by Laura Parker
She pressed a hand to her feverish cheeks and took a deep controlling breath. “One hour I think I shan’t go back. Even if he should come to Bath on bended knee with abject misery in his tone. The very next I think my heart shall crack if he does not come for me today. I am like a weather vane in a storm, buffeted this way and that, and never certain of any direction for long!”
“You must not despair, Lotte.” Sabrina cast about in her thoughts for a suitable antidote for the countess’s tears. “Lord Randolph would not like to see you in such a state.”
“You are right, of course you are.” Ever aware of her appearance, Lotte quickly smoothed tears from each cheek with her handkerchief and smiling with false brightness said, “There now, I’m ready. You must think me the veriliest ninny to be drowned in sorrow when ’tis the happiest of coincidences that we have found one another.”
The liveried footman had stepped down and unlatched the carriage door. When he had let the steps down, he offered his hand to Lotte.
She slid forward on her seat to exit but paused in the doorway with only her head poking out. After a significant pause, she drew in her head and turned to Sabrina. “Surely you do not stop here?”
Sabrina nodded, resolute in her embarrassment. “Alas.”
The countess’s expression was priceless in its dismay. “But the lane is small and dirty and … common!”
Chapter Nine
Positioned on a settee in the countess’s bedchamber, Sabrina languidly stroked the kitten she had brought with her from Mrs. Noyes’ residence. Upon cue, she coughed dutifully into her handkerchief.
“No better. I do declare it, you are worse!”
Lotte turned from her vanity toward Sophie, whom Mrs. Noyes sent daily to inquire after Sabrina’s health. “You may tell your mistress that you have seen her and that Miss Lyndsey is no better.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Sophie bobbed in deep curtsey, as overwhelmed to be in the presence of a countess as she had been three days ago. “But Mrs. Noyes suggests that Miss Sabrina return today.”
Lotte held up a hand for silence. “Do not babble, girl.”
She turned back to a contemplation of herself in the gilded frame mirror above her dressing table as her maid put the finishing touches on her coiffure. “My felicitations to your mistress. May she not be further plagued by illness visited upon her household.”
With a languid movement, Lotte reached to extract a coin from the silver dish that also held her tortoiseshell hairpins. Without even glancing at it, she allowed it to casually slip from her fingers.
Sophie leaped to retrieve it, a ritual begun three days earlier. When she attempted to hand it to the countess’s maid, Lotte flicked her fingers in dismissal. “I am far too busy to collect trifles. Keep it, girl.”
“Yes, m’lady!” Sophie squeezed the coin with the desperation of one who thought it might jump from her fist. “Only what do I tell my mistress?”
Annoyed by the girl’s persistence, Lotte sought to catch Sabrina’s eye through the medium of her mirror. The sight made her lips twitch. The younger woman’s complexion had crimsoned from her efforts to control her laughter.
She pretended to regard her guest’s mirthful expression in mock alarm. “Why I believe, Sabrina, you are flushed. Feverish, I am tempted to call it. Declining, I’m all but certain of it.”
She glanced again at Mrs. Noyes’ maid. “I had not thought of it ’til now. But as you come daily into Miss Sabrina’s company you might well carry disease back to your mistress’s door. Therefore you are banned from my home until I am certain the danger of infection is past. Tell your mistress the ban shall last a fortnight, at least.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Sophie bobbed another curtsy and backed out of the door as though royalty had dismissed her.
Lotte turned her attention to her “declining patient” who yawned and stretched like a cat that had finished a delicious dish of cream. With a twinkle of amusement in her eyes she said, “You seem lethargic. Shall I send for a physician?”
Sabrina shook her head as she rearranged the folds of her borrowed blue silk wrapper embroidered in gold and red butterflies. “Quite the contrary. I am feeling quite fit.”
“Really?” Lotte’s signature red brows expressed guarded hope. “One does wonder what to think. One moment declining, the next positively spry. Might it be delirium taking hold?”
“Oh, I hope so,” Sabrina answered.
A quick exchange of glances was all that was needed and the two young women broke into gales of bright feminine laughter. Their delight in bamboozling Mrs. Noyes was with them still.
Sabrina had suspected that Mrs. Noyes would not be pleased to find her in the company of another when she returned from her first visit to the Pump Room. That displeasure, however, had turned to obsequious delight when she had discovered her charge’s companion was an aristocrat.
“A countess! In my home!” the older woman had exclaimed to those passing her door before setting about to make a complete toady of herself. Sophie was ordered to bring the best chair in the house from the woman’s bedroom into the parlor so that Lady Lovelace might sit upon it. Ale and cakes the likes of which Sabrina had never before known to exist in the household had appeared as refreshment. Cringing in embarrassment, she had stood silently by while Lotte allowed herself to be fawned over in a manner she suspected the countess despised.
The interlude might have served no other purpose than as an instance of absurdity if she had not taken it upon herself to cough loudly in hopes of bringing to a close the quarter hour’s exchange.
“You are still ailing!” Mrs. Noyes had cried in accusation. “Go to your room, at once! And there you must remain!”
Lotte, quick to spot a weakness, had observed in her most authoritative voice that Mrs. Noyes was very brave to house contagion beneath her tiny cramped roof. With equal alacrity, she pointed out that her home in Bath was both spacious and compartmentalized. A person might be quite ill in one room yet never infect any other member of the household. Before Mrs. Noyes could insert a word, the countess had risen to her feet with the firm declaration that she would take Sabrina to stay with her. It was the least she could do.
Mrs. Noyes’ halfhearted protests were quickly overridden when Sabrina provided a few sneezes and coughs as counterpoint.
The countess’s adroit handling of the woman impressed Sabrina. Yet after three days of freedom, she was no closer to finding her way into a gaming salon than before. That must change.
“I am so very weary of lying about indoors,” she said with a sly glance at her hostess. “I feel as caged as a menagerie beast. ’Tis a very pretty cage, to be certain,” she added to remove the sting from her complaint.
Lotte beamed. “Do you like the new drapes? I thought as long as we were to be ensconced in Bath for some days we should enjoy it. I may make a few other changes as well.”
Sabrina glanced at the accoutrements of the countess’s boudoir, which included rose silk bed hangings, oriental carpets and hand-painted French furnishings, and wondered what else could possibly be added. The house itself was newly built on the large square called Kingsmeade, part of a set of houses fashioned from the local golden-white Bath stone by the famous architect John Strahan. She knew this because, much to her surprise during their journey across town to the countess’s residence three days before, she had been subjected to an unexpected lecture of the city’s architecture by—of all people—Lady Charlotte.
Lotte had animatedly pointed out the differences between Wood’s style, which was decidedly more Palladian than Strahan’s more traditional baroque facades. Strahan, according to Lotte, was John Wood’s greatest rival in his efforts to build the city. St. John’s Hospital was Wood’s work, as was the home of the Avon Navigation Company and Combe Down quarry owner, Ralph Allen. Kingsmeade was Strahan’s.
It seemed that, for all her seeming disinterest in weighty matters, Lotte had acquired in a very short ti
me an astonishing breadth of knowledge on the subject of architecture. She had a keen grasp of the mechanics of it as well as an understanding of the merits of each design. In recent days, she had even begun to sketch ideas for remodeling the Lovelace mansion in London. Perhaps the lady’s life of indulgent idleness was at an end.
Sabrina frowned with a sudden dire thought. If Lotte suddenly took it into her head to go home to her husband before she had introduced Sabrina to the gaming society of Bath, her own plans would collapse. Time to nudge her friend.
“If only I had your wherewithal, Countess.” Sabrina sighed dramatically. “I, too, should set up housekeeping in town where, of a certainty, Kit would receive proper care. Yet I cannot be content for even a moment while Kit is counting upon my rescue.”
Lotte turned back to her table so that her maid could pin atop her powdered curls the addition of a lace cap. “I do not, as you well know, share your reasoning in the matter of your brother’s safety. However, were I possessed of the ready, you may be certain I would have loaned it to you. I am still prepared to help in any manner I may.”
Sabrina sat up. “Then help me in the manner I need. Introduce me to a place where I might gamble and win the money I need.”
The countess frowned. “That would not seem a sound plan, if my luck at the tables is any measure.”
“I have no choice,” Sabrina answered. “Good or bad, my luck is all I possess.”
Lotte smiled. “Very well, I was about to tell you in any case. I’ve accepted an invitation to a small party to be held this evening.”
“A card party?”
Lotte inclined her head in dismissal and her maid, chosen for her discretion as well as her skill with a lady’s toilette, melted away into the shadows. Only then did she swivel about on her tufted seat.
“An evening of gambling hosted by one of Lord Randolph’s distant cousins. Unknown to me personally, of course. There are dozens of cousins. The Lovelace family breeds excessively, if you ask my opinion. I’m afraid the stakes will not be high. With the passage of the odious Gaming Act last year, high stakes gambling has been curtailed in public places. Alas, it has had a dampening affect on even private parties.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid that is Lord Randolph’s fault. He backed the bill. Still, the party marks a beginning.”
A frown again puckered her brow when she picked up a hand mirror and was momentarily distracted by her reflection, which was as pale as a tallow candle. She sighed. “I had expectations that Darlington would have favored us with a visit by now.”
“I do not see what difference the viscount’s attendance could make,” Sabrina retorted.
Lotte reached to dip two fingers into her rouge pot, intending to improve upon her maid’s efforts, but then thought better of it and abandoned the effort. “In order to enter one of the private salons where the stakes remain unlimited we must have an escort.”
“I would prefer it not be Lord Darlington,” Sabrina said crossly though she, too, had briefly entertained hopes of his patronage.
“You’ve never said why you disapprove of Lord Darlington, above the ordinary gossip, I mean.”
“The ordinary gossip is enough to influence my opinion.”
Lotte canted her head toward the younger woman. “Sabrina, what is this new pout? Though you do not wish to marry Lord Merripace, it cannot follow that you must not wish to fall in love.”
Sabrina smoothed the shiny surface of her borrowed finery. “I dare say I cannot comprehend the meaning of the word love.”
“Gammon!” Lotte lifted a hand heavenward as her eyes followed. “Surely you have felt a thrill when a certain gentleman’s gaze meets yours? How, if he but chances to touch your hand, your heart leaps?” Her lids fluttered down as a secret smile softened her mouth and filled her cheeks with the glow that had been missing. “One day there will come a moment when you know with absolute certainty that your life will never be complete if he does not kiss you!”
Sabrina made a sound that was far from concurrence.
Lotte opened her eyes, her wistful expression altering to one of wonder. “These feelings are known to you?”
Sabrina shook her head. “Not a one.”
Lotte’s azure gaze drifted down upon her friend in a kind of benediction as she said softly, “You will.”
Sabrina shrugged, unconvinced. “There’s only one who occupies my thoughts and affections and that is Kit.” Her mouth softened. “ ’Twas kind of you to allow me to write to him and stamp it with your crest. Perhaps it will be delivered to him for the very reason that there is no outward sign of my hand in its composition.”
“ ’Tis nothing to frank a letter for a friend. However, I can’t say that I changed my opinion of your plan. Running away never solved anything.”
Sabrina forbore to remind her benefactress that she had done exactly that in deserting London without telling her husband. The subject of Lord Randolph was not one that the countess cared to discuss unless she brought it up. And when she did, inevitably, the scene ended in tears. In fact, these past days, the countess seemed more fragile of constitution than Sabrina in her most persuasive pretense at illness.
“How is your digestion today? You were quite ill at breakfast.”
Lotte blushed. “ ’Twas nothing. A spoiled kidney, perhaps. I cannot think why I ever liked them. The smell is enough to quite revolt one’s system.
“I shall send my maid to attend you when I am done dressing,” Lotte continued quickly. “I can’t imagine what your guardian was thinking to send you off without one. Clearly the man has no experience of ladies. I suppose one must be grateful that he had packed a few of your gowns. Yet you will quickly run short once we are out in society. You may borrow whatever you need from my closet.”
“You are too kind,” Sabrina answered though the offer had its limitations. When she stood the hem of the wrapper puddled about her slippered feet, testament to the fact that the countess was tall with a spectacularly voluptuous figure, while Sabrina was petite and less generously contoured.
“Do not forget your clogs,” Lotte called after her. “A gentle rain has begun.”
“Anything else?” Sabrina inquired politely.
“Yes, wear your green and pink stripe silk gown. As I recall, Darlington is partial to stripes.”
“Darlington again,” Sabrina muttered as she strolled through the dressing room that separated her room from her hostess’s. Nothing concerning the viscount was of the least interest to her. His conduct toward her had been nothing short of galling. No amorous advance from him would ever move her to pine for his kiss.
Sabrina brought her fingers to her lips. She had not slept a night since arriving in Bath without the specter of Black Jack Law to keep her company. Always the dream was the same: the meeting, her anger, his threat, the kiss, the pistol shot. The crack of that pistol shot always awakened her.
The outlaw who had ridden into her life out of the moonless night still fascinated her. She had only to close her eyes to recall the impression of his mouth on hers, the firmness of his lips, smooth yet exciting. She had only to hold that memory to her to feel a strange yet deep stirring. Was this unaccountable sensation the pang of desire the countess had hinted at?
She snapped her eyes open and snatched her hand from her mouth, faintly ashamed to realize that she was atremble.
“Out! Out!” she commanded the highwayman’s memory and twisted her toe into the plush as if she could grind all thoughts of him into the carpet.
That forbidden moment, the pressure of those lawless lips, had lingered in her memory far beyond its importance to her!
“Most honored to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Squire Threadlesham beamed up at the tall nobleman to whom he had just been introduced by their host, Sir Avery Lloyd. “Most honored.”
He bowed a second time. The action launched an assault by his ample belly upon the buttons of his clothing, which provided a valiant effort to kee
p closed the front of his vest. His ruddy cheeks bloomed as he realized he was being rewarded with silence by the viscount. “Only wish my Bess weren’t abed with the very rheumatism which brings us to town. When she learns she missed out on the honor of meeting a genuine member of the peerage, she won’t be fit to live with.”
“Hectoring hens, every one,” barked their companion and host Sir Avery, an elderly knight of three score years.
He pronounced this opinion with faint contempt for the swarm of ladies streaming past him into the salon of his Bath residence. He glanced at Lord Darlington. “Not my usual style, mixing gentry with the titled. But my wife insisted. Things are done less formally in Bath. Been listening to that damned Nash fellow again.”
“Don’t expect a nobleman of your estimation often lends his consequence to affairs of this sort,” Threadlesham remarked in the outrageous hope that the viscount would contradict him and asked to be allowed to call on the ailing Mrs. Threadlesham. To his disconcertion the viscount had yet to address a word to him of any sort. The introduction elicited only a lift of golden brows and the firming of a handsome masculine mouth into what might only in extreme generosity be termed a smile.
“Never made the acquaintance of a member of the peerage before,” Threadlesham continued nervously. “No indeed, unless one considers a baronet, no, of course you wouldn’t. But Sir Avery is a right stouthearted gentleman. Fought off Jack Law with nothing but a cane.”
For the first time the glance of indifference lifted from Jack’s tarnished-silver gaze. “He was attacked by the highwayman?”
“The very soul,” Threadlesham answered, pleased to have found a subject worthy of the nobleman’s response. “The Knight, for all his bravery, lost his silver buttons and buckles, a brand new watch, and a considerable purse. Said he recognized the brigand from a reward bill posted in the tavern of a coaching inn. Brave to make a fight of it.”