Agatha stared at the floor where the cold glass rested on the stone flags. It had done its job admirably well, a stark symbol of everything she had lost through being headstrong. She had only needed to put her hand in her pocket for her small book each time a rainbow reflected through the glass, or steam condensed on a window, and in reflex her eyes would search out the jar on the mantelpiece. She would draw her hand out of her skirts again and turn to another mundane activity—washing the vicar’s smock perhaps, or darning his wife’s table cloths.
And yet still they had come undone. Where was Harriet? She should have come back by now. She’d heard them searching the beach, the shouts that no survivors had yet been found. It was so hard not being able to do anything.
Sniffing, Agatha looked down at the paper. The only thing she could do would be to prepare for the future should Harriet come back. Would Victoria want to see her? Her letters had always been so dark, the melancholy pouring through them in the firmly rounded handwriting. She’d tried so many times to write back, and yet every time she had failed there too. There was nothing that she could say that would make anything any better.
Agatha’s thumb tensed and the nib of the quill snapped. With a gasp of frustration, she stood and retrieved another.
Dear Victoria, she wrote. I am writing to you as my friend, my only friend…
CHAPTER 20
The summer storm that had arisen suddenly calmed as quickly as it had arrived. Henry leaned against the veranda of Berale House and looked out towards the calm sea. If he looked back into the house he would lose all perspective, the ghosts of his mother and father would overwhelm him. Gods, why had Agatha had to choose Brambridge of all places to hide? He had been forced to reopen the family home. Staying anywhere else in Devon would have caused gossip. The villagers still talked of the six months his mother had spent alone in the house with no one to visit her. Henry clenched at the balustrade with tight knuckles. His mother had refused to see anyone before her death.
“Report, Ames,” he said dully.
“The last source I found said that Lord Foxtone might have known something, but he’s dead now.”
“What a waste of time.” Every avenue he explored lead to a dead end. He was never going to find out what his father had been looking for when he died. Seven years he had been searching now, and the nearest he had got was killing his father’s murderer. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly. “Any news on Mister Herr?”
Ames was silent for a few seconds. “I know you are not going to want to hear this, but all evidence of his activities died a few years ago.”
Pushing his hand into his coat, Henry gripped his pocket watch. “You don’t need to dance around the bush, Ames. At the time when Agatha left London, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Renard says that Stanton still hasn’t found out what is going on here.”
Blinking, Henry switched gears as Ames continued with his report. “Bloody hell. Brambridge is becoming untenable. If the most formidable scout in the British army can’t work out what the hell is going on, then I’m going to need to move ports.”
“You might need to do that more quickly, sir. The Rocket nearly foundered last night with its… ahem… cargo. Stanton was knocked overboard.”
“Bloody hell.” Henry wiped a tired hand across his face.
“Er, on that subject, sir…”
“Yes?”
“Miss Aggie was seen visiting the post office this morning. She sent a letter to your sister.”
“Good god. Finally.”
Ames nodded. “There’s more. She’s packing, sir. All of those paintings you like are going into boxes.”
“Where’s Harriet?”
Ames kicked at a veranda post. “Missing.”
Henry stared at his valet. “Missing? Missing? Send Bill in. Now!”
Ames disappeared into the house. Henry stared down the pristine lawns to where the weathervane on his stables turned idly in the slight breeze.
“My lord?”
Henry turned. “William Standish,” he said slowly. “Where in the hell is Harriet Beauregard?”
Bill leaned his large form against the veranda post that Ames had kicked so violently only moments before. “We’re searching the beach. Ned’s covering the cliffs. We’ve got to do it quiet like. Some people would like nothing more than to see James hang.”
Henry nodded. Didn’t he just know it.
“Of course first in line would be Miss Aggie.” Bill smirked and then smoothed the smile off is face as Henry glared at him. “She’s a very proper woman of course. Proper boring.”
“She didn’t used to be,” Henry muttered. He folded his arms. “Did you know she can throw knives?”
“Agatha Beauregard?” Bill frowned. “And I thought Harriet was the dramatic one.”
“You don’t know the half of it."
“Sir!” Ames pushed his head through Henry’s study doors onto the veranda. “Jaquard says that Harriet has appeared at Miss Aggie’s. In his words, Jaquard said, ‘Miss Aggie looks fit to boil.’”
“Good grief.”
“What does that mean?” Bill stepped away from the veranda post.
“It means something extraordinary is about to happen.”
Ames popped his head back through the study doors. “The baggage has sent a note, Sir.”
Bill frowned. “Baggage?”
Henry sighed. “Ames’ code word for Miss Agatha. What does it say?”
“Er. Dear Lord Anglethorpe. You might wish to know that Lord Stanton is lying on the beach in a bad way. You may wish to tell your associates. Yours, Miss A. Beauregard.”
“Good God,” Bill breathed.
“It certainly is a relief he’s alive. Your head would have been on the block if he had died.” Henry jerked his head at Ames, who retired back inside.
“No, I didn’t mean that. The letter. It’s icy cold, emotionless. It’s almost as if she hates you.”
Leaning back over the railings and watching the intricately wrought weathervane on the stable block swing in the wind, Henry sighed. “Much more than that, Bill. She detests me.”
CHAPTER 21
Mayfair
“So it was err, Harriet that made you come back?” Lady Victoria Colchester patted her hair. She perched primly on the corner of Agatha’s bed, gazing out of the window at the mansions that lined the opposite side of Upper Brook Street.
Agatha sat down at the small vanity table and pulled open one of the drawers. “I felt she could benefit from some ton company, and perhaps even a season.” Ha. And how was she going to pay for that?
“I am glad she did, otherwise I would never have managed to persuade you to stay here at Colchester Mansions with me.”
Agatha smiled. Harriet had unexpectedly caught the ton’s attention. Sponsored by Victoria, Harriet was already being invited to musicales and low key soirees. Cha
ntelle, Victoria’s lady’s maid, had obligingly remade some of Victoria’s dresses for Harriet. Agatha was not sure what she was going to do if Harriet was invited to some of the more haut ton balls.
“No. You know that you will always have a place to stay with me, Aggie, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You could have both come and stayed with me before, but unfortunately Lord Colchester was difficult.”
“I know.”
Victoria’s hands stopped patting her hair. She turned to face Agatha. “Pardon?”
“I read every one of your letters. I kept them all.” Agatha withdrew her hand from the desk drawer. The letters filled her palm, full of Victoria’s distinctive flowing hand writing.
Victoria clapped a hand to her mouth. “Why didn’t you write back?”
“I did, once. Just before we arrived in London here at Upper Brook Street. I was getting desperate. Harriet has grown up so fast… and then there was a man… I could see it all ending in disaster like it did for myself.”
“Why didn’t I receive the letter?”
Agatha hung her head. “Events overtook us. We left for London more quickly than I thought. The letter arrived splashed with mud on the third day after we arrived to stay with you. I saw Carruthers with it in the hall and took it from him. I didn’t want you to read the letter—it was so self-pitying.”
Victoria stood and grasped Agatha’s shoulder. She looked at the bundle of letters. “I wouldn’t have minded. Some of my letters are also full of self-pity,” she said quietly.
“Well now you are a widow, and you can do what you want.”
“Hmm, a merry widow. At least you are back being invited to balls.” Victoria gasped. “We had better go, otherwise we will be late to Lady Guthrie’s. It’s promised to be the ball of the season.”
“Is he coming with us?”
“Of course. Agatha, he’s my brother. He’s waiting in the carriage outside.”
Agatha drew in a breath. It was too soon, she wasn’t ready to see him. Pushing her chair back across the carpeted floor, she took a long last look in the small vanity mirror. What exactly wasn’t she ready for?
A light knock sounded on the door. The incomer didn’t wait for a come-in, pushing open the door with a crash.
“Aggie, Aunt Aggie, the coach has been waiting for thirty minutes and Carruthers says that Lord Anglethorpe is going to blow his lid if we don’t… oh. Hello, Lady Colchester.” The petite figure shook her bright red ringlets. “Um.”
Victoria laughed. “You know you should call me Victoria, Harriet.” She swept towards the door and laid a hand on Harriet’s arm. “Let’s wait in the hall whilst Agatha collects herself. And you can tell me about your latest theatre outing.”
Harriet nodded. “I was rather taken by the lead actor, he wasn’t Kean of course, although I haven’t seen Kean perform yet, however…”
Their voices faded away as the door shut behind them.
Agatha rubbed at her face, smoothing at the lines at the corner of her eyes as a dull weight settled in her stomach. Sun lines, worry lines, she had them both. Lifting her chin she nodded at her reflection in the mirror and inclined her head. “Pleased to see you,” she mouthed. Not good enough. Putting a hand against her bodice, she grimly pushed up the edges of her lips. “How delightful to renew our acquaintance.” Her reflection stared back at her, lines deep in its forehead as it frowned. Oh dear. Sweeping her brushes off the vanity table, Agatha pushed herself to her feet and pulled her pelisse from the back of the chair.
Victoria took her arm in the hall as Smythe opened the front door. Agatha gasped as Henry stepped back from the other side of the door, his hand on the knocker.
“I… I was coming to get you… all.” His hand fell back to his side.
Agatha straightened her mouth. “Pleased to delightful our acquaintance,” she said. She froze as Henry frowned at her.
Victoria jerked at her arm as Harriet smothered a giggle behind them.
Agatha took a deep breath. “Lord Anglethorpe, how delightful to see you again.” She tensed as Henry’s face cleared. She stared over his shoulder. “Lah, what a lovely carriage. Is it not time that we should go?” She could still hear Harriet’s skirts rustling behind her as she smothered silent laughter. “Harriet, shall we?”
“Err… yes.” Harriet’s curls bounced lightly on her shoulders as she hurried down the steps to the carriage, and waited for the footman to hand her in.
Agatha cocked her head on one side and pushed the smile she had practiced onto her face.
Henry bent forward. “Miss Beauregard. I must ask, are you quite alright?”
She dropped the smile. “Yes, perfectly, why?”
“You seem to be in some pain.”
Agatha tensed, clutching at Victoria’s arm. She should have asked Harriet for some acting lessons.
Victoria gave her a sideways look and then glanced back at Henry. “I think you will find, dear brother, that you are standing in our way.”
“Oh. Yes.” Henry drew back as Victoria towed Agatha down the steps and into the carriage.
Victoria was right about the crowd. A long line of carriages waited outside the door of the Mayfair mansion in Dering Street. Lady Guthrie, the host, would be pleased with her success. It took half an hour for their carriage to reach the front door of the large house. Agatha arranged her skirts firmly across her knees and looked away from the tempting pavement upon which it would only have taken five minutes to walk to the house.
Victoria rustled gently next to her as she leaned slightly against the side of the carriage. She had been lucky; Victoria had kept all of Agatha’s dresses from five years before. The years of hard work in Brambridge had kept Agatha’s figure the same, although she filled out the dresses more tightly in some places than others. She swallowed and flicked a quick glance at Henry, who sat motionless on the other side of the carriage. His blond hair was as bright as ever, but cut shorter, accenting his pointed patrician nose. He caught her gaze, his blue eyes deepened to a turquoise green. Agatha looked away.
As they drew up to the steps to the house, Henry got out first, his boots clattering against the fine steps of Victoria’s carriage. Silently he put out a hand. Agatha lifted her chin, déjà vu striking her. Grasping lightly at her skirts, she lifted them so that just the toes of her slippers were revealed, no more. Bending, she edged out of the carriage and, staring straight ahead, she grasped Henry’s hand.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said in a medium pitched voice.
Henry whipped his head round and stared at her in obvious incredulity, his eyebrows fast disappearing into his hairline.
“What about me?” Victoria called as Henry let go of Agatha’s hand.
“Oh. Err. I…”
“I need some bloody help, Henry.”
Agatha blinked and, holding her breath, watched Henry out of the corner of her eye. Would he blame her for Victoria’s language?
“Victoria!”
“Oh pshaw. I can do what I want. No point in being a widow if you can’t.”
“I don’t care about that. I wanted to point out that not drawing attention to yourself normally allows you to do everything that you want and more.”
Agatha glanced fully at Henry in surprise and whipped her head away again. He was staring at her intently, a serious line to his brow, as if his words had been for her and her alone. Her face burned as he continued to stare at her before turning away back to the carriage.
“Hmm.” Victoria looked thoughtful as Henry handed her to the pavement and then Harriet.
“Ladies?” Henry held out his arms.
Victoria shook her head. “No, take Agatha. I think I’ll go ahead with Harriet. I can see some friends of mine already in the receiving line.”
Harriet looked back as Victoria drew her away and batted her eyelashes for an instant. Agatha glared at her and took Henry’s arm.
“What, no protest?”
“Pro—” Henry�
�s face tilted slightly away from her, a lock of blond hair falling over his eyes. She sighed. “There doesn’t seem to be any point.”
The candles set up the steps flared as a small breeze ruffled her flimsy wrap. A rainbow danced briefly across the steps as the light refracted through a window.
“I wonder how it does that.” Henry gazed at the dancing light.
The changing speed of light through a lens split the light into different wavelengths. Agatha shuffled her feet slightly. “Goodness, isn’t it beautiful. I’m sure a learned thinker could tell us.” Had she overdone the insipidity in her voice? Five years of trying and she still hadn’t mastered just the right tone.
Henry frowned. “Agatha.”
“Shall we join the queue?” Agatha stepped forward in the direction of the line of guests that snaked up the steps. Hesitantly, Henry followed as she pulled him gently by the sleeve.
“Miss Beauregard,” Henry tried again. “Do you not have anything to say?”
“On what, pray, Lord Anglethorpe?” Agatha took a few steps forward into the hall as the queue moved.
“The rainbow. I’m sure you know what causes it.”
“Oh goodness, no.”
Henry frowned. “I do want to know, Agatha.”
Agatha choked and glared at him. “Rainbows be damned, I wasn’t talking about that.”
“At last,” Henry muttered.
Agatha didn’t care. She could see who was doing the receiving at the entrance to the ballroom, a beautiful woman in a midnight blue dress. It was Lady Foxtone. Why was she there? She twisted round and hunted for escape through the crowds, but Henry gripped her arm tightly. The way behind them became blocked by newer ball goers.
“Lord Anglethorpe, please.”
He grinned at her. “Come on, Miss Beauregard, you won’t gain anything by dallying.”
“You don’t understand, she hates me!”
Henry turned to look at her, but it was too late. They were already up to the receiving party.
“Miss Beauregard,” Lady Foxtone murmured, straightening up. In a louder voice, she then said, “I thought I told you never to come to a gathering of mine ever again?”
Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) Page 13