Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  Everett’s eyes rounded. ‘You’ll never let Miss Neave regard that spectacle?’

  ‘No, of course not. She can go for a toddle with the dragon. Or chat to Mama. I’m not a complete Johnny raw.’

  ‘So how has George upset the cart?’

  ‘He’s said he’s coming with me. There’s a chance of meeting Sir someone-or-other who might get him into the army.’

  ‘Ah.’ Everett had heard that strain many times before.

  ‘He’s definite that I mustn’t ask Mama before he’s had his chance.’

  ‘That’s a sight harsh of him.’ Everett gave himself to concentrated thought. ‘Tell you what, I’ll come with you. Stop him monopolising Miss Neave. Leave the field clear for you.’

  ‘It’s not Miss Neave that’s the problem. It’s getting Mama to invite her.’

  ‘First things first. I don’t wish to puff myself off, Freddie, but if I tell the Duchess she’s a diamond and not a mushroom, there’s more of chance you’ll get an invite.’

  Frederick considered his friend’s offer. Of all the assessors of female beauty and pretension, the Honourable Everett Blythburgh was accepted as the greatest judge in much the same way as Mr Brummel was for gentlemen’s attire. If he vouched for Araminta Neave to his Mama, things would be bound to move at a smoother pace.

  Frederick smiled. ‘Done,’ he said, unfolding his arms and regaining his fork. Another portion of pease pudding disappeared into his mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Araminta grabbed her bonnet from where she had dropped it on the chair in the salon. As was her habit, she crammed it onto her magnificent hair without a second thought.

  Wilhelmina watched her. She and Miss Martlesham had paid considerable attention to choosing the bonnet. The silk covering the crown and brim was the same colour as a kingfisher’s wing and complemented Araminta’s titan curls to perfection. The ribbons trimming it and descending in two tails were paler and patterned with pansies as was the cream gown delivered with it yesterday. Wilhelmina Orksville sighed.

  Walking to the door Araminta’s quick fingers tied the ribbons near her left ear. Her fingers reached for the door handle. She paused. Half a dozen quick paces took her back to the looking glass between two windows. A critical glance viewed the bow. A sharp tug had it undone. For several minutes the ribbons were retied, adjusted, tweaked, fluffed and finally arranged. Wilhelmina’s despair lifted. Perhaps the girl was beginning to appreciate the niceties of the marriage market at last.

  Unaware of her companion’s slight smile, Araminta picked up a netted reticule. ‘I think I’ll wait in the hall.’

  ‘As you wish but you will hear the barouche arrive just as well from here.’

  Araminta hesitated, looked at the door and then seated herself with a sigh. Both loops of cord pulling her reticule closed ended with a tassel. She picked one up. The silky strands rolled over her hand. She rubbed them between her fingers. After a moment, the tassel was dropped and its cord was twisted round a thumb instead. It had tightened and unwound several times before the clatter of wheels and hooves sounded outside.

  ‘It’s here.’ Araminta jumped up.

  ‘So it seems. Pray sit down and wait until Nesbit calls us.’

  A minute of cord twisting and toe tapping passed before the door opened. The butler’s doleful person stepped into the room.

  ‘The carriage is here, ma’am.’

  Wilhelmina rose. ‘Thank you, Nesbit. Is Lord Frederick arrived?’

  ‘I believe he is approaching, ma’am.’ He had bowed her out of the room before he found it necessary to step back to avoid Araminta’s hasty exit from the room followed by equally hasty exit onto the front steps.

  Squinting against the sun, Araminta saw Lord Frederick was indeed approaching. At that precise moment he was walking past the octagon of railings protecting the centre of the square with Everett Blythburgh. Hurrying some paces behind them came the Marquess of Levington.

  Wilhelmina paused by the footman holding the barouche door open. ‘It appears we have more company than we expected.’

  Frederick strode round the rear of the carriage. He bowed. ‘Pray forgive me, ma’am, but permit me to present Mr Everett Blythburgh. He arrived to bear me company and I thought perhaps . . .’

  Wilhelmina smiled. Like everyone else she was well aware of Everett Blythburgh’s reputation. She inclined her head a fraction. ‘Indeed, Lord Frederick. Mr Blythburgh is most welcome. Let me introduce you to Miss Neave, Mr Blythburgh.’

  Araminta curtseyed. Everett bowed.

  ‘I have been privileged to see Miss Neave in the Row.’

  A firm hand pressed onto Lord Frederick’s shoulder. ‘Freddie, present me if you please.’ The Marquess of Levington bowed to the ladies.

  With less grace than was proper Frederick introduced his brother.

  George bowed. ‘I hope, ma’am, you will permit me to add to your party.’

  He was a handsome man. More importantly, Mr Neave was impressed by the fact that, like his brother, he was unwed. Having him in their company would please him greatly even though Wilhelmina had little hope of aiming so high for her charge. Nevertheless, his company, though a definite advantage, presented her with something of a problem.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I fear we have insufficient room for all three of you.’

  ‘There’s no difficulty, ma’am,’ George said, his hand patting his brother’s arm heartily. ‘Freddie’s horse is in the mews. It’s only a second’s work for him to be mounted. He can ride alongside.’

  Lord Frederick’s face darkened. There was little he could do other than conform to convention. Polite manners required he accept his brother’s decree. Anything else would have him appearing gauche. Forbidden by propriety from straight way rushing off, Frederick shoved his hands into the pockets of his new pantaloons in a manner which had his valet, currently sneaking a discreet glance from an attic window, sighing heavily. The quartet settled themselves into the barouche, ladies facing forwards, gentlemen opposite. Only when Everett effortlessly arranged it so he faced Araminta, did Frederick’s clenched teeth relax. George would have the pleasure of facing Miss Orksville for all of the two hour drive.

  The barouche pulled away. Before the party was out of sight Frederick rushed across the square to Charles Street and round to the stables, shouting for his groom.

  By the time he was mounted the barouche had passed by Buckingham House and was proceeding at a gentle trot towards the bridge at Fulham. Several pedestrians and riders shot censorious glares at Frederick as he cantered past them.

  He caught up with the party as they prepared to enter King’s Road. The private road reserved for the use of royalty was not barred to them. The happy presence of a marquess assured they could traverse its length.

  The faintly abstracted expression on Araminta’s face disappeared as Frederick drew level with them. He doffed his hat to her rather than Miss Orksville.

  Everett averted his face from the exchange but stored it in his memory. Of all his acquaintances, Freddie was his closest friend and the one he most wished to see happily established. Somewhat tardily, Frederick remembered his duty to Miss Orksville. He made a great effort to produce a small contribution to the conversation but soon reverted to exchanging equine anecdotes with Araminta.

  This pleasure came to an abrupt halt at the toll booth on Fulham Bridge. Waiting to pay the charge was Lucius Renford. Worse still he was sitting in a glossy, high perch phaeton, idly twirling his whip while his tiger handed coins to the guardian. The pair of matched bays between the shafts pranced and tossed their heads.

  ‘Frederick, dear boy,’ Renford called, reins gripped firmly in his hand. ‘What a coincidence.’ He allowed his gaze to wander over the occupants of the carriage. ‘Levington. Blythburgh.’ His charming smile bathed Wilhelmina. ‘Servant, ma’am.’ He tipped his whip to
the brim of his beaver. ‘May I beg Levington to present me?’

  George was less than pleased. ‘Miss Orksville, Miss Neave, I have the honour to present the Viscount Trelowen.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Trelowen repeated. ‘Miss Neave, a pleasure to meet you at last. I believe I saw Mr Neave buy your horse.’

  ‘He is wonderful,’ Araminta replied, leaving a degree of doubt as to whether she referred to her father or the horse. She stared at the phaeton and sighed.

  Trelowen stored the sigh in his memory. ‘What a delightful party you make,’ he said. ‘A picnic in Richmond Park perhaps?’

  Frederick’s jaw tensed. He recalled his last conversation with Trelowen.

  Miss Orksville was unaware of it. ‘Not at all. We are bound for Twickenham.’

  ‘Ah. The Misses Berry, I assume.’ He flicked his whip at his tiger. The man leapt onto the rear seat. ‘It is some time since I had the pleasure of their company. I will come with you. It will be pleasant to see them again.’

  Only Araminta believed this statement. Wilhelmina Orksville was not deceived. From what she knew of the Viscount’s character, it was in every degree unlikely that he was interested in the Misses Berry. Word from one of her correspondents had it that he was dallying with a famous – or more properly, an infamous – lady of the ton upon whom he had lavished several stunning pieces of jewellery and a matched pair of greys for her very own curricle. Wilhelmina doubted that particular report. The on dit was that the horses had arrived with the curricle as the congé from a previous admirer.

  Frederick, heavily controlling his temper and his mount, walked his horse between the two vehicles. ‘I fear you haven’t an invite, Trelowen.’

  The whip waved dismissively. ‘No one is barred for lack of an invite, dear boy, I assure you.’ He pulled the horses’ heads round until the phaeton faced the same direction as the barouche. ‘After you, ma’am,’ he smiled.

  Despite her reluctance to add Trelowen to the party, there was no option but for Wilhelmina to signal the footman beside Pilton to pay the toll. The wheels of the barouche ground onto the wooden bridge. The nearside horse skittered at the sound. Pilton tensed the reins and shushed calming words at it.

  Everett eyed the river stretching before them. ‘I assure you, Miss Neave, there is no need to be alarmed. The bridge is quite safe.’

  Araminta dragged her head round from staring at the phaeton behind them. ‘This is nothing, Mr Blythburgh. The Cape was much more lively.’

  ‘The Cape, ma’am?’ George’s interest peaked. ‘You have rounded the Cape of Good Hope?’

  ‘Twice, my lord. Once out to India and once back.’

  George’s chest rose and fell heavily. ‘I am most envious, ma’am. I would love to travel but my father is against it.’

  ‘You could not be more envious than I, my lord,’ Wilhelmina announced. ‘It is much more difficult for a female to see anything of the world. Travel is almost forbidden beyond Europe. And even there now that the Monster is abroad.’

  Araminta leant slightly forward of Wilhelmina, the better to watch a square-rigged barge riding the wide expanse of the Thames. ‘Are there many such boats on the river?’ she asked no-one in particular.

  Three faces stared at her. Three pairs of eyes blinked.

  ‘You have a particular interest in boats, Miss Neave?’ Everett asked.

  ‘Only in as much as Papa owns some. All of his are ocean going, though. I don’t think he has any as small as that one.’

  Silence greeted her remark. Wilhelmina made a mental note to advise her charge not to mention her father’s fleet again. Such talk would sound boastful to many ears and earn disapproval. Worse, it clearly denoted her connection to the scorned occupation of Trade. Drawing on her reserves, she guided the talk from topic to topic as a mile passed under the barouche wheels. Perceiving a certain tenseness creep onto the gentlemen’s faces as they neared Barnes Common, she fell silent.

  Frederick pulled his horse alongside Pilton. The coachman caught his eye and patted the pistol lying under his coat. Frederick breathed more easily. More than one party had been stopped by footpads or highwaymen. Such news added to the consternation and danger of travellers. He dropped back to ride protectively beside Araminta. To lighten the atmosphere, Everett Blythburgh entertained the ladies with accounts of various delights he had encountered in the country. George interrupted him several times with comments on the battles of Sir Arthur’s career.

  The gentlemen’s concern lifted when the outskirts of Sheen came into view. The barouche bowled down the village’s leafy main street past a handful of elegant mansions. The grass verges had Frederick hard pressed to keep his horse level with Araminta. Her abrupt replies to his conversational sallies and frequent twists to look at the following phaeton caused frowns to furrow his face several times. He dearly wished Trelowen would stop attracting Miss Neave’s attention and depart. He resolved to cut him out at the Berrys’ if he continued to monopolise her. She was far too good a person to be subjected to his attentions. And it diverted her from concentrating on equine arrangements.

  Another couple of miles saw them descending the steep slope to Richmond bridge. The houses lining the river in Twickenham village spread before them. As they topped the bridge’s high centre span Araminta looked down on the small party who had rowed to one of the little islands to enjoy a picnic.

  ‘Oh, look, do. Wouldn’t it be fun to have your own island to enjoy?’

  Heads turned. The Marquess of Levington clearly felt no envy for the group. Mr Blythburgh, however, was moved to describe the rural idyll in terms the Lakes poets could only envy.

  Unmoved by these flights of fancy, Wilhelmina called to Pilton. ‘I believe Little Strawberry Hill lies to the left.’

  Pilton tapped his whip to the brim of his hat and turned the barouche towards the sun.

  Little Strawberry Hill sat comfortably in its pretty grounds. Pilton turned through the entrance. He had barely pulled to a halt at the house before George had risen, opened the low door and jumped down. Far from turning to assist the ladies he marched off towards the door. Frederick frowned. Before he could dismount, Everett had slid gracefully from the carriage and performed the office George had deserted.

  The Misses Berry were entertaining in the garden under the smiling sun. Smooth lawns spread from the house. At one side, elegant arches rose from tall square-clipped bushes and joined into a pretty arcade. A mature beech tree spread it branches over the lawn. In its shade stood several small tables. Chairs of various styles were grouped around them. Mary, the elder sister, put down her glass of cloudy lemonade and waved at Wilhelmina. She hurried forwards.

  ‘My dear Wilhelmina. How excellent to see you.’ Smiles lifted Miss Berry’s cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. ‘And Miss Neave. How do you do, my dear? Welcome to Little Strawberry Hill.’

  Araminta curtseyed, ‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to be here.’

  Miss Berry’s smile encompassed the three men. ‘Gentlemen, delighted to see you.’

  George failed to drag his eyes from a survey of the other guests. Frederick bowed. ‘Delighted, ma’am. Delighted. Aren’t we George?’

  Recalled to the social niceties, his brother bowed. ‘Indeed, ma’am. I hope we do not crowd you and your other guests.’

  ‘Not at all, Lord Levington.’ The elder Miss Berry exercised her renowned aptitude for teasing. She looked up at George from under her fringe of dark hair. ‘We are welcoming only the few you see today.’ George’s face fell and she took pity on him. ‘Though I dare say we might be fortunate see our numbers increase. Arthur Wellesley did say he might favour us with a few moments of his time.’ She had the satisfaction of seeing an eager expression light his face.

  A small commotion sounded in the entrance from the road. George clasped his hands and cleared his throat. His hands unclasped when Viscount Trelowen strolled round the
corner of the house.

  ‘I declare,’ Wilhelmina announced with emphasis. ‘I doubt I have ever known the sun so fierce.’ She elevated her parasol over her head. Her stern futures disappeared into its shadow.

  ‘How remiss of me,’ Miss Berry said. ‘Please come into the shade and be seated.’ She indicated a table where three gentlemen were talking to her sister. ‘But first I must present you to Sir Arthur.’

  ‘I thought –’ George began.

  ‘Forgive me, dear Lord Levington.’ Mary Berry strove to look contrite. She failed miserably to quench the sparkle in her eyes. ‘I fear I succumbed to teasing you. I know how much you admire Sir Arthur.’ She patted his arm. ‘Come now. Let’s relieve you.’

  She led the way across the lawn. Wilhelmina followed her, a placid expression on her features but with her fingers drumming on the parasol handle. The movement caused the lace frill on the parasol to tremble above her.

  Araminta swallowed, trying to overcome the sudden, unusual, dryness in her mouth. She did not move. Wilhelmina had been quite positive about meeting Sir Arthur. He counted the Patronesses of Almack’s among his friends. Regardless of royal approval, Almack’s was the pinnacle of acceptance. She hoped she would not disappoint Papa.

  Everett lent closer to her. ‘I have heard Sir Arthur is most kindly disposed to the ladies. I feel certain, ma’am, he will be most gracious to you.’

  A shaky smiled briefly moved Araminta’s mouth. ‘Thank you, Mr Blythburgh. I must admit I am a trifle apprehensive.’ To herself she said, I have sailed round the Horn – twice. I have faced crowds and tumult abroad and I can take a fence at speed. Meeting one man cannot be so fearful. Her spine straightened, her shoulders braced.

  Beside her, Everett hid a smile. Miss Araminta Neave was not a girl who lacked courage. He stored that thought away too.

  Wilhelmina stopped in her progress across the grass towards her goal. Glancing backwards she beckoned with an imperious finger.