The Bath Trilogy

by Amanda Scott

  “Very well,” Sydney said. “Then I’ll find Salas and see what he thinks of all this. We’ve concocted a tale that ought to draw Cumberland off, but it will be as well for us to be sure that Salas can be trusted. That is by no means a certainty.”

  “He won’t give us away,” Carolyn said confidently. “He enjoys mischief as much as anyone and badly wants to get to the Continent. I daresay his latest exploits have been very serious ones since they have brought him here, for no matter what he says to the contrary, Sydney, he cannot have been certain that you would agree to help and not simply have him clapped up.”

  Sydney nodded, and just then the library door opened and Colonel MacMahon entered, followed by a minion carrying a stack of papers. The Regent greeted them, saying with cheerful aplomb, “Well, damme, there you are, MacMahon. Come in, come in. We wondered where you’d been hiding yourself!”

  Sydney and Carolyn, accepting a jaunty wave from him by way of dismissal, left at once, and in the hall, when Sydney had shut the door on the secretary’s indignant excuses, Carolyn said, “You might think you are going to keep me out of all this, Sydney, but I’ve no intention of missing all the fun. I’m going with you right now to talk to …” Seeing his gaze shift significantly to the porter, sitting in his chair near the door, she ended lamely, “… to go to the stables with you.”

  “No, you are not,” Sydney said. He glanced again at the porter, but with a grimace this time, as though he wished the man at Jericho. “Look here,” he said, “we’ll talk more later, but—”

  “I want to go with you and hear what you say,” she said stubbornly, adding in a whisper, “and what he says in reply.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later,” he said, not whispering but speaking low, “but believe me, you can do no good by going, and may do harm. If I go to the stables to talk to one of the men, there is nothing particularly unusual in it, but if you go with me, curiosity will be aroused in more than one quarter.”

  She considered this argument and, against her will, saw merit in it. “Very well then, but I ought to tell you that if you cannot find him at once, Dolly said she had put him in a room with mats all over the floor. I daresay they were put there to accommodate the extra—”

  “I know why they are there,” he said with a sudden glint of laughter in his eyes. “With as many guests as we’ve had, I haven’t been next or nigh that room in days, but if I do find him there, it will be one more count against you, my dear.”

  Though she did not know why he was amused or understand the meaning of his words, she was glad to see that he was no longer vexed, and when he called for a footman to fetch his cloak, she left him and went up the stairs feeling very relieved. It was odd, she thought, that such a small thing as watching a cloud lift from his expression could so easily affect her, but she had been noticing that fact more and more often of late. Halfway up the stairs she paused and looked back.

  He was watching her, and he waved, then turned to allow the footman to place his cloak around his shoulders, and stepped toward the door. The porter jumped up to open it for him, and a moment later, the door was shut again behind him and the hall seemed suddenly, and despite the fact that both servants were still there, very empty.

  Giving herself a shake and telling herself not to be absurd, that he was only going to the stables and not to the end of the earth, she turned back and continued her way up the stairs, but the interlude had given her pause in more ways than one. When was it, she wondered, that Sydney’s very presence had somehow become essential to her peace of mind? Was the phenomenon a recent one, or had she always responded this way?

  She turned down the corridor toward the stairs to the upper floors, turning these thoughts over in her mind. Certainly, her visits to Swainswick had always been more pleasant when he was there than when he was not, but always before she had put that down to the fact that it had been fun to dream up pranks to play on him. The two of them had not really become companions until she had moved here to his house.

  Climbing the second set of stairs, she remembered how eagerly she had looked forward to the move, but she could not convince herself that that fact had had much to do with Sydney. Swainswick had become unbearable by then with her godmother and Matilda continually sniping at each other. Leaving the manor had been essential. The fact that they might leave it for Bathwick Hill had meant only that they did not have to go to Dower House, a fate that the dowager appeared to view as only slightly less disastrous than lingering death. And Sydney, as she had perceived him then, had been only a pleasant, foppish, rather congenial, and definitely unquarrelsome host.

  Therefore, Carolyn decided as she entered her bedchamber, she had not cared so much for him then. Her feelings had developed gradually as she had come to look upon his departures—when he left to attend to his duties with the road trust or to visit the auction rooms in London or a friend’s home, to look over some latest acquisition—as black spots in her life, and his return from each journey with the delight of knowing that they might all be comfortable again.

  Indeed, she concluded, shutting her bedchamber door behind her and moving to stand by the window, comfort had become something she equated with his presence; discomfort, with his absence. But it was more than that, too. Comfort had come when he had paid heed to her, talked with her, joked with her, played cards or backgammon or chess with her; discomfort, when he had ignored her or seemed not to care what she had done.

  She had been fooling herself all this time she had thought she was attempting nothing more than to stir him enough to make him display emotion, for once, instead of concealing it beneath his practiced patina of elegant manners. Why had she never seen before that it was not merely his approval she sought or his displeasure she avoided? Each time she had resolved to make him react to her, had she not really been flirting with him, trying to attract his notice, attempting to discover if he might love her as much as she had come to love him?

  The last thought startled her, for she had not realized the direction her thoughts were taking; but standing there, staring blindly out the window, she pondered the last thought carefully. She did love Sydney, not as an elder brother or cousin, and certainly not as she would an indulgent father or uncle. Indeed, that view of Sydney made her want to laugh. Being eight years her senior scarcely made him paternal, nor did the fact that he was as different from such suitors as Brandon Manningford and Viscount Lyndhurst as chalk was from cheese. In their own ways the others were more like the heroes in her favorite books, particularly Lyndhurst with his penetrating glances and his aura of danger, but Sydney’s slim elegance and graceful manners were much more to her liking. In fact, now that she came to realize it, she had consistently compared all other men to him, and found them wanting.

  A sharp rap was the only warning she had before Miss Pucklington opened the door and said, “My dear, I have been searching the entire house for you!”

  Collecting herself with an effort, Carolyn said, “Have you, indeed, ma’am? I fear I’ve been wool gathering.”

  “Well, his highness the Duke of Cumberland has been asking Cousin Olympia this past half hour and more what had become of you, so I finally took it upon myself to suggest that I look for you. They are in the drawing room, and she and dear Matilda have been telling him all about the Saint-Denis family.”

  “Good gracious, not all, ma’am, surely?”

  “Oh, no, it is only about how wonderful the family is, and you know, my dear, on that subject, at least, they are very much in accord—not that they would ever think it right to come to cuffs before him on any subject—but I am afraid, you see, that his royal highness might be growing just the teeniest bit bored.”

  Carolyn grinned at her. “I do see, ma’am, and I hope he may be bored to death, but I will come just as soon as I change my dress and tidy my hair.”

  Miss Pucklington, expressing herself anxious that Carolyn should lose no more time than absolutely necessary, pulled the bell for Maggie and helped Carolyn until
the maid arrived, so that it seemed no time at all before they were ready to go down.

  In the drawing room, the dowager and Matilda appeared to have taken advantage of having the duke all to themselves to impress upon him the great importance of the Saint-Denis family over the centuries, for as Carolyn and Miss Pucklington entered, Matilda was saying in a consequential way, “I believe my husband’s family must be connected with well nigh every noble family in England, you know.”

  “I don’t say that is true,” the dowager declared, “but I am certainly not the first earl’s daughter to marry into the family, nor even the first Beauchamp, for there was Mary Beauchamp who married Thomas Saint-Denis in the early part of the last century, and a Beauchamp, you know, may look as high as she chooses—or nearly so,” she added with a slight inclination of her head which might or might not have excepted present company. She paused, evidently harboring a belief that her chief listener might choose to assure her that a Beauchamp might certainly look quite as high as she chose, and only when he remained uncooperatively silent, did she acknowledge Carolyn’s entrance, saying, “There you are. We have been wondering this age where you had got to.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, Cousin Olympia,” Miss Pucklington said hastily, “as I have only just been telling her. She was changing her gown, don’t you know, for I daresay she has been seeing that all is in readiness for their royal highness’s dinner.”

  Before Carolyn could think of a comment that would not contradict this statement, Matilda chuckled. “I’m sure I can’t think why she should. This household appears to run itself with commendable efficiency. I wish I might know how Sydney contrives it, for I am persuaded that my own does not run so smoothly.”

  “Well, one cannot wonder at that,” the dowager said tartly, “when you insist upon leaving everyone to get on without your supervision. I think it most ill-advised of you to have sent the children back to their governess when they might just as easily have remained here in Nurse Helmer’s charge.”

  “Nurse spoils them,” Matilda said placidly, “and Miss Rumsey does not. Children need a firm hand.”

  “How right you are,” Cumberland said, taking her side, Carolyn was sure, only because he disliked the dowager. “My parents would certainly agree with you that the best way to teach a child is with a firm hand, as I know to my cost. My father believed in a whip for his sons, a good sound smacking for his daughters. Indeed,” he added in an altered tone, with a speaking look at Carolyn, “I think wayward women need the same firm hand when they err against those set above them. They must be made to see—What, come to fetch me already, Neall?” he exclaimed, seeing his valet on the point of entering the room. He arose at once, and apparently unaware that he had offended all four women by his previous comments, said blandly now, “You must excuse me now, ladies, if I am to be dressed in time for dinner.”

  When he had gone, the dowager and Matilda, apparently forgetting their brief dispute, immediately embarked upon a mutual and spirited annihilation of the duke’s character. Miss Pucklington occupied herself with her knitting, and Carolyn remained silent, relieved that the other two seemed to be no longer at loggerheads with each other.

  There was no time to speak to Sydney before dinner, but afterward the gentlemen lingered even more briefly over their port than they had done the night before, and joined the ladies in the drawing room. When the Regent suggested another night of singing, Carolyn promptly invited Sydney to help her get out the music, and under cover of this activity demanded in a hushed voice to know if his mission had prospered.

  “He’s agreed,” Sydney murmured, casting a glance toward Cumberland, who with barely concealed distaste had plumped himself down in a chair from which he could observe Carolyn without being expected to converse with the dowager. Making certain the Regent was likewise beyond earshot, Sydney added, “He’ll bring his message tomorrow before noon.”

  “So soon?”

  Sydney said gently, “You and our chief tormenter wanted him gone at once, I thought.”

  Shooting him a speaking glance, she was surprised to detect laughter in his eyes. Flushing, and suddenly more than ordinarily conscious of his nearness, she stepped away from him and quickly invited the Regent to join them at the piano.

  Though she tried more than once, she could make no further opportunity to be private with Sydney that night. Nevertheless, she was determined to learn the precise details he had arranged with Salas, and retired to bed as soon as she reasonably could, hoping that since no one else was likely to put in an appearance before ten or eleven the following morning, she might tackle Sydney while he ate his breakfast at nine, as was his custom.

  He, in his turn, was determined to avoid just such a meeting and warned his valet, as that worthy helped him prepare for bed, to order breakfast served in his bedchamber.

  “Miss Carolyn tried three times tonight to ask me damned fool questions about what Salas means to tell the duke, Ching,” he said as he shrugged out of his coat, “and I don’t put it past her to try to winkle it out of me tomorrow if she can.”

  “But it is her plan, my master, or so you told me,” Ching said as he took the coat and then Sydney’s breeches and went to lay both on a chair, to be taken away later.

  “Only the framework, and if you think I want her getting herself into mischief or having that devil Cumberland suspect her involvement, you’ve got the wrong sow by the ear, and that’s a fact. As it is, our dearest duke stared her nearly out of countenance tonight, until I wanted to throttle him. Dammit,” he added as he pulled off his sock, “I’ve got a hangnail, Ching!”

  “I have no wish to speak out of place, sir,” Ching Ho told him, finding a pair of small scissors and kneeling to deal with the problem, “but if you wish Miss Carolyn to stay away, you perhaps would do better to keep her occupied yourself.”

  Sydney could think of a number of ways to keep Carolyn occupied, but none of these thoughts acted upon his temper as they ought to have done, and it was with a touch of asperity that he said, “If you can tell me how I’m to do that, with Prinny demanding that we go over the list of things he purchased from Melvin, I wish you will do so. I’m certain she intends to have some part in the mischief if only to make certain Cumberland gets that damned gypsy safely away.”

  Ching Ho got to his feet again and fetched the warming pan that had been left on the hearth. Sliding this beneath his master’s covers, he said, “Surely you can prevent that, sir. If you were to tell her she must not do so, and perhaps explain—”

  “No, no, Ching,” he said, waiting only for the pan to be withdrawn before climbing into bed, “to give the lady an order like that would be fatal. As to explaining, I’d as lief not discuss it with her. Confound it, I don’t want to talk to her at all until Prinny and the others are gone. I tell you, I’m beginning to find it dashed hard to …”

  But here his words trailed into silence when it suddenly occurred to him that he had reached a point where he could no longer discuss his every feeling with his henchman. He certainly had no wish to tell Ching Ho that he was finding it nearly impossible to be in the same room with Carolyn without catching her up in his arms and kissing her thoroughly.

  “Never mind what I was saying,” he said when Ching Ho set the pan on the hearth and looked back at him. “Leave my candle. I’m going to read. But mind you remember I’ll want my breakfast here. I’d order up a horse and ride out for the day, but I can scarcely do that with the Regent still here, so I’ll just stay here until he’s up and about and then slip into the drawing room or wherever he is. MacMahon will be with him, of course. That will fix Miss Caro, right enough.”

  The following morning, when Carolyn discovered that Sydney intended to breakfast in the privacy of his bedchamber, she was sorely tempted to do to him as he had done to her, and invade his room. Only a minute’s reflection was necessary, however, to show her that she could do nothing of the sort, especially with guests in the house, without creating a scandal.

  Possess
ing her soul in patience until he came downstairs was difficult enough, but to discover then that he did not intend to be alone with her was maddening. She was forced to sit in the drawing room, watching while he and the Regent discussed each item the latter had purchased the day before. Colonel MacMahon took notes on their conversation, and the only other people present were the dowager and Miss Pucklington, for Skipton had retired to the library with the papers, and Matilda had taken advantage of the first sunshine in days to go for a long walk.

  The dowager kept up a stream of placid small talk, but Carolyn paid her no heed as she tried unsuccessfully to catch Sydney’s eye by such subtle methods as were available to her under the circumstances. He was blind to her efforts, however, and for a brief moment, she actually hoped Cumberland would join them, so that Salas would have to deliver his message where she could hear what was said. A second thought reminded her that even if the duke did decide to join them, no message could be delivered while the dowager or Miss Pucklington was present, since both would remember Salas only too well.

  Cumberland put in no appearance until shortly before noon, but when he did enter, looking important and a bit self-conscious, Carolyn knew even before he spoke that Salas had once again successfully carried off an unlikely imposture.

  “Know you’ll all be disappointed to learn that I must take my leave of you,” the duke said in a sardonic tone, “but a matter has come to my attention that demands that I depart as soon as my bags have been packed. Neall is seeing to that now, so we’ll be leaving in an hour. By the bye, Saint-Denis, I’ve a wish to travel swiftly and without folks making a great to-do about who I am. Since you’re a road trustee, I daresay you can write a pass that’ll get a pair of plain coaches through all the turnpikes in a hurry without my having to identify myself, can you not?”

  “Certainly,” Sydney said. “I’ll inscribe it so you may use it for as many coaches as you like.” Ringing for a footman, he sent him to fetch paper from his desk in the library, and when the man returned, he wrote out the pass and gave it to the duke, who left the room at once.