Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  ‘You must permit me to say, sir, that your daughter is the most headstrong, ungovernable, thoughtless and selfish young women I have ever had the misfortune to encounter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She is totally beyond hope. Her behaviour . . .’ Her hands parted in a gesture that combined despair, confusion and annoyance.

  A resigned expression swept onto Archibald’s features. ‘What’s ’Minta done now? Something high-spirited, no doubt.’

  ‘High spirited? High spirited? Certainly not.’ Miss Orksville paced the floor, hands twisting together. ‘She has ruined herself in the eyes of everyone of note.’ Wilhelmina spun on her heel and marched towards the tall fireplace. She stopped, turned and glared. ‘After all my efforts as well. Not to mention the promise from Sir Arthur Wellesley no less to speak to Sally Jersey about her.’

  Archibald slumped onto the fragile settee. Its legs creaked under his substantial weight. He propped his palms atop his knees. His head drooped. A heavy sigh escaped him. He stared at the floral patterns on the Aubusson rug under his feet.

  Wilhelmina’s face softened. She seated herself opposite him. ‘I am truly sorry. I thought we were making good progress but it appears not.’

  A pair of slightly poached-looking eyes was raised to her face. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She left the carriage and climbed into Lord Trelowen’s phaeton –’

  ‘Oh.’ Archibald’s chest rose and sank with a massive sigh. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘All? I wish it were. We might recover from that. No, not content with an immodest ascent into the vehicle, she permitted Lucius Renford to drive her off in it.’ The previous scowl reappeared. ‘Alone. I was compelled to beg Lord Frederick to chase after them on his horse.’ Her hands gripped in her lap. ‘And if that’s not enough, Mr Blythburgh was with us too.’

  Confusion replaced despair on Archibald’s face. ‘Trelowen? Ain’t he a lord? Who’s this Lucius? And Blythburgh?’

  It was Wilhelmina’s turn to despair. ‘Mr Blythburgh is a noted opinion on the suitability of debutantes. Lucius Renford is the fifth Viscount Trelowen.’

  ‘Viscount?’ Archibald’s posture and expression changed. ‘That’s good. Not as good as a duke or an earl, but still good.’

  Wilhelmina gripped her palms together and fairly ground her teeth. ‘I don’t think you have quite grasped the problem.’ Her hands clenched. ‘Not even unmarried girls of good family would ride off alone with a man to whom they were not related. An unknown girl would ruin herself. Has ruined herself.’

  ‘But if this Trelowen fellow favours her does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters. I doubt it would bother him if the rich wife he had contracted was ostracized by society but I could never let any girl of any reputation ally herself with him.’

  ‘Why? What’s amiss with the fellow?’

  The faintest of blushes rose intro Wilhelmina’s thin cheeks. ‘There are rumours of certain . . . certain regrettable behaviours.’

  ‘But that’s the same for many men these days. Gambling. Womanising. Clubs. All manner of things. It don’t seem to me it makes much difference.’

  ‘Yes but . . .’ Wilhelmina sighed. ‘Rank alone is insufficient a recommendation for a young girl’s parti. Other things must be considered.’

  ‘Well, if you think he would make her unhappy . . . is that what you think?’ Archibald shot her a questioning glance. ‘Why?’

  Further colour rose into her face. ‘I really cannot say any more.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ Archibald’s mouth clamped shut. It bent down at the corners. There must be more to this. He decided to have Wixhill make enquiries. Not that it addressed his current train of thought. He rose. Hands clasped behind his ample rear, he took a turn about the room. Moments passed in silence. He stopped in front of the tall marble firepiece. ‘Then it’s a great shame. We’ll have to look elsewhere. I had hoped to see her settled so I could sail for the east in the New Year when my Penelope is ready.’

  ‘Penelope?’ Miss Orksville had visions of another wayward daughter, hitherto unmentioned.

  A flash of pleasure lightened Archibald’s expression for a moment. He seated himself opposite Wilhelmina. ‘My newest ship. Magnificent she is. And so fast. Why she can make the trip there and –’

  Wilhelmina dragged him back to the present. She slapped her hands together. ‘Mr Neave, your ships, and indeed Lord Trelowen’s suitability is not the issue at hand. It is Araminta’s behaviour.’ She rose. ‘I am sorry, Mr Neave. I can see no way to recover the situation.’ Her sharp chin lifted. ‘I regret to say I have no option but to resign from my post and leave.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Archibald bounced up from the settee, his plump arms in their tight tailoring outstretched. His chins also bounced up and then flopped onto his cravat. ‘Please don’t do that. I don’t know what we’d do without you. Your advice . . . well, it’s been beyond price.’ He clasped his fat fingers together. ‘Not only for ’Minta. Look how much you helped with my emporiums. The tea room . . . the silks –’

  ‘Emporia,’ Wilhelmina corrected.

  ‘Yes, well, whatever you say.’ He pulled a deep breath into his lungs. ‘I must admit . . .’ He paused. He peered closely at Wilhelmina. He looked away. He walked away. He turned. He spread his fingers and jabbed them repeatedly together like opposing prongs of a fork. He cleared his throat noisily. Twice.

  ‘Miss Orksville.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I must own to an idea . . . a hope, I should say . . . that I have had for some time.’ Something obstructed his throat again. It was necessary to clear it. He stretched his chins away from his cravat. ‘I had decided that I . . . that my business . . . could only benefit from your further advice.’

  ‘Your emporia are open. What little help and advice I can offer is no longer necessary.’

  ‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean . . .’ Archibald’s face reddened by several hues.

  Wilhelmina sat down again. ‘Mr Neave, if you have a point will you please come to it.’

  Archibald bounced on his toes. He stepped forward and lowered himself, with difficulty and far too abruptly, onto one knee beside the settee. ‘Miss Orksville, I would esteem it an honour if you would become my partner.’

  ‘Partner?’ She blinked at him in amazement as he balanced unevenly on one knee. ‘What sort of a partner?’

  Archibald gawped. ‘Well my wife of course. How else could you travel to my suppliers with me?’

  For the first time in her adult life, Wilhelmina’s mouth drooped open. She stared at Archibald. Archibald stared back.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Well I never.’

  Archibald wobbled down onto a knee.

  ‘For goodness sake, Mr Neave, stand up from that ridiculous position before you do yourself an injury.’

  Archibald placed on hand on the settee and elevated himself with considerable effort. His face assumed an expression of disappointment. ‘That means no then.’

  The thin eyebrows above Wilhelmina’s amber eyes rose. ‘No.’

  ‘Then –’

  She held up a hand. ‘Nor does it mean yes.’ She sniffed. ‘This is a great surprise. I must give your offer some thought.’

  ‘What’s to think about? I’m a plain man with a plain offer. It’s not as if I’m making out we’re that Italian couple. The ones with the window.’

  Wilhelmina struggled somewhat but eventually lit upon the comment as being a reference to Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Well then. We’d rub along together just fine. You’ve struck me as an intelligent woman. Not the sort to moan and wilt at the first touch of a bit of a swell at sea. ’Minta never did.’

  Wilhelmina had never before discussed the possibility of sea-sickness with anyone, let alone someone intent on persuading her to wed.

  ‘And,’ Archi
bald rushed on, oblivious to the stunned expression on the face of his intended. ‘I always travel comfortable. You’ve wanted to travel, haven’t you? I’ve heard you say to ’Minta how lucky she was.’

  True, travel had always been one of her dreams, her ambitions. Equally true, it was impossible for a female to accomplish it alone. She stared at her suitor. He was a decent man. No pretence about him. Trade of course, which would stagger her family and friends. Not a new experience for any of them. Her persistent refusal of all offers made in her youth when her dreams were fresh and full of hope had led them down that path before. Life would, as he said, be comfortable and exciting. She was in her forties now, the dreams she had held were becoming increasingly unlikely to occur. Her positive thinking screeched to a halt. Neave was a man of business. She had heard such people were just as set on a dynasty as the aristocracy. Colour mounted in her cheeks.

  ‘Mr Neave, you must realise . . .’ She wished it were dark and that candlelight would hide her features. Her throat dried and her cheeks burned, something that had not happened since her green years.

  ‘What troubles you, lass?’

  Wilhelmina drew a deep breath. The words came out in a rush. ‘I am not a young woman. There can be no possibility of an heir.’ Her remaining breath exhaled in a gust.

  Archibald laughed. He dismissed the problem with a flick of one fat hand. ‘Don’t fret about that. I’m not minded to have a house of wailing infants. Araminta’s enough for me. She’ll be as good as a son to take over any day.’

  The fiery colour in Wilhelmina’s cheeks subsided. She regained her composure. Her dreams won out. ‘Very well, Mr Neave,’ she said, her voice and spine as controlled as ever. ‘I accept your offer. In the meantime I will remove to a friend in Carlton Street.’

  ‘Why?’

  A heavy sigh. ‘Because now you have offered and I have accepted, I can’t stay here unchaperoned.’

  Puzzlement painted Archibald’s face. ‘At your age?’

  Something approaching a cross between a growl and a snort issued from the lady. ‘At any age, Mr Neave.’ She scanned him from balding head to legs rammed into over-tight boots. ‘I suggest you spend some time explaining to your daughter the foolishness of her act.’ She walked to the door. ‘We will keep our engagement between ourselves for the time being.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wish it. Now I am going to supervise the packing of my belongings.’

  Left alone and staring at the closing door, Archibald Neave hovered between delight, confusion, disappointment and anger. Anger surged to the forefront. His mouth puckered grimly. There was nothing for it. He had indulged Araminta far too much. Her behaviour had wrecked all his plans for her. Well he would certainly make her see sense now. Bring her to realise what was proper. Her nonsense had to stop. And stop this very minute however harsh it would be. A frown pleated his forehead. Where had Nesbit said she was? The salon, that was it.

  With a heart that was alternately descending to the depths and threatening to burst with anger he went into the hall and climbed the stairs to the next floor. He opened the door to the elegant room that occupied the whole width of the house’s frontage.

  Araminta turned from the window and faced him, smiling and eager.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Oblivious to Wilhelmina Orksville’s dilemma but very alive to Araminta’s predicament, Lord Frederick Danver paced backwards and forwards across his room under the concerned eye of his valet. Every now and then he would pause and stare out of the window at the house opposite. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair and gnawed at his bottom lip.

  A cough sounded behind him.

  ‘Ah. Kidwall. Yes. Er . . . I’m not minded to change just yet. I’ll ring if I need you.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  The valet bowed himself sadly out of the room. Whatever it was that was troubling his young master it must be serious. It was so unlike him to show anything but a pleasant countenance to the world at large and rarely otherwise to him.

  Frederick flung himself onto the chair by the tall chest of drawers. He balanced an elbow on one of its arms and chewed at his knuckle. Vivid images of his charge across Barnes Common in pursuit of Trelowen’s phaeton assailed him. He could clearly picture Miss Neave clinging to the Viscount’s arm with one hand and her bonnet with the other. Her flushed face and thrilled laughter gave no hint of the feminine nerves or terror that might be expected from a lady currently being conveyed at speed along an uneven road in a sporty but fragile vehicle.

  Trelowen had not slowed his horses until he had reached the windmill near St Mary’s church. More than one group of travellers had turned to watch its progress. Frederick had fervently hoped that there was no acquaintance of his or Trelowen’s among them. Miss Neave would become notorious.

  An expression of puzzlement crept onto his face when it struck him that he would find it a shame if she had to remove out of society. Whatever anyone might say of her connections, Miss Neave’s company had proved entertaining, if unnerving at times. She was not the sort of insipid female whose company always bored him. And of course, she did have an eye for a decent horse.

  Frederick flung up from the chair. He thrust his hands into his pockets. The pacing resumed. Trelowen had eventually acceded to his demands that he permit Miss Neave to return to the company of her chaperone once the barouche had reached them. Frederick had dismounted and, reins over his arm, lifted her down from the high perch. Struggling to hide the angry words her disregard for her own safety had prompted, he had helped back into the barouche.

  Every expression had been smoothed from Miss Orksville’s face. Everett Blythburgh was a different matter. His eyes and mouth were rounded by amazement. His friend’s reaction worried Frederick more than Miss Orksville’s undoubted disapproval. Everett was no more of a natural dissembler than he. If anyone sought his view of Miss Neave after today’s events, he would be sure to give away his true view, even if he did not mention the dreadful incident itself.

  The bottom-lip-chewing recommenced. If no-one had seen her and if he could persuade his Mama to agree, rusticating Miss Neave to Lidgate with her companion for a while might avoid social disaster. Her stallion was still the best piece of horseflesh he had seen that was worthy of Athena. He was determined the pair would be a match.

  A carafe of water with a glass inverted over its top stood on the nightstand by his bed. He perched on the edge of the covers, lifted the glass and tipped the carafe by its neck. Water splashed over the glass. Two drops fell onto his pantaloons. Standing the carafe down, he rubbed a thumb over them. The marks spread. Removing Miss Neave was not the only problem. From what he had seen of her father, the attentions of a Marquess would be taken in a good light. A very good light. He would bet his allowance Mr Neave had no idea of Trelowen’s reputation. Well that was a state of affairs he could do something about. And Everett could help.

  He put down the water untasted. With the mark still staining his pantaloons, Lord Frederick Danver took himself downstairs and out of the house intent on enlisting his friend’s support.

  The Honourable Everett Blythburgh was to be found in Angelo’s fencing academy. Contrary to expectations of such an effete-looking person, Mr Blythburgh was an expert swordsman. Probably the best in London. Not that he was ever stupid enough to defeat the Prince of Wales, of course. His success came from the nimbleness of his movements. It also accounted for his acclaim on the dance-floor.

  Mr Blythburgh was mid-bout when Frederick entered the room where the Chevalier St. George’s portrait, foils and fencing shoes were displayed on the right-hand wall. Several gentlemen were without their coats. Some were adjusting their shoes or their neckcloths or easing damp shirts away from equally damp shoulders. Others lounged at their ease on chairs or propped themselves against the walls.

  Frederick kept to one side and watched his friend parry and
feint. The moves led the perspiring opponent to make an incautious advance. The result was his complete inability to counter Everett’s riposte. The bout ended in a round of applause.

  Epee raised to nose and chin, Everett saluted the vanquished gentleman and wandered over to Frederick. ‘What ho. I didn’t expect to see you here.’ His eyes scanned his friend’s appearance with a degree of regret. His own person was as fresh and undisturbed as usual. Only the slightest sheen on his forehead betrayed his recent activity.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ Frederick cast a glance around the room. ‘Not here.’

  ‘If you wish it, so be it. Give me a moment to bid Henry farewell and we can leave.’

  He wandered away to the son of the original master who now ran the academy. In three minutes was outside where Frederick was waiting. ‘Well? What troubles you?’

  ‘Miss Neave.’

  ‘Ah.’ Everett shook his head sadly. Unsure of Frederick’s intentions, he trod carefully around the subject. ‘I fear today’s outing was not the success Miss Orksville had wished.’

  ‘No, I know.’ Frederick waved the comment away. ‘Never mind that. What we need is a way to stop her father being taken in by Trelowen.’

  ‘We?’ Everett’s eyebrows all but disappeared into the curls carefully arranged on his forehead. ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, we.’ Frederick gave him a puzzled look. ‘You are going to help, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course, Freddie, of course. Naturally one is willing to do anything one can.’ He gave a nervous cough and looked across Bond Street. A crowd of such dimension was thronging one part of it that some of the interested parties were obliged to stand on the cobbles, endangering themselves from passing carriages and riders. A sprinkling of less affluent men and boys hovered on the edges. A couple of green-clad men appeared and chased them off.

  ‘Ah,’ Everett said. ‘These are his emporia, are they not?’ He paused opposite the first window. A selection of boots, whips, fine broadcloth and a magnificently tailored tailcoat were just visible over the heads of the engrossed bucks. ‘My goodness. I’m not surprised Trelowen is interested. Miss Neave must be a considerable heiress and he’s up to his ears in debt.’