Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  She entered Araminta’s bedchamber the following day before Hollins had quite finished arranging her new mistress’s curls.

  ‘Good morning, Araminta. Stand up and let me see how you look.’

  Araminta rose. Still clutching the silver-backed hairbrush, the maid retreated into the corner by the clothespress, hoping no criticism of her efforts with a reluctant mistress would descend upon her head.

  Wilhelmina subjected her charge’s appearance to a more critical appraisal than usual. ‘Turn around, let me see how you look from behind.’

  In the centre of the room, Araminta gritted her teeth and rotated. The silk primroses embroidered on the cream muslin gown gleamed in the mid-morning sun. Gold satin ribbons pleated around the high waist and floating from it shimmered into two long trails.

  ‘Very fine. I must say you look very fine. Now, put on your spencer and bonnet and we will leave.’

  Hollins darted forward, flung the brush on the bed and pulled the pale green spencer out of the press. A rough fingernail caught in the soft wool of the collar. She swallowed. Easing the jacket up Araminta’s arms, she checked it for damage as discretely as she could. Her sigh of relief stirred the wisps of titan curls at the nape of her new mistress’s neck. She tucked them back into place before slipping the deep cream bonnet over them. The bunches of silk primroses that fastened the ties to either side trembled.

  Araminta looped the ribbons into a bow at the side of her cheek. ‘There. Is that good enough?’

  Wilhelmina waited two breaths before an infrequent smile crept onto her thin face. ‘You will do very well.’ She pointed at the tall mahogany-framed looking glass. ‘See for yourself.’

  Araminta examined her reflection. The image she saw was all any proud Mama could desire. The pale flowers and matching ribbons suited her colouring perfectly. So did the gown. Loath as she was to admit it, Wilhelmina and Miss Martlesham had been correct. She now looked . . . how should she describe it? Ethereal? No. Charming. That was it. She looked quite charming.

  ‘That will do.’ Wilhelmina Orksville deplored vanity in all forms, including intellectual. ‘Come along. I know it is still before noon but we will venture out for an early drive. The Miss Berrys are leaving Town today and I know they will want to take one last excursion along the Row.’

  Feeling unusually well-disposed towards her companion, Araminta followed her downstairs and out to the barouche.

  It took very little time to reach the Row and even less for the loitering Lord Frederick to spot them. He had been on the point of leaving, disappointed that there had been no sign of the white stallion with its rider. The glimpse of the shiny new barouche quickened his pulse. Determined his approach would appear pure chance, he turned his horse to trot several lengths back along the track. His heart dropped to his boots. The Berry sisters were coming towards him in their ancient carriage. He hesitated. Two seconds’ thought had him realising this was a benefit in disguise. The Miss Berrys might possibly know the dragon who always appeared with the girl. He continued to the carriage and doffed his hat.

  ‘Good morning Miss Berry. Miss Agnes.’

  ‘Why, Lord Fredrick,’ Miss Berry said. ‘A second chance meeting in as many days. We are most fortunate. Driver . . .’ She raised her voice slightly. ‘Stop, if you please.’

  The driver eagerly pulled his mare to a halt. The more the delays to chat, the greater the number of coins he might surreptitiously tip into his pocket from the young man.

  Frederick drew upon deep experience garnered during several seasons of social conversation. ‘Her Grace was most delighted to hear I had encountered you.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. I hope perhaps we may soon see her at a salon. Our next one, perhaps.’ Miss Berry amused herself watching the shifting expressions crossing his face.

  There was more to Lord Frederick than many allowed. ‘I fear Mama is much engage for the next two weeks, ma’am, but I will pass your kindness on to her.’

  Behind him, the crunch of wheels on gravel and tan grew louder. Frederick’s spine tensed.

  ‘Oh, Mary, look,’ Miss Agnes announced. ‘It’s Wilhelmina.’ She fluttered her fingers in direction of the approaching barouche.

  Frederick offered a silent prayed to every deity, Christian and Pagan, that he could remember.

  The Neave’s barouche drew to a halt on the opposite side of the Berrys’ carriage.

  ‘My dears,’ Wilhelmina said. ‘How fortunate. I made sure you were already gone home.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mary answered. ‘We do occasionally prolong a visit from the depths of the country.’

  Agnes regarded Araminta. The impish lady was very aware of Frederick’s frozen posture. ‘I think we have not had the pleasure of the young lady’s acquaintance.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Wilhelmina replied. ‘She is only lately returned from India with her Papa.’ She smiled warmly upon them both. ‘Let me present Miss Araminta Neave to you. Araminta, this is Miss Berry and Miss Agnes Berry.’ She allowed her gaze to fall upon Frederick. ‘And this is Lord Frederick Danver, is it not? He is a neighbour of ours I believe.’

  Frederick bowed, barely able to keep an expression of delight from his face. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I am.’ He inclined his head to Wilhelmina. ‘Thanks to that happy coincidence, I have had opportunity to admire Miss Neave’s mount from afar.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Wilhelmina directed her attention back to the sisters. The three launched into reminiscences of mutual friends.

  Frederick possessed himself in patience for as long as he could. Finally he could bear the older ladies’ chatter no longer. He walked his horse around the two carriages and drew to a halt beside Araminta.

  ‘Miss Neave, ma’am, permit me to say how much I admire your grey. In fact I tried to buy him myself but your Papa outbid me.’

  Araminta was more than delighted to talk to someone her own age after days with only her father and Miss Orksville for company. And about her beloved horse. Her face flooded with pleasure on both counts. ‘He’s marvellous, isn’t he? Pegasus I mean, not Papa.’ She frowned. ‘Not that Papa isn’t marvellous too but –’

  Lord Frederick threw back his head and laughed. It was a pleasant sound, one which Wilhelmina Orksville heard with satisfaction. She forbore to turn round to see what had occasioned it but kept her attention on the Berrys.

  ‘I think he must be, ma’am, to have purchased Pegasus. And what an excellent name for him. Did your Papa have the breeding line for him, might I ask?’

  Araminta shook her head. The primroses on her bonnet trembled as did the titan curls on her forehead. ‘Not as far as I know, sir. My lord, I mean.’

  A wave of a strong hand dismissed the social nicety. ‘I wonder ma’am, if you would permit me to approach your father about him. I –’

  Araminta broke in. ‘Oh, I am sorry but no. I could never agree to part with him. He is so special.’

  ‘I beg pardon, ma’am. I did not mean to ask to purchase him – I could never part with him either, were he mine. No, I meant . . .’ His voice trailed away as his mother’s censure came back to him. ‘I mean . . .’ He stopped.

  ‘What, sir – my lord? Please speak plainly.’

  Gripping his reins, Frederick launch into speech. ‘I have a mare, ma’am. I bought her from the Prince himself when he closed his stud. She is the most beautiful creature, thoroughbred of course, and . . . well . . .’

  Araminta favoured him with a beaming smile. ‘I understand perfectly. Any foal of Pegasus would be a prize indeed.’

  Wilhelmina Orksville’s interest peaked. She had been lending half an ear to the pair’s conversation but the topic now obliged her to interrupt. She drew breath.

  ‘Please call upon Papa,’ Araminta said before Wilhelmina could speak. ‘I will tell him of your interest. I am sure he will be pleased to arrange the matter.’

  Fr
ederick grinned down into her upturned face. ‘Allow me to thank you most heartily, ma’am. It would be the most wondrous thing.’

  ‘Araminta,’ Wilhelmina announced. ‘We must move on. Make your adieus to Miss Berry and Miss Agnes.’

  Lord Frederick gave himself to furious thought while nods and smiles were exchanged and an invitation to the Miss Berrys’ next salon issued and accepted. The prospect of continuing the discussion about his mare and Pegasus was too attractive to lose. Before the barouche could move off he bowed in Wilhelmina’s direction. ‘May I beg to accompany you, ma’am. I, um, I am concerned for Miss Neave’s safety.’ A sudden flush of colour washed up his face. ‘And yours too, of course, ma’am.’

  Wilhelmina was well aware that as it was broad daylight there was no danger to either of them, especially with Pilton on the box and a footman on the rear step. Night-time was a different matter. Then of course a lady would never venture out without a male escort.

  Knowing of his family connections, not least of his elder brother, she smiled graciously. ‘Of course, Lord Frederick. It is most kind of you to offer.’

  Although she considered it in every degree unlikely that a match could be engaged between the Duke’s heir and her charge, Wilhelmina felt the beginnings of hope that there might be one with the younger son. Her only regret was that the interest the couple shared was so unsuitable. Mating horses was a necessity, of course, but it was not something gently bred young maidens should discuss. Particularly not with eligible young men. But then . . . she considered the matter. An interest shared could be the basis for a pleasing friendship.

  With Lord Frederick trotting beside it, the barouche proceeded to the far end of the Row whereupon Pilton guided the horses to execute a magnificently economical turn. Wide and straight, the Row stretched the best part of a mile to the gate.

  ‘Stay in the shade, if you please, Pilton,’ Wilhelmina ordered. ‘The sun is quite strong today.’ It had not escaped her attention that Araminta’s control over her parasol was becoming tenuous to say the least. More than once she had been obliged to lean away from it when the conversation between her charge and Lord Frederick became more animated.

  Pilton clicked his teeth and the reins. The carriage crunched over the gravel and tan into the dappled light of the trees lining the drive.

  Well satisfied with the day’s progress, Wilhelmina directed her attention away from the young couple’s equine conversation. Staring down at the few hoi polio promenading the other side of the fence, she allowed her eyes to droop and was pleased to hear the conversation on her left turn to the sights of the Indian sub-continent.

  It continued until Pilton pulled the horses to a gentle halt outside the door in St James Square. Lord Frederick bowed in the saddle.

  ‘I must thank you, ma’am, for permitting me to accompany you and Miss Neave. It has been a most pleasant excursion.’ He directed his eager eyes to Araminta. ‘I thank you, ma’am, for permission to call upon Mr Neave to discuss arrangements for Pegasus.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Araminta smiled up at him, titan curls shining as brightly as her eyes. ‘You are most welcome and I’m certain Papa will be most kindly disposed.’

  ‘Perhaps you would have the time to take a dish of tea with us,’ Wilhelmina added.

  Lord Frederick’s smile spread as wide as Araminta’s. ‘I would be most happy to, ma’am. I’ll be able to tell Miss Neave of whatever arrangement has her father’s agreement.’

  ‘It’s quite exciting.’ Araminta beamed up at Lord Frederick. She gripped both hands round the shaft of her parasol. Its ribbon-tied point wobbled dangerously close to Wilhelmina’s bonnet. ‘I’d love to see a foal Pegasus had sired.’

  Miss Orksville cleared her throat noisily. ‘I think we should go in, Araminta. Good day, Lord Frederick.’

  She rose in the barouche. The footman who had jumped down from the rear opened its door and flip down the step. Extending her hand to him, she alighted and led Araminta into the house without looking back.

  Lord Frederick waited until the front door had shut before he pulled his horse’s head round and urged it forward with his heels. ‘Excellent,’ he said to its ears. ‘Absolutely tip top.’

  Chapter Nine

  In his dark-panelled office in the City, Archibald Neave was as eager as Lord Frederick but considerable more agitated. He had frequent recourse to pulling his watch from his pocket to examine the position of its hands. At last, and only forty minutes after the agreed time, the door opened. The short, thin man bowed by his years who was his head clerk ushered two gentlemen into the room.

  ‘Lord Tiverton. Lord Conniston,’ he intoned.

  Archibald heaved himself out of his chair, waddled round his vast desk, hand outstretched to the nearer of the two. ‘My lords, delighted to see you again. Delighted.’ He pumped Lord Tiverton’s hand. ‘Most kind of you to put yourselves out to come here. I was more than happy to wait upon you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The Marquess was fully charged with the comments of his Marchioness regarding the future appearance of the Neaves under any roof of hers. By way of diversion, he looked about him. ‘Fine place you have here, Neave.’

  Archibald beamed. The suite of offices in Leadenhall Street was indeed fine. He had taken care to see his room was the best of them. Carved linenfold panels, all stained a dark oak, lined the walls. Only a stone mullioned window and an impressive fireplace broke their pattern. The panels rose to a picture rail that topped head-height by a good three feet. Above them the walls were painted cream. Gilt-framed paintings of every ship and boat that Archibald had ever owned hung from the rail on brass chains.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, yes. Handy for East India House too.’

  His lordship looked blank.

  The Earl of Conniston cleared his throat. ‘The East India Company‘s headquarters, Tiverton. I expect much of Mr Neave’s business is done there.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ Archibald only just prevented himself from looping his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat. Miss Orksville had been quite negative about that tendency. ‘Though I do have rooms at my warehouse in Cutler Street. I like to keep a close eye on my stock.’

  ‘I imagine it’s a necessity,’ Conniston said. ‘Given the thieving I understand is rife in the docks.’

  ‘It is.’ Archibald wagged his head. ‘But not so much of it now we’ve the East India Docks. Sound idea. Good solid gatehouse and walls twenty feet high. Pity we had to wait until ’06 for them though. Before then . . .’ A sigh accompanied more head wagging. ‘I still keep my own troop of watchmen. Had ’em when we had to unload at Tilbury. Have them escort every load from ship to warehouse. You can’t be over careful, my lord. Not too careful even though the docks keep the thieves out.’

  ‘What? Eh? Thieves? Where?’ Lord Tiverton roused himself from his glazed interest.

  ‘Not here, Tiverton. In the docks.’ Conniston moved to study a painting of an impressive three-masted schooner from which a faint aroma of wet oil paint drifted. ‘A fine ship, Neave. New?’

  Archibald almost grinned. ‘She is. Had her built in India. They’re good at that. Teak hull of course. A hundred and seventy-five feet. Forty-three beam and seventeen draught.’

  ‘Impressive.’ Conniston raised his eyebrows at a small, faded painting of a modest boat occupying pride of place above the mantle. ‘Not one of your larger vessels.’

  A reminiscent smile replaced the pride on Archibald’s pudgy face. He surveyed the humble little collier with affection. ‘No indeed, my lord, but the one I loved most.’ He hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat. ‘The first one I ever owned. The Betsy Mae.’ His face softened further. ‘Named after my wife, pretty woman that she was.’

  Conniston bowed. ‘My condolences.’

  A chubby hand waved. ‘Many years, my lord. Many years.’ He pulled a deep breath into his rotund chest. The buttons on
his waistcoat strained. ‘And how is Miss Ro-, I mean Lady Conniston? In fine fettle, I hope?’

  Conniston bowed again. ‘Her ladyship is well and happy, I thank you.’

  ‘Excellent. Excellent.’ The fat hands clasped then parted to indicate the two stout chairs of red leather drawn up to the desk. ‘Pray seat yourselves, my lords, seat yourselves. Wixhill,’ he shouted. ‘Wixhill.’

  The door opened again and the thin man entered followed by a boy carrying a tray bearing a decanter and three wine glasses. The boy’s tongue was clamped firmly between his teeth. His eyes never left the tray until, knees bent, it was safely deposited on the desk. Archibald waved them both away.

  ‘Now, my lords, I think you will find this Madeira wine to your taste. It’s not easily come by now.’

  Tiverton frowned. ‘That’s the favourite tipple of those demmed republicans, ain’t it?’ His frown deepened. ‘M’cousin was in the 78th Foot. Fell at Yorktown. Seventeen he was. Seventeen.’

  ‘I doubt the history will affect the flavour, Tiverton,’ Conniston said.

  Lord Tiverton growled but allowed Archibald to hand him a glass of darkly shimmering liquid. He sipped, held the glass up to examine the contents then sipped again. ‘Well, I dare say it’s potable enough.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ Archibald clapped his hands. ‘Now . . . to business.’ He eased himself back into his chair and propped his elbows on the desk’s leather top. He inclined his head in Lord Tiverton’s direction. ‘I must thank you, my lord, for granting me the lease on the Bond Street properties. The rearrangements have been completed and we are ready to open.’ He smiled broadly at his guests. ‘I’m certain we shall soon become the place to shop in town. The goods I’ve imported from the East are bound to impress. There’s none of this copied stuff from the Continent. Inferior. Most inferior.’ A wave of the hand dismissed the nearby competition. ‘Mine’s all original. Every last bit. Brought on my very own ships.’