Frederick mounted the steps with some concern. The shining black door opened ahead of him. Sallis himself bowed him into the house.
‘A pleasure to see you again, my lord, if I may be permitted to say so.’
‘You may, thank you.’ He strode into the hall. Sallis saw Kidwall clutching his master’s portmanteau and his own bundle, and scowled.
‘Is Her Grace at home?’ Frederick asked.
‘I regret not, my lord. She is gone out. His Grace is in his book room.’
‘Ah.’ Frederick looked across the hall at the Duke’s door. He debated the advantages of approaching his Mama first against those, if any, of an immediate encounter with his father. He had only ever entered that room when summoned as a boy for instruction in the consequences of a youthful misdemeanour.
Silence reigned for several seconds. Sallis cast a puzzled look at Kidwall.
After a whole minute the decision was made. Frederick strode forward to beard his father
Despite the late afternoon’s pleasant warmth, His Grace was seated in a tall wing chair before a glowing fire. His slight figure was dressed with restrained elegance in dark blue superfine. A book bound in red leather and tooled in gilt occupied his attention.
‘Good day, Your Grace.’ Frederick bowed. ‘I trust I find you well.’
Gerard Ellonby lowered his book. ‘Frederick. A rare visit, I think.’
‘Not at all, sir. I returned once Miss Orksville was safely established at Lidgate.’
‘Indeed? It seems to have taken an unconscionable amount of time. Perhaps the roads were bad?’
Frederick felt as if several lead weights were descending on his shoulders. ‘Well, I did perhaps stay over long.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But that was because I found how much I enjoyed Miss Neave’s company.’
The Duke place a ribbon across the page he had been reading and closed his book. He looked squarely at his younger son. ‘I hope you are not entertaining plans in that direction.’
Frederick’s fists bunched. ‘Why not, Your Grace? Miss Neave is an excellent young woman.’
‘So Her Grace has informed me. Her father, however, is a different question.’
Frederick’s growing anger betrayed him into a heated response. ‘I don’t wish to marry her father.’
His Grace’s brows rose. ‘Am I to take it you wish to marry Miss Neave?’
‘Indeed I do. I have approached her father and, with his permission, I am happy to say she has accepted my offer.’
‘I find that most displeasing.’ He allowed a heavy silence to develop while he examined his son from head to toe. ‘Your ancestry goes back to the Conquest. Certain standards are due to it. Those standards require you to marry in your class. Not below it.’
‘Sir, Miss Neave may not be born into the class of which you speak but she is nevertheless an excellent young woman. Furthermore she is the one I intend to marry.’
‘No,’ the Duke announced. ‘I will not permit it.’
Frederick’s jaw clenched. ‘Then, Your Grace,’ he said stiffly, ‘much as I regret it, I shall marry her without your permission. I am four and twenty and may clearly do so.’
The Duke’s pale face whitened. He folded his equally pale hands on the book’s leather cover. His eyes grew cold. ‘And by what means will you support this wife?’
‘Mama has always said she will grant me Frampton Manor. It is hers and we shall live there.’
‘It may be hers but if I require her not to admit you to it, she will not.’
Ice gripped Frederick’s heart. ‘And will you do so, sir?’ he asked in a croaking voice.
‘Indeed I shall.’
Frederick stared at his father for several seconds before he spoke. ‘Then it is with the greatest regret that I must inform Your Grace that we must henceforth become estranged. I will marry Miss Neave and if I must take up some sort of occupation to support her, then so be it. I shall remove from your house immediately, sir. I hope you will permit me to return to take leave of mama.’
‘I regret to tell you that once you leave my roof you will in no way be permitted to return.’ The Duke raised his book, opened it at the marker and continued to read.
Frederick stared at his father for several seconds, unable to move. The Duke appeared to have forgotten he was here. At last he turned and left his father’s presence.
Kidwall was still in the hall, heavily engaged in avoiding any direct answer to Sallis’s questions about events at Lidgate. Both men turned when Frederick reappeared.
‘Pack every one of my things, Kidwall. Take them round to Mr Blythburgh’s set.’ He rubbed a hand across his temple, took one lingering look at the stairs leading to the family’s rooms before turning on his heel and leaving. The front door banged behind him.
Kidwall and Sallis exchanged glances.
‘Well I never,’ Sallis announced. ‘Now you’d better tell me what’s been going on.’
Frederick betook himself to White’s in search of Everett Blythburgh. Mr Blythburgh was not there. Almost no-one was. Fists and jaw tightening, Frederick marched out again. He headed up St James Street to Piccadilly. A slight acquaintance bade him good-day. Frederick failed to notice and the man walked on, miffed at the perceived snub. Turning right, he continued his charge, oblivious to everyone and everything. A smartly driven curricle nearly ran him down when he crossed the road to the Albany.
‘I say, dear boy, take care.’ A flick of his sleeve dragged his attention back to his surroundings. ‘If you show such little concern for your person as that, dear George will have to be brought home post-haste to wed and breed before His Grace expires from worry.’
‘What?’ Frederick found himself facing Lord Trelowen.
A faintly amused smile hovered around the Viscount’s mouth
‘I merely expressed the slight concern for your safety but I see you are preoccupied.’
‘I’m looking for Blythburgh.’
Lord Trelowen glanced over his shoulder at the elegant façade of the Albany rising behind him. It was the most favoured apartment building in London where every gentleman of means, however slender, wished he could put up.
‘You might have the good fortune to find him. I have not been so privileged. But then I rarely rise before three of the afternoon and might have missed my chance. Pray allow me to offer my feeble services in his absence.’
Frederick bowed stiffly ‘Thank you, Trelowen, but if he’s away, I will see if his man knows where.’
Trelowen gazed over Fredrick’s shoulder. He raised his eyeglass. ‘Speaking of men, I see yours – or someone I believe to be yours – arriving with a number of bags.’
The observation brought colour rushing to Frederick’s face. He had very little interest in Lord Trelowen’s habits and did not welcome Trelowen’s interest in his. He produced the briefest of silent bows and walked into the building.
Lucius Renford watched him depart. ‘My,’ he remarked to himself. ‘I fear our young lordling has much on his mind.’ He extracted a snuffbox of exceptional charm and thoughtfully extracted a pinch. His indulgence complete, he permitted a reddening Kidwall to edge past with a collection of bags and a large portmanteau then wandered after him. There was a particular servant he wanted to see. One he could trust to find out almost anything that occurred in the building. For a trifling cost, of course. Within very little time he would know the reason why Lord Frederick Danver was apparently vacating his parents’ roof to put up with his friend and confidant, Everett Blythburgh.
Chapter Twenty Six
Archibald was disappointed with his head clerk. Wixhill had been unable to find a suitable house to rent in Bath at such short notice but he had managed to procure a suite of rooms at the York House Hotel on George Street. It took the combined efforts of Araminta and Wilhelmina to persuade him that this arrangement was most satisfactory an
d that a house on The Crescent or The Circus would be much less convenient. His face had continued to glower until Araminta had been inspired to say that those fashionable locations were further away from the Pump Room where, of course, Wilhelmina would have to attend.
After two days in a coach and one night at a coaching inn, Archibald Neave’s carriage bowled into Bath as the afternoon sun dropped low enough to shine into Pilton’s eyes. The golden brilliance did not much hinder him. After his former time as coachman to Sir Cuthbert Harrison of Poole, he could find his way to George Street with them shut. Borrick, crushed on the box beside him, had no such knowledge. He consequently stayed lost in the dark mood that had claimed him since they had departed St James Square. He wrapped his arms around his thin chest and squinted.
‘How much longer’ll we be? I’m fair done to a cow’s thumb. Wish I’d not been sent here. London’s my place. Not gallivanting around these country parts.’
Pilton flicked the reins and turned the horses into George Street. The four outriders followed him. ‘We’re here now so you can wipe off that Friday face. And I wish as you’d stayed in London too. You ain’t been no companion these last days.’ He pulled to a halt by the main door of the long elegant building on the corner of the street. ‘Get yerself down and tell ’em inside we’re here. Then you can help the women out.’
The hotel, after one look at the style of the carriage and outriders, the elegance of the females and the excessive number of rooms booked by Mr Neave’s man of business, exerted itself mightily. The manager himself conducted them to the premier suite of rooms reserved for them on the first floor, closely followed by three maids.
Araminta inspected the accommodations minutely. The manager blanched when she dragged back the bedcovers to test if the sheets were damp. Satisfied, she ushered them all out of the sitting room, nodding her thanks at his repeated assurances of every attention. The door clicked shut behind him. ‘These rooms are quite acceptable,’ she said. ‘Much better than taking a house.’ She saw Wilhelmina press a pale hand to her drawn face. ‘Let me help you to a seat, ma’am.’
Three steps away from her, Wilhelmina Orksville waved away her concern. ‘There’s no need to fuss. I shall be fine in a moment.’
The pallor of Wilhelmina’s skin did not escape Araminta. She guided her to the sofa, settled her down and lifted her feet onto the cushions. ‘There. You compose yourself. I’ll send Hollins for some tea.’
By the time the tray arrived, Wilhelmina was snoring gently. Araminta had such fidgets in her toes she was desperate to go for a walk. She forced herself to sit and take a dish of tea.
Eventually the clattering of the china disturbed Wilhelmina. She struggled up, skirts askew. ‘You haven’t taken off your bonnet,’ she said, eyeing the confection of straw and primroses and moving the cushion Araminta had propped under her head.
‘I thought I’d take a stroll. Walk the cramps out of my legs.’
‘You shouldn’t go out on your own. You’ve never been to Bath before and you might get lost.’
Araminta was prepared. ‘No I won’t, ma’am. I spoke to the chambermaid. She said if I go straight out of the door, I’ll almost be in Milsom Street where the shops are. I can buy myself a new ribbon for my bonnet.’ A finger flicked the rather limp Paris green bow tied by her jaw. ‘I’ll take Hollins with me. It won’t take long.’
‘You really should not.’ Discomfort from her injury overcame Wilhelmina. Her forcefulness evaporated. She slumped back on the sofa, waving a limp hand. ‘But I suppose you will do as you wish. As usual.’ The tired eyes sharpened briefly. ‘Bath is full of fortune hunters and shabby-gentile persons. They try to scrape acquaintances with anyone who appears to have means. Make sure none such approach you.’ She eased herself round so she was propped comfortably against the sofa’s back. Her eyes drooped then opened again. ‘We will go to the Pump Room tomorrow to enter our name in the Book. There must be acquaintances of mine here. Mrs Bentham, perhaps. Once our name is down, they will be sure to call.’
That news hardly filled Araminta with joy. She surveyed the tired woman who had valiantly refused to complain at any point during the journey despite the discomfort that had shown in her face. Respect and no little affection had her asking, ‘Is there anything you need before I go?’
‘No, no. By off with you if you’re going. Just be sure to be back before the light fades completely.’ She settled herself. ‘I think I shall have a little doze.’
Araminta watched Wilhelmina’s eyes slowly droop and close for the second time. She crept to the door and lifted the iron latch. Hollins was hovering in the passage outside. ‘Come along, we’re going to the shops.’
‘Oh.’ Hollins was used to some areas of London. Even though pickpockets and worse hovered there, she knew her way about. And about the Perlethorpe’s country seat but she had never visited Bath before. Nor, truth to tell, any other town. Everything here was strange. Her London-bred superiority deserted her. ‘Are we allowed, miss?’ She gripped her hands together, her knuckles whitening. ‘Won’t the missus be cross?’ Desperation edged her voice.
‘No she won’t. And don’t call her the missus. It’s impolite.’
Hollins coloured furiously. The missus and the chit was how Wilhelmina and Araminta were named below stairs. ‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.’ She bobbed a curtsey and crossed her fingers to guard against the possibility of instant dismissal without a character. Even employment with someone who smelled of Trade was better than none and she wasn’t getting any younger. Maid to the girl would be a comfortable situation as she aged.
Ignorant of her maid’s opinion of her status, Araminta hurried to the top of the centre staircase. In a flash she was in the entrance hall and out of the door. Hollins arrived on the flagway beside her, panting and gnawing at her bottom lip. The hasty departure disordered the muslin round the neck of her gown. She smoothed it flat over the blue and white striped cotton. Her glance travelled anxiously from side to side. Her teeth worried her bottom lip.
Araminta looked about her with eager eyes. Milsom Street was barely a few steps opposite. She stepped off the flagway then drew back into a squeaking Hollins. A smart carriage drawn by two gleaming bays trotted along the street at a smart pace. The horses earned her approval. When the equipage had passed, she dashed across behind it.
The elegance of the tall buildings descending the gentle slope impressed her. Not all were shops; some were obviously private residences. Such shops as there were, were many and varied. To Araminta’s critical eye none matched her father’s emporia in Bond Street but they had their own attractions. At least if the crowds staring into windows, chatting in groups and stepping across the road to see whatever had taken their fancy were anything to judge by. Araminta walked into the throng with Hollins stalking closely behind. Heads turned. The appearance of a new face, particularly one with such stunning titian curls aroused a fair degree of interest. All of the ladies strolling along the street and most of the men regardless of age took note. Speculation mounted. It was not long before whispers of a new resident at the York House hotel drifted into the afternoon’s promenades. A resident, furthermore, who had taken a whole suite and whose maid and footman were housed, not up in the attic with the other servants, but in rooms on the same floor. What superior and demanding employers they must be to insist they be in easy call. No doubt plump in the pocket too.
The speculation escaped Araminta’s notice. She passed a happy hour searching for a length of green ribbon to replace the spoilt one. The shopkeepers had all been delighted to see such a fashionable young lady enter their shops. By the time she had departed, one was pleased to have sold two yards of green-striped ribbon with a picot edge from the multitude of ribbons spread along her counter. Further along the street, another had, at last, sold a pair of lace mittens she had regretted buying for her stock. They had proved quite beyond the purse of her usual customers. A third had caref
ully wrapped a charming silver vinaigrette shaped like a seashell, avowing all the while that it was guaranteed to revive the most delicate of constitutions. Her suggestion of adding a slim bottle of lavender water to endow such a person with restful sleep met with success. It brought a gratified smile to her face and several extra coins to her purse.
Presented later with the prettily wrapped gift, Wilhelmina’s appreciation was expressed with her usual acerbity. ‘You really had no need to bother. I shall be quite well in an hour or so.’
She was to be proved wrong. As afternoon faded into evening she became more and more feverish. Araminta decided to send for the doctor.
Doctor Winterspoon was recommended by the manager. His appearance, however, did not inspire confidence. He was a tall, gangly man with thin hair that had a tendency to stand on end. Added to which his age suggested he had been practicing for so many years and his patients might now be better served were he to cease.
‘Well really,’ Wilhelmina said, easing her legs off the sofa so she could sit upright. ‘There was no need to bother. I shall be quite well once I am rested.’
Doctor Winterspoon advanced angularly across the room. ‘Now ma’am,’ he said, bending over Wilhelmina and lifting her nearest wrist between a gnarled finger and thumb. ‘One can never be too careful. Travel can be so tiring for ladies.’
The patient’s flushed face flushed even pinker. Her amber eyes flashed. ‘I can assure you sir, that I am no feeble female. Had it not been for those ruffians in London, I would have walked to the top of Beechen Cliff this afternoon.’
Two spots of crimson flared on the doctor’s pallid cheeks. ‘I have been in practice here for more than forty-seven years. I think I am a better judge of a lady’s condition than you. If you think otherwise . . .’ He let the statement fade, as if waiting for reassurance. When none came, he turned a rigid face to Araminta. ‘It would appear, miss,’ he said stiffly, ‘that my services are not required. I shall send my man round with my account.’
Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) Page 22