Not that he’d been given any choice in the matter, with family responsibilities piling upon him, one atop the other. He had been near to suffocating from the weight before the events of last week.
The final straw had been his father’s stroke, which had left the once vital and virile man looking frail, and terribly old, half-paralyzed, and weak, eyes rheumy with the pain and indignity of it all. His father’s wavering voice had been barely audible as he had begged his only son to let a pitiful old man die happy. It was the pity that had finally done what hints, sharp words, cajolery and tricks had failed to accomplish in happier times. He was here in Bath so that some lovely young thing could make him the happiest of men, or at least marry him.
It had been impossible to say no this one last time, to pull yet one more excuse out of his hat, to make a vague promise that, yes, of course, Father, but next year, when I get this drought problem solved, or when the irrigation trenches are completed, or the stable renovations finished, or this, or that, or another of the unending stream of activities that could immerse a gentleman farmer of substantial estates. Particularly one who found the ton and all its trappings far less absorbing than a thumping good experiment as to which particular mix of swill could best fatten up the pigs.
“I say, Julian, are you going to play that card or are you going to stare at it all night?” Wesley Ames asked, eyeing his own hand with obvious annoyance.
“Oh, they all look alike anyway,” Julian muttered, snapping the card to the table and hoping it was the right one. He couldn’t see a blasted thing in here. The light was too dim, chandeliers blazing away with candles a few hundred feet in the air. How could they expect anyone to see anything? At least the pips on the cards were large enough to count. Not for the world would he bring out his spectacles, lurking temptingly inside an inner pocket of his waistcoat. The few times he’d worn them among the ton, his cronies had had great fun at his expense, and “four eyes” had been the kindest of the taunts.
“You have the devil’s own luck with cards, Julian, and I’d swear you don’t pay the least bit of attention,” Wesley said, good-naturedly, when it became apparent that Julian would take the trick.
“Bad luck with the ladies, though,” Benjamin Watkins drawled. “Are you sure it’s safe to return? I rather thought Lady Helen Sneed would set up a hue and cry after you the last time you graced us with your presence.”
Julian ground his teeth and made no reply. It was just this sort of gossip he wished to avoid. Lady Helen’s daughter, Honoria, had been a lovely girl in her way, but her prodigious physical charms had palled upon further acquaintance. Actually, his pigs were more intelligent, not to put too fine a point on it.
“I suppose that’s why you’ve chosen Bath, instead of braving the full London Season?” Edgar Randall asked, with his usual feigned disinterest.
One must be quite careful what one said to Edgar. It was always repeated, and not with the greatest of accuracy. “I prefer Bath at this time of year, actually. It’s a little less tedious than London,” Julian responded. He flicked another card to the table. It made his head ache to fight with the bad lighting, and the room was too close. At home he’d be abed by now, long since, indeed, as he rose with the dawn. The ton went to bed with the dawn. It would take some getting used to, and he wasn’t sure he wished to be bothered.
“I picked up the most delicious piece of information today,” Edgar said, tossing a card to the table. He was an indifferent player, to say the least. His objective seemed never to be the pot, rather, the on dit. He let the remark hang in the air, waiting for some fish to snap at the bait.
“Do go on, Edgar. You know you can barely contain yourself,” Wesley said with a laugh.
“It seems that Perennial Toast, Caroline Quinn, is importing a country cousin for the Season. Now, can anyone imagine the beautiful but conceited Miss Quinn sharing the spotlight with a lovely demoiselle having her first Season? My suspicions are aroused.”
“My word, yes,” said Wesley. “Gel must be a positive Antidote. Else Caroline would never tolerate the sight of her on the premises. I daresay they’ve brought in a repellent spinster so as to invite favorable comparison. This promises to be most entertaining.”
“One must wonder whether or not Mrs. Quinn’s ruse will work, however,” said Benjamin Watkins, eyeing his cards dubiously. “My recollection is that the disdainful Caroline can attract multitudes of admirers, but that her waspish temper soon drives them off.”
“You had a rather narrow escape there, yourself, Julian, a few years ago, as I recall,” put in Edgar, with enough of an amused edge to his voice to indicate that he hoped he’d poked a sore spot.
“Not at all. Lovely girl,” replied Julian, keeping his voice nonchalant. “Should have offered for her, indeed. Perhaps this Season I will, at that,” he finished, triumphantly trumping Randall’s last throw.
“Perhaps your prize pigs will fly, Julian,” laughed Benjamin. “Let’s see,” he went on, fiddling idly with the few cards left in his hand. “You’d insist upon returning to the country to live. Then she’d be bored to tears and would have to take on the steward as her lover, and have you stabbed to death with a pitchfork through the chest. I can see now that it wouldn’t work out. Wise choice, my lad.”
“Well, yes. That was rather how I thought things would turn out,” said Julian, smiling in spite of himself. Benjamin had a way of making him see the humor in any situation.
“Well, I do recall that you and the Perennial Toast were quite the talk of a few Seasons back,” said Edgar. “Her first Season, I believe it was, although one does find one’s memory fading for ancient history.” Edgar threw down a card, paying no obvious attention to his hand whatsoever, now that he had fresh game in his sights. “Refresh my recollection, Julian. Were you the Jilt or the Jilted?”
“There was no question of a jilt, Edgar,” replied Julian, trying to hide his annoyance. “Caroline and I are friends, nothing more. We would never suit in a serious relationship.”
“Well, that may have been true then. But this is Caroline’s...what? fifth Season? Sixth?”
“Oh, not so many as that, Edgar,” Wesley broke in, obviously sensing that the jibing had gone too far. “Third or fourth, I’ll warrant. And it is Caroline, of course, who is being particular—though I do believe she liked you best, Julian. She certainly gives the cold shoulder to every new crop of young smitten swains.”
“Why don’t we pay a call on Mrs. Quinn and her arrogant offspring tomorrow? They’ve let the late Lord Ewell’s place, I understand,” said Edgar. “Welcome them to Bath, you know. Perhaps we might catch a glimpse of the sacrificial victim, this cousin from the country.”
“It sounds unkind to say the least,” Julian snapped. “Do you go to gawk at the country cousin or to annoy Caroline?” His head was pounding like the very devil. He never got headaches at his estate in the country.
“Oh, my, aren’t we holier than thou this evening?” put in Edgar, with a wicked gleam in his eye. Julian cursed himself for giving the man the opening to needle him. “But you will come with us on the morrow, of course,” continued the relentless Edgar. “To renew your fond friendship with the lovely, not-jilted Caroline.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think....”
“Nervous, Julian?” needled Edgar. “Frightened of her most formidable mama? I heard a joke recently...can’t think of the whole thing, but the punch line involved Bettina Quinn being the odds-on favorite at a match at Gentleman Jackson’s. Quite amusing, it was. Still,” he went on, with the a flick at an imaginary speck on his lace cuff, “I can see why, friends or no, you’d be simply knee-knocking terrified at the thought of facing either of those two dragons again.”
Julian did not consider himself a cowardly man by any means, but five minutes alone in a room with Caroline, or her formidable mother, for that matter, might well have him cringing in terror among the divan cushions. Still, what could be worse than failing to rise to Edgar Randall’s obvious cha
llenge? If he refused to go, by tomorrow at this time the entire population of Bath would be laughing at his cowardice, and the blood sport would be on.
“What time do we plan to set out?” he made himself ask, playing his last card.
“Oh, latish, to be sure. It would never do to roust Caroline from her repose. No doubt she sleeps till noon.” Unexpectedly, Edgar swept up the last trick. Very little money ever changed hands among this particular set. Edgar, often with pockets to let, could not afford high stakes, and Julian would not allow his friend to be put in an awkward position at cards.
“No doubt,” replied Julian dryly. “Well, I am for bed, myself, gentlemen. I shall not improve my fortunes playing cards with any of you, certainly.”
“Julian, you’ve become a country bore, sir,” laughed Wesley. “P’raps you and the country cousin will do well together at that.”
“P’raps she weighs as much as one of his prize pigs,” added Edgar, wickedly.
“Good night, gentlemen...although I use the term loosely,” replied Julian.
* * * *
“Go away!”
“Sha’n’t!”
“Please, Harry. I’ll only have a few minutes to myself. Then they’re sure to want something. Let me have just a little time here and I’ll tend to you later.”
“Roderick is a pig!”
“Hush, Harry! Someone will hear.” Elspeth said quickly, looking over at the door that Harry had, at least, remembered to close behind him when he’d tracked her to the library. “Remember these are not our servants. Things we say unwisely will be repeated.”
“‘Things we say unwisely will be repeated.’ I say, Owl Eyes, when did you turn into such a prig? When we crossed the threshold into this fancy house?”
Elspeth rolled the eyes her little brother so maligned. “I’m trying to teach you some manners, but I must say I had better luck with the dog.”
“Don’t need any manners. Manners are for fops and prissies. I want to go home.”
Now he looked a bit as if he might wish to cry, and Elspeth knew he would rather die than show such weakness in front of her. Quickly she climbed down from the rolling ladder where she had perched precipitously, happily picking through the books shelved in this most splendid library. Aunt Bettina carped about all the space the books wasted, and it was quite obvious that during the Quinn tenancy, the books would be ignored by all save Elspeth, who was enthralled by the sight and the endless hours of pleasure they would afford her—if she ever got any hours to herself, which, at the moment, seemed doubtful.
“Actually, Harry, I’d rather like to go home, too,” she said softly, pulling him to her. “And so we shall in a few months. But in the meantime, let’s enjoy the novelty of it all.”
“There’s nothing novel about being stuck in this house with my pig of a cousin,” Harry muttered, head buried in the folds of her dress, arms wrapped tightly about his sister.
“Yes, but Aunt promises to take us to the Pump Room, as soon as I’m presentable.”
“I don’t understand all this fuss about your clothing, Elspeth,” he pronounced, drawing back and eyeing her seriously. “I think you look fine just the way you are.”
“Thank you, Harry,” she said simply. From the way Caroline had sneered at her meager wardrobe, Elspeth had been left with the impression that servants in the poorer households were better attired.
“Although,” he went on, perhaps unwisely, “I must say you look a sight now, all dusty from these books. You have a large cobweb in your mobcap, but I don’t think...” he eyed it carefully. “No, I don’t think it has a spider in it,” he pronounced with a grin, having achieved the desired effect as his sister blanched at his words. “And you do have the largest smut across the tip of your nose. ‘Your appearance is simply unacceptable in polite society, Cousin Elspeth’,” he said with a sneer, in perfect imitation of Cousin Caroline.
Elspeth reached up to wipe her nose, but from the delighted expression in Harry’s eyes, she was quite sure she had merely succeeded in smearing the smut across the rest of her face. Indeed, the books were exceedingly dusty. She had borrowed the cap and apron from one of the parlour maids. Her day dresses might not be up to Caroline’s standards but they were all she had at present.
“Actually,” Harry went on, warming to the subject, “if anyone cared for my opinion, and I doubt they do, I’d tell them it’s Cousin Caroline who looks absurd. All that cloth, miles and miles of it, and fuss and feathers. And she screams the house down if anyone comes near her, not that anyone cares to.”
“Yes, well, see to it that you don’t go near her. I won’t have you blamed for any more mischief like last night.”
“I didn’t do it, I tell you! Roderick said I did, but it was him, not me!”
“I believe you, sweetheart, but it doesn’t really matter. Just stay out of mischief and before you know it, we’ll be home again, safe and sound.”
Harry gave her a pitying glance, one full of the wisdom of a nine-year-old-who Knows Better.
“Now take yourself off and read some Latin. It’s the one place you can show Roderick a thing or two, if you’re keeping a tally sheet,” Elspeth said with a laugh. She watched as he carefully shut the door behind him, then scaling the ladder once more, turned her attention with a sigh of pleasure to the splendid wall of books.
* * * *
He had been mad to come here. And a thousand times a fool for allowing Edgar Randall to goad him into it. Better that ton tongues wagged about him all Season than that he should deliberately place himself once again in the direct sights of Miss Caroline Quinn, or, worse, her mother. It had been hard enough extricating himself three years ago, and no doubt Caroline and her mother had honed their skills more finely by now.
“I say, how long has the chit kept us waiting?” asked Wesley Ames, walking once again to the window. “An hour at least, I’ll warrant.” It was more like a half hour, really, Julian thought, consulting the ormolu clock that graced the mantle. Indeed, time was flying for him. He had no desire to hurry along the process. By custom, these visits lasted no more than the requisite fifteen minutes, once they got underway. For Caroline and Mrs. Quinn to keep them waiting a full half an hour was arrogant, but not unknown in these circles, where one’s importance could be gauged by one’s tardiness. Of the country cousin there was no sign, but it would be unlikely that she would make an appearance before she could be formally presented by her aunt.
“I know she’s the Perennial Toast and all that,” Wesley went on, sounding a bit petulant, “but, still, a man’s time ought to have some value.”
“What else might you be doing with your time today, Wesley?” replied Edgar Randall, his tone indolent as he sprawled across a fussy, brocade-upholstered settee. “Taking a nap?”
“Well, I could always use a good ride,” Wesley answered. “My cattle need an outing.”
“I could be reading a good book, at least,” muttered Julian. “I recall old Lord Ewell was something of a scholar. Kept a good library. Can’t think that Caroline or Mrs. Q. will give it much use. Wonder if it’s still here?” he asked, hope springing alive with the thought. An idea bloomed. Desperate, even craven, to be sure, but any escape from this iron-jawed trap was a blessing.
“Believe I’ll wander across the hall and take a look at the library. Some good books there as I recall,” said Julian, ambling with affected nonchalance for the door, half expecting it to blow open and reveal mother and daughter, squatting like gargoyles on the threshold. If he could lose himself in the library until the short visit was well underway, it might lessen the amount of time he would be required to spend with the Quinn ladies. Perhaps they would forget about him altogether, and he could bumble and apologize for his gauche inattention all the way to the front door, making good his escape with a minimum of actual contact.
Once in the hallway, he had to stop himself from tiptoeing like an ill-intending child. Still, he trod rather lightly, considering the sound his heavy boots us
ually made across a wooden floor. Now where was the library? These Bath townhouses were small by London standards, but no less oppressively opulent for all that. Yes, the last door on the right, he thought, although it had been some time since he had last been in this house, Lord Ewell having been something of an invalid for whom the restorative powers of the waters of Bath had become less and less effective as time went on.
Lord Ewell’s library had been impressive indeed, particularly in Bath where most rooms so designated were fitted out with an ornate desk, several comfortable wing chairs, a few tables holding full brandy decanters and crystal snifters, and, if there was room enough, a book or two, for appearances’ sake. Lord Ewell’s library, however, had been walled with books, floor to ceiling, marching like stalwart, colorful, well-turned-out soldiers, all in neat, orderly rows, a sight to delight the eyes of the few true bibliophiles among the ton. Julian patted his waistcoat pocket and was relieved to feel his spectacles nestled safely within.
He heard no telltale approaching footsteps as he let himself through the door, closing it behind him as quietly and quickly as possible. It was all he could do not to lean against the door and pant, but even a coward had his pride.
* * * *
Drat! It was no good trying to see anything out of spectacles this dirty. Elspeth had bumped her face right smack into another cobweb and hoped desperately that its eight-legged occupant had been off somewhere else on business at the time. Carefully, she pulled the gold wire-rims from her nose as everything blurred before her eyes. Using what appeared to be a clean corner of the borrowed apron, she wiped the sticky web from the glass, surveying as she did so the books before her nose, now an unfocused wall of color. Ethridge’s Botanical Studies lay open in her lap, a veritable treasure of precise and intricate drawings that delighted and educated at the same time.
But though she was blind as a bat, there was nothing wrong with her hearing. The sound of the door opening told her she’d been found. Elspeth squinted mightily, hoping to make out the rotund form of the butler, or perhaps, Harry come back to complain loudly of further ill-treatment at the hands of the bully, Roderick.
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