A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  “‘Doctor Watson’s improvements to prevent the ill effects of lightning to buildings.’”

  “That is supposed to keep me from boredom?” he asked. “Next.”

  “‘The Oracle,’” she read. “‘A most extraordinary tale drawn from the Greek.’”

  He mimicked a long, loud, ill-bred snore. “Next.”

  “Does politics interest you, my lord?” she said. “Here’s an article: ‘On the use which the fallen ministry makes of the name of Mr. Pitt.’”

  “No politics,” he said with a sigh of resignation, “especially not old and dusty politics. Perhaps this is all quite futile, Miss Augusta. Instead of reading aloud, we would do better with conversation.”

  “Conversation?” she repeated, smoothing the cover of the rejected magazine with her palm. “Whatever subject should we discuss?”

  “We could be blandly predictable, and try the weather,” he suggested. “Or we could embark on a topic that I’m sure I’d find fascinating, such as why you have no desire to follow your sister to court.”

  “You are inventing again, my lord,” she protested. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” he said easily. “I determined it for myself. And here I thought every young lady dreamed of the day she’d be unleashed upon the world of unsuspecting bachelors.”

  “I don’t,” she said, with such emphasis that there’d be no question. “From Julia’s telling, it all sounded quite dreadful, and nothing I would enjoy. I do not shine at balls and routs, my lord, nor would I—yes, what is it, Price?”

  The footman bowed and leaned close to deliver his message in a discreet murmur.

  “William has returned, Miss Augusta,” he said. “He is waiting to speak with you.”

  She looked up with surprise. “He is alone, Price?”

  “He is, ma’am,” the footman said.

  “Then I must go to him directly,” she said, rising. “My lord, I am sorry, but I must attend to this—this matter at once.”

  “You’re leaving?” Harry asked, though it was obvious that she was. He was more disappointed than he’d expected, sorry—very sorry—to have their conversation interrupted exactly when it had begun to be interesting. “Is this one of your other, more pressing responsibilities?”

  “I fear so, my lord,” she said absently, her thoughts already far from him as she left the magazine on the table beside his bed. “I am sorry, but this cannot be helped.”

  “You will return?” he said, sitting upright and trying not to beg, though beg he would if it might keep her here. “When you’re done doing whatever you must do, you’ll come back?”

  She was nearly to the door when she remembered to turn toward him and dip a belated curtsey. “Forgive me my haste, my lord,” she said, “but I shall return when it is possible.”

  He didn’t want to be left behind. He wanted to follow her, join her, see exactly what was drawing her in such haste. He felt hopelessly trapped on the bed, as mired by the leather splints bound to his leg as if they’d been iron bands chaining him in place.

  “Miss Augusta, wait!” he called out in desperation.

  With obvious reluctance she paused and turned.

  “Miss Augusta,” he said again. He’d have to say something of more importance than just repeating her name, and he did. “Miss Augusta. I’ve heard that I owe my life to you. Is that true?”

  That stopped her. “Who told you that?”

  “Tewkes said the surgeons told him it was so,” he said. “That your care and quick thinking saved my leg, and my life as well. Is it true?”

  “I could not have done such a thing alone, my lord, not if—”

  “But you were the one who followed my horse’s trail to find me,” he persisted. “You saw that the servants carried me safely, and all the rest that was done before the surgeons arrived. I know you did, because I remember it.”

  “You cannot remember everything, my lord.”

  “I remember that it was you, and not Julia,” he said. “I remember how you gave me your hand to hold. Is that not so?”

  “Julia couldn’t,” she said, stunningly loyal to her sister. “She was too distraught by what had happened. Otherwise she would have been there with you in place of me.”

  “But she wasn’t,” he said, a finality that she couldn’t deny. He hadn’t really planned to say all this, but now that he’d begun, he was glad he had.

  “No,” she said slowly. “She wasn’t.”

  “Then I thank you, Miss Augusta,” he said softly. “With all my heart. Thank you.”

  Gratitude, that was all he’d intended it to be, simple thanks for what she’d selflessly done on his behalf. But her eyes widened and her cheeks grew pink, and she pressed her palm over her mouth as if fearing whatever words might slip out. Then she turned and fled.

  Gus sat in the parlor to read the letter that William had brought, with him waiting before her to answer questions. She read the letter twice through to make sure she understood its contents, then again in the empty hope that she hadn’t.

  The letter rambled on as Papa’s letters always did, but there was no way to mistake or misconstrue its message.

  Portman Square

  LONDON

  To my devoted Daughter Gus,

  As you can tell, your sister & I have not returned to the Abbey. Upon overcoming Julia & that rogue Tom, we stayed a Night together at the Royal George & dined upon turtle soup & a fine goose, with every intention of Returning Home. Upon rising the next Morn, Julia threw herself at me in a state of Perfect Hysteria, crying out that to see Lord Hargreave again in Pain & Imperfection would Destroy Her, & to continue to Aunt’s house in Portman Square would be her only relief.

  I had not realized the Degree of her suffering until that Moment, & so Piteous were her Tears that I feared for the Very Life & sanity of my Darling Child. As her dutiful Parent, wishing only the Best for her, I saw no choice but to Convey her to Aunt’s house, as she desired. I remain there with her now, protecting her like a Hawk with a Dear Chick, in the hope that her Desperate Spirits will lighten & improve with the Diversions of the Town.

  Please advise me at once, Dear Gus, regarding the state of His Lordship’s wound. I trust you are doing whatever is Necessary to ease his suffering. I fear your sister’s Affection for His Lordship may depend upon his Recovery, so I beg you, do what you can to Restore Him for the sake of your sister’s Poor Heart & the successful completion of this Most Advantageous Match. I know you will understand It All.

  Take Care, my own Gus, & may Heaven Preserve you in all things,

  With much Affection from

  Your Loving Papa

  Gus sighed with frustration. Of course she understood it all: She understood that once again, Julia had wheedled and whined and wept into getting her own way. She understood, too, that Papa—again—had forgotten every last one of his bold declarations and promises of punishment, and caved in to Julia’s demands like a sand castle before a watery wave, or at least a wave of piteous tears.

  Most of all, she understood that unless Lord Hargreave were to be miraculously restored—which she doubted very much would happen—to the same perfect health that he’d enjoyed before the accident, the match between him and Julia was done. Her fickle sister would dance off into the arms of some other handsome, wealthy gentleman with a title, and though there would be a certain taint of scandal around her, her beauty would likely carry the day.

  Again.

  Gus should not be surprised. Hadn’t this been happening their entire lives together? She carefully refolded the letter and looked up at William, standing before her with the dust of the road still on his boots.

  “Did my father give you any indication of when he’d be returning home?” she asked.

  “No, miss,” he said. “His lordship said for me to go on back to the abbey and to give you his letter, and not to worry over him or Miss Wetherby. He said they’d both be along in time, when Miss Wetherby was ready.”

/>   “That was all, William?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure what else there could be.

  “Yes, miss,” he said, then with a sheepish look on his face he pulled another, smaller note from his pocket. “Except for this, miss. It’s for you from Miss Wetherby.”

  Eagerly Gus cracked the seal. She hoped Julia would show some remorse, or at least inquire after Lord Hargreave’s condition, and send an enclosed note for him. But as soon as she scanned the sheet, she saw it wasn’t a letter at all, but a hastily written list of gowns and other scraps of clothing that Julia wished to have gathered up and sent to her in town.

  Gus stared at the list in disbelief. For the past five days, she’d tried to pretend that this would not happen. She’d told herself that for once—and for the sake of a dukedom—Papa would be strong, and bring Julia back home, the way he’d promised. She didn’t care if Julia felt guilty, or had simply changed her mind about marrying the earl. Her sister was behaving horribly dishonorably toward him, and it was not only cowardly, but . . . shameful.

  For five days, Gus had kept up the difficult ruse with Lord Hargreave that both her sister and father were in other parts of the house. Now she’d no choice but to tell the earl the truth, and soon, too. He’d already begun receiving letters addressed to the abbey. If she put off telling him much longer, she’d risk having him hear from someone else that Julia was dancing with other gentlemen in London.

  But how exactly was she supposed to tell him? He seemed to be improving so rapidly, both in his health and his spirits, and despite herself she smiled as she thought of how earnestly—even sweetly—he had thanked her earlier. She hated to douse all that with such bad news, and she feared it might even cause a setback to his recovery. She’d come to realize he was at heart a good man, if an occasionally arrogant one; he certainly didn’t deserve the misfortune that had already befallen him. How was she now to tell him that the woman he’d expected to marry had changed her mind because of an accident that she might have caused?

  She tucked the letters into her pocket for safekeeping, and turned back to the servant standing before her.

  “Thank you, William,” she said. “For both your service to my father, and the speed with which you returned. Now take yourself down to the kitchen, and tell Mrs. Buchanan I said you are to have whatever you please for your supper.”

  He grinned and bowed and tugged on the front of his cap, backing from the room. But before he’d reached the open door, Royce, the house’s butler, appeared behind him.

  “Miss Augusta,” he said, his expression perplexed. “May I have a word with you on a matter of some urgency?”

  Her first thought was that she didn’t need another urgent matter, not today. But her sister’s follies were not the butler’s fault, and so she smiled and gestured for him to enter and join her.

  “What has happened, Royce?” she asked as he bowed.

  “The new visitors have arrived, miss,” he said. “Lord Hargreave’s musicians. Where should I put them, miss?”

  She frowned, instantly fearing the worst. “Lord Hargreave’s musicians? What musicians?”

  “There are three of them, miss,” Royce said, not trying to lessen his disdain. “They’re foreign gentlemen, very brown. I should guess them to be Italians, miss.”

  Now Gus could hear some sort of cacophony of raised voices from the front hall, her own people mixing unhappily and loudly with others, who had foreign accents.

  “They have brought their instruments and their trunks and goodness only knows what else, miss,” Royce continued, his indignation rising with each word, “and they are insisting that they are to be your guests.”

  Gus didn’t need to hear more. At once she headed toward the front hall, determined to sort out this misunderstanding, for of course that is what it must be.

  But as accustomed as she was to general sorting out of misunderstandings, she was not prepared for the sight that met her. The abbey’s front hall was a grand space with high, arched ceilings and large, faded tapestries alternating with life-sized paintings of long-gone Wetherbys along the dark paneled walls.

  Camped in the middle of the black-and-white-patterned floor were three men and a great deal of luggage, including fitted cases for instruments as well as trunks for belongings, which all indicated a lengthy stay. The men were flamboyantly dressed in tight, striped jackets with laced hats perched on elaborate wigs. All three were speaking forcefully and at once, determined to drown out her own three footmen and two maidservants, who were hovering uncertainly around them as if they were ferocious wild beasts. As if their voices weren’t sufficiently loud, one of the newcomers kept thumping the side of a trunk like a drum with the head of his walking stick for extra emphasis. Standing at the door was a coachman, his whip in one hand and his other outstretched, palm up, who was demanding in an equally loud voice that he be paid for the passage and carrying from London.

  It was all like nothing that Gus had ever seen, and likely like nothing ever seen in the hall by her solemn painted ancestors on the walls, either. She took a deep breath and charged into the fray, taking her place on the second step of the staircase so at least all these jabbering men could see her. Then she clapped her hands briskly before her to draw their attention.

  To her relief, they fell silent, every face turned expectantly toward her.

  “Good day, sirs,” she said, conscious of how her voice echoed. “I am Miss Augusta Wetherby, of this house. Might I ask who you are?”

  The three men instantly began speaking over one another again, forcing Gus to clap her hands again.

  “One at a time, if you please,” she said, feeling like a nursemaid overseeing a pack of unruly charges.

  The three consulted briefly among themselves, and finally the tallest of the men stepped forward. He bowed extravagantly over his bended knee, whipping his hat from his head with a flourish.

  “I am Mr. Giovanni Vilotti,” he said, rolling the syllables on his tongue. “This is Mr. Arnoldo Bernadino, and Mr. Salvatore Riccio. We remain your most obedient servants, Miss Augusta Wetherby.”

  He bowed again, and Gus nodded: the most appropriate reply, but one that felt woefully inadequate compared with his salute.

  Gallantly Mr. Vilotti held his hat over his heart. “My friends and I come to your beautiful house at the exact request of our dear patron the Earl of Hargreave. What a disaster he has suffered! What a miracle that he has been delivered! We came the instant we received his letter, to offer him the healing delights of our music.”

  Behind him the other two nodded solemnly, as if all of this made perfect sense. Apparently it did to them, but not to Gus.

  “So his lordship invited you here?” she asked.

  Vilotti nodded vigorously. “He requires us, Miss Augusta Wetherby, and we came. We would never deny his lordship.”

  Gus sighed deeply, already guessing the answer to her next question. “Did his lordship’s request explain where you would be lodged?”

  Vilotti waved his hat in a wide circle, encompassing the entire hall as well as every Wetherby ancestor. “He said you were delighted to accommodate us, for as long as was necessary for his recovery.”

  This was too much, thought Gus, even for Lord Hargreave. How could he presume to invite such guests to her father’s house without consulting her?

  “I am very sorry, Mr. Vilotti,” Gus began, “but I fear I must first speak with his lordship before I can—”

  “Signore Villoti!” exclaimed Tewkes, coming down the stairs behind her. “Buongiorno miei cari amici!”

  “Mr. Tewkes!” Vilotti exclaimed, laughing with happiness. “How blessed are we to see you!”

  “His lordship could scarce wait for you to arrive,” Tewkes said. “This way, this way, you must come to him directly.”

  Gus turned to face Tewkes as the three musicians grabbed their instrument cases. “Tewkes, please. Permit me to speak with his lordship before these men intrude.”

  “It is no intrusion, Miss Augu
sta,” Tewkes said, beaming as the three musicians hurried past Gus and up the stairs to him. “His lordship is expecting these gentlemen, by his express invitation. This way, my friends, this way.”

  “No, Tewkes, that is not what I meant,” Gus said, but the men had already trooped up the stairs toward the earl’s bedchamber. She looked back down at the remaining piles of trunks and bags, with her servants staring at her and the coachman still standing with his hand out.

  “I needs to be paid, ma’am,” he said, belatedly pulling off his leather hat. “Three fares from London.”

  If Gus had been a man, she would have sworn. Instead all she could do was give orders, which she promptly did.

  “Royce, see that this man is paid what is owed him,” she said. “And keep a tally of the reckoning, to be presented to his lordship. The rest of you move these—these things from the hall to the rear gallery until we decide what his lordship will want done.”

  She gathered her skirts in one hand and raced up the stairs after the men. She could already hear the sounds of violins being tuned in the corner bedchamber, and Lord Hargreave’s booming laughter as he played the host, as if this truly were his own house, and he the master. Not an hour before, she’d felt so sorry for him, but now—now what she was feeling was much closer to murderous intent than sympathy.

  She didn’t care who he was, or what he’d suffered, or even that his great-great-grandfather had been the king of England: As far as she was concerned, this little frolic of his was about to end.

  Now.

  CHAPTER

  5

  “Here you are, Miss Augusta!” Harry exclaimed. “I was just going to send for you to join us.”

  He beckoned eagerly, motioning for her to sit beside him in the armchair that he now thought of as hers. The three musicians had taken possession of the corner near the windows, and were now sipping at the wine that Tewkes had poured for them as they tuned their instruments—a violin, viola, and a cello.