Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)

by Wylde, Anya

  He nodded and with a loud miserable sneeze departed.

  He arrived just as the tea was brought in. She waited until he had finished a cup before asking him, “Where were you?”

  “I went to a few stationary shops. I wanted to see if I could figure out where the paper was procured from on which Hilbert wrote the poems—”

  “Philbert.”

  “Yes, him. If I could learn where the paper was bought, then perhaps his location would be easier to discover. He seemed to have used the same sort of stationary for all his works. I gathered that he had taken a fancy to them. They are unusual—”

  “Yes, with the paisley print blue border. That is because he bought them at our local stationary shop. Lord Elmer, I told you he left those letters on my doorstep.”

  He scowled, “Pardon me for trying to find Gilbert for you. I spent the entire day in the rain sweet talking shop keepers for what has turned out to be no good reason.”

  Celine couldn’t help it, she laughed at his disgruntled face. “Next time just ask me before rushing off. I may have the answer. You just have to ask the right questions. Here, this cake is delicious. Have a slice.”

  After being stuffed with food, he looked happier.

  She smiled indulgently. Her father was the same, irritable when hungry.

  He swallowed the last bite and leaned back in his seat. “I wonder what he wrote in those letters that your mother enthusiastically burnt to a crisp.”

  “More poems,” Celine said with certainty.

  “What if he wanted to call it all off? What if he wrote to tell you about how he had found a beautiful miss who appreciated his rosy cheeks more than you ever could?”

  “Or he could have asked me to marry him.”

  “The proposal,” he said cheerfully, “would have arrived in the form of a painting, a painting depicting roses and everlasting love, which you would have interpreted as a portrait of Sir John Barleycorn. I think the two of you will run around in everlasting circles destined never to hold hands.”

  “Snicker all you want. I think he would have stolen me away in a gilded carriage to Gretna Green. No need for pretty words. He is a man of action.”

  “You forget his destitute state. He cannot afford a gilded carriage.”

  “Fine, the carriage is not gilded but covered with wild flowers that he has plucked all by himself.”

  “I see. He arrives in this carriage covered with flowers looking like a complete sapskull and then proceeds to climb the ivy—”

  “The ivy wouldn’t hold him. He is too fa—” She bit her tongue.

  “Fat,” he completed for her with a grin. “My dear, I doubt he is in some seedy inn dreaming of your lovely brown locks and beautiful dark eyes. I think he is selling bawdy songs, drinking tankards of ale and bouncing wenches on his dimpled knees.” His eyes glazed and a faraway expression graced his features. “That vision almost made me green with envy. Goodness, his blubber cheeks are darned lucky … He was just kissed by the lusty barmaid.”

  “He is not being kissed by barmaids, Lord Elmer, because …” Here she paused.

  “Because?” he encouraged.

  “I already told you. He is not handsome.”

  He looked sceptical. “It is fashionable to say that so and so is not handsome and yet I love him. Take the duke for instance. He wears a constant brooding expression, and I have yet to see him smile. And my friend, a fellow called Lord Crawley with his bushy eyebrows and scarred left cheek, is supposed to be positively hideous. But you have women falling in love with these two men like besotted flies falling into a honey pot because in all honesty these men are not ugly but, in fact, handsome. Women just like to say they are ugly because women like being obscure.”

  “Philbert looks like a short pig,” she said flatly.

  A small silence filled the room.

  Finally he cleared his throat and said, “I see now how you would not expect him to find a woman. A piggish fellow who is an impoverished poet, and from his poetry I can guess a highly morbid individual.” He paused to eye her sympathetically, “A fat poet is in itself unnatural, but to add to that he is called Gilbert Goodbead. Yes, I can see how you can be so certain he has not found anyone. You are an odd sort of woman to fall for such an odd sort of man.”

  “I admire the man within. His heart is good.”

  “His head is definitely not good. His heart better be or I will begin to worry for you. I think what you need is a poodle and not a poet. I suspect your maternal instincts have taken over your otherwise rational brain—”

  “Thank you, Lord Elmer for trying to help,” Celine said standing up on trembling legs. “I think I can take care of my life and my choices. Perhaps it is best that you do not interfere any longer.”

  “I have a lead. A source tells me that he knows a man that knows where the poet may be. The man, not the poet, can be found at the poet’s corner, and he is willing to meet us to tell us more.”

  Celine lost her steam and collapsed back into the seat, “Truly?”

  “Are you ready to leave? I have the carriage waiting outside. We can go and find out right this moment.”

  “Now?” she squeaked. “I don’t think I can. It is too soon. My dress …”

  “You look charming, my dear,” he said yanking her up by the elbow. “What is your maid’s name?”

  “Gwerful,” she replied tugging her arm trying to escape him. “Why?”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he addressed Perkins outside in the corridor. “Miss Fairweather here wants to go for a walk. Please ask Gwerful to fetch a parasol. Anything else?”

  “My reticule, but—”

  “Reticule, coat … and gloves? Right, gloves as well, Perkins, and ask her to bring anything else she thinks her mistress will need on a long leisurely walk. That is all.” His hold on her was gentle yet firm. “It is like drinking a nasty tonic. The more you delay it, the more difficult it becomes to drink it. You cannot spend too long thinking about it or you will lose your courage. We will go, enquire and leave.”

  “I have to bring an abigail ….”

  “We shall bribe her and send her off to the stables to flirt.”

  “Someone may recognize me.”

  “I have purchased a veil for you which is currently lying in my pocket.”

  “I am not ready.”

  “You don’t have to meet him until you are ready. You can flatten your delightful nose on the grimy inn window and ascertain that he has been found and then leave. At least we will know where your poet is. I am starting to think that he is a figment of your imagination, and that, my dear, is a blood curdling thought.”

  Gwerful came racing down the stairs and skidded to a halt.

  Lord Elmer plucked the things from her hand and expertly slipped a few coins into her pleased palm. A finger to the lips was all the signal the highly philosophical maid needed.

  With a nod she disappeared for the rest of the day.

  “Put them on in the carriage” he whispered to Celine. “We don’t have much time. The place is a good half an hour away. We have to be back before dinner or someone will come looking for you. We cannot have that.”

  Celine jammed the bonnet on her head, her hands busy tying the strings. Her mouth was full of gloves so she could not answer.

  The carriage was well hidden behind a group of large fat trees huddled together like gossiping old men.

  “It is a hired coach,” Lord Elmer informed her. “Don’t call me Lord Elmer. I told the driver that my name is Mr Grey. Remember that.”

  Celine was speedily attaching the veil now. It was hard work without a mirror or a maid.

  He stopped and impatiently tilted her chin up. Quickly he clipped the veil to the rim of her bonnet. “Beautiful. I cannot see even a bit of your face. Now you are Mrs Grey.”

  “I shall not be Mrs Grey. I am Miss Brown.”

  “Miss Brown? A young unmarried lady off in a carriage with an unmarried male—”

  “Fine, I am
Mrs Grey.”

  The triumphant slap of his cane on the ground was the only indication that he was pleased with his victory.

  Celine rolled her eyes and entered the carriage.

  Lord Elmer rapped the carriage walls, and they were off on their very first adventure.

  Chapter 16

  “Your flashing eyes will soon fall upon the poet’s sweaty face. Are you afraid?” George asked, draping a relaxed arm over the back of the seat.

  Celine kept her eyes glued to the scenery outside. She refused to answer him.

  “Is your heart throbbing? Are you thrilled? Is the vein in your forehead pulsing in excitement?” George continued.

  “Lord Elmer,” she finally faced him, “My heart, as you say, is not throbbing, nor is my vein pulsing or my eyes flashing. If you cannot help, then stay silent.”

  “I want to help.”

  “My nerves feel as if they are stretching under my skin trying to escape, and I fear at any moment they will break free and run away.”

  “I cannot help.”

  “Sing a song,” she suggested, rubbing her temples.

  “I cannot sing unless I am foxed, but I can hum. I hum very well.”

  “Please by all means hum away.”

  And George did just that. He hummed away a delightful tune for the rest of the journey.

  Half an hour later the carriage halted outside the poet’s corner, which turned out to be a seedy inn called ‘In the Soup’. It was a place where impoverished poets met other impoverished poets to discuss the mediocrity of the poems written by all the wealthy poets.

  Celine stepped out, her cold hands clasping Lord Elmer’s elbow in a painful grip. She entered the inn on trembling legs ….

  Ten minutes later Celine walked back towards the carriage, her hands once more clasping Lord Elmer’s elbow. This time the grip was even more painful.

  “That was an utter disaster,” she said through gritted teeth. “How could you forget that his name is Philbert Woodbead and not Gilbert Goodbead? I thought you were pretending to mix up his name every time you spoke to me because you derived some childish pleasure in doing so. And I cannot believe that in this world a man truly exists by the name of Gilbert Goodbead. If I didn’t know better, I would be convinced you set that whole thing up.”

  “I confess, I am not good at remembering names.”

  “You remember Amy without any difficulty.”

  “I don’t have trouble recalling names of beautiful women. Just men.”

  Celine tensed, her heart skipping a beat.

  She asked with a quiver in her voice, “You think I am beautiful?”

  “Stunning when angry,” he replied banging the carriage door shut.

  The answer had come too quick.

  She tossed her head in annoyance and her eyes fell on the window.

  She froze.

  A small, wrinkled head with a missing tooth was peering into the carriage.

  Her mouth dropped open, the skeletal face making her flesh creep.

  She remained entranced unable to move as she watched the stranger examine the back of George’s curly head.

  It was her heart that started up first.

  It gave a weak flutter, and when that didn’t get any reaction from her brain, it began banging away in her chest with all its might.

  A small mewling sound escaped her.

  George jerked his head around to see what the matter was. He raised an eyebrow at her green face.

  She swallowed and then ever so slowly poked him in the shoulder and pointed at the face outside the window.

  George scrutinised the face.

  His worried countenance underwent a rapid change. A series of emotions paraded across his features until he settled on blooming cheeriness.

  “How are you old Tim?” he exclaimed in delight.

  Tim grinned, showing two more missing teeth. “Arr,” he said and raised his arms.

  George stopped smiling.

  Celine snuffled.

  And the very air in the carriage stopped swishing around momentarily, for Tim held a bow with the arrow aimed right at George’s aristocratic nose.

  George’s nose was now the centre of attention.

  Everyone focused their attention on this beautifully shaped nose. Even George stared at it in a cross-eyed fashion.

  The nose unused to such consideration started to itch.

  George did not dare to move and scratch that itch.

  Oh, how it itched.

  And while George’s nose was itching, Celine’s nose also started itching. Itches are like that, the mere thought of itches makes everyone itch. Hence, now even Tim was itchy but on his back and not his nose. It is another one of those idiosyncrasies of itches. Itches like to travel through air and around the body.

  Tim’s hand started to sweat and tremble as he tried to forget about his itchy back, the arrow quivering in his grip.

  Celine clutched her skirts and thought of England.

  George was doing remarkably well. He almost forgot about his need to claw at his face and scratch that blasted itchy spot but, alas, his nose that everyone had almost forgotten about gave up the valiant battle and it … twitched.

  Tim snapped to attention and drew back the arrow.

  George ducked.

  The arrow hit the unlit lantern hanging on a hook with a clang.

  Celine’s breath whooshed out in relief and George rapped the walls.

  Tim placed another arrow in the bow and took aim.

  Celine’s breath was once again caught in her throat.

  The carriage gave a lurch and Tim released the arrow.

  Hearts froze.

  The carriage started rolling.

  Tim’s arrow flew in from one window and out the other taking with it a single ostrich feather.

  George’s nose lived to smell another day, and hearts and lungs eagerly went back to work once more.

  ***

  Sitting at the bottom of the carriage Celine asked, “Who was that?”

  “One Legged Tim. He was on the pirate ship. The same ship I stole the recipe from. This is a disaster. He has found out that I am still in London.”

  “That story was true?”

  “You doubted my word?”

  “It is hard to tell when you are being honest and when jesting.” After a moment, she asked, “Did he want to kill you?”

  He shook his head, “No, he wanted to discuss how lovely the weather was and then he invited me to a ball. He went on to ask me to save a dance for him. Shall I wear my white silk French gown with touches of amber lace, ribbons and silver buttons?”

  “Yes, you will look delightful. I will even lend you my maid. She is a genius with hairdos,” Celine grinned.

  “I will look pretty with a bow stuck in my curls, won’t I?” he asked, turning his profile for her to admire.

  She admired, blushed and fell silent.

  He caught the blush. His eyes gleamed. “Handsome am I?” he asked raising a brow.

  She ignored his mirth and instead asked in a serious tone, “Do you think Tim will follow us? Wouldn’t that put Penelope in danger?”

  “No, I had already planned for such a situation. Nithercott is up front with the driver. He would have bribed the driver by now, and we should be taking a slight detour. Hopefully will lose him on the way.” He took a quick look outside the window, “We are definitely being followed, and it appears there are more of them.” He turned back around to find Celine rummaging around in her reticule.

  He watched her for a whole minute before asking reverently, “Celine, are you knitting?”

  “An accomplished lady is never idle. Mrs Beatle’s book for accomplished English ladies has three whole chapters on it.”

  “Yes, but we are hurtling away in a carriage being chased by blood thirsty pirates. I am not sure if knitting is the appropriate occupation at such a time.”

  She finished counting the stiches and looked up. “A lady must use her superior talents
for the greater good. If I die, then at least I would have died making a bootee for some poor orphan child.”

  “Your entry into heaven is guaranteed. Clever, very clever.”

  She moved on to a purl stitch, “What else am I supposed to do? This could take an hour. I cannot drive the carriage, and sitting here trembling like a leaf, stomach churning, cold with dread will do no good.”

  He stared at her in awe, “I am slowly understanding why the duchess says that you are a sensible sort of a creature.”

  After that, for the next forty minutes Lord Elmer sat plotting escape routes and bargaining with the almighty for his life.

  Celine, during the same time, managed to do something more constructive. She finished making a green bootee and tied the final knot. When she looked up next, it was to find that the carriage had slowed down.

  “Lucky day,” Nithercott shouted back into the carriage. “It was only old Tim and two of his cronies. We lost him easily enough, my lord.”

  Celine stuffed her knitting back into her reticule, “Good, we shall be home in time for dinner.”

  Lord Elmer smiled weakly and whispered, “Remarkable”.

  Twice.

  And that for some reason made her feel ridiculously pleased.

  Chapter 17

  “Is everything alright, Penny?” Celine asked.

  Penelope swallowed the porridge and said, “No, this morning the duke and I had an argument.”

  Celine made the usual comforting noises.

  Penelope took those noises as encouragement to proceed. “We fought about the fact that he is keeping a mistress.”

  Celine spat out the coffee. “I am so sorry. I never would have imagined. He seems so in love.”

  The duke slammed the fork down. “I am here. Please don’t talk as if I have left the room. And I am not having an affair.”

  “I saw you,” Penelope growled.

  Celine frowned in confusion. Penny had her meals in the dining room and slept in the Yellow Room. The duke was not likely to romance a woman on this very floor. Surely he was smarter than that. He could have taken his mistress to the stables ….

  The duke closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. “Penny, your sister is glaring at me. Can you quickly tell her where you saw me and with whom? I am afraid Celine is very close to poking my eye out with the butter knife.”