Supper was waiting for her when she returned, though she smiled when she saw the food. It was very plain, ans served with a glass of milk. Not that she minded, for it was what she had had in the country, but it caused her to reminisce about the teas she had had in the nursery. She would have to drop a couple of hints to Cook about her likes and dislikes.
Arabella retired to her room, where the efficient little maid had already put away her new clothes.
She donned her linen nightrail and brushed out her hair by the fire. She looked over the shelves for reading materials, and noted the children's stories. They must have been left over from his own children, she concluded.
She picked one up happily to refresh her memory on her favorite Aesop's fables, all richly illustrated. A lovely book of stories from the Bible in full colour was also on the shelf.
As she drifted off to sleep she realized happily that she had not once thought of Dr. Sanderson. She recalled with longing his handsome face, but she had to put him out of her mind.
Perhaps she was already getting over whatever strange affliction had struck her down whilst travelling?
She certainly hoped so, but all the same, her dreams were filled with recollections of the passionate interlude they had shared, and the warm desirous glowing of his incredible hazel eyes…
The following morning, after a restless night filled with dreams of the handsome Dr. Sanderson, Arabella rose early and got dresse in the plain gown she had arrived in the previous day. There was no sense in getting any of her new frocks dusty or damaged while she moved.
With the help of her new guardian's kind servants, she pack up the last of her things and her brother's from his rooms, and transferred them to her new home, the elegant London townhouse she had suddenly found herself in thanks to her step-brother Peter.
Her new chamber became full of clothes, ornaments and books. She smiled fondly at some of the objects. Peter loved to collect things in his travels. They were an eclectic mix of French booty and trinkets he had purchased for himself, a card case, a pipe, a human skull.
She arranged them and all of her new thinks to her liking, then wrote to her old home in Somerset to tell them of her news, mitting the coach accident so they would not worry.
Then she settled in for more reading, and the excellent meals the servants were constantly bringing her without her even ever having to ring the bell. Things certainly were done on a tight schedule, and always punctual, she noted, impressed, if still somewhat ueasy as to just how strict and severe old Mr. Blake would be.
Thus the time passed quickly for Arabella, haunted only occasionally by recollections of the incredible Dr. Sanderson and all they had shared.
Only on New Year's Eve, after attending her fittings at the dressmaker's, did she feel she had cause to repine.
1815. Fancy that.
What would it bring for all of them? A great deal of happiness, she hoped. But it was rather sad to be all alone in the big house with no one to speak with except the servants.
Not that the house was gloomy; far from it. The music and drawing rooms, the library were all elegant. Apart from the two little sitting rooms, the gold and the burgundy, which flanked the entry way, and the dining room, she had yet to explore fully the rest of the large house, waiting for a guided tour from her guardian as Travis the butler had instructed.
But she was more than comfortable, and the bathroom adjoining her chamber had all of the most modern facilities, including running water.
Another guest room lay beyond. It was masculine and devoid of any sign of personal ornaments, and she wondered once again what manner of man Mr. Blake was.
As soon as she arrived back at Berkeley Square from the dressmaker's that afternoon, she discovered she was about to find out. Travis informed her that the Master had just returned from Bath unexpectedly and was upstairs dressing.
He had ordered a special dinner in honour of the occasion, for New Year's Eve also. She was to put on a clean frock and join him at four.
She went upstairs and undressed quickly, trying to decide what she should wear for her first meeting.
She decided upon the russet gown, and then twirled her hair into an elaborate twist at the top of her head before teasing out some curls at the nape of her neck and over her brow.
As the clock struck four, she straightened her back and went downstairs to meet her new guardian.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blake was chagrined to admit that the only reason he was so eager to get to Bath was so that he could leave it again. He was eager to finds out more about Mr. Samuels, the apothecary in Bristol, with a view to somehow locating Belle and… what?
Suggest she become his mistress?
It was the easiest solution in the short term, for it would slake his lusts and still not entrap him, force him to make a capital error which might destroy any chance of happiness either of them might have.
But he had always vowed he would not be a rake. Never ruin a young girl without any regard for her future. He knew too well the disasters which befell young girls and women when they lost their virtue and reputation.
It was the height of hypocrisy of course for him to have dallied with the married women who had offered themselves to him. But he had never compromised their reputations. Marriage covered a multitude of sins, as he had discovered from hearing the latest on-dit about Rosalie Crane Stanton at Bath.
Word had it that she had paid a seemingly virginal young cousin of hers into tricking Stanton into bed, so they could be discovered in flagrante delicto in order to help Rosalie gain a separation. If it proceeded to divorce, Robert would be forced to admit fault, and would not only have to grant her a huge settlement, but might never be permitted to marry again.
Poor Stanton could have had her declared to blame a hundred times over if the books around Boodle's were to be believed. They were all laying odds on which of her numerous swain Rosalie would wed.
Some of the long shots were not so long, one young buck at the Pump Room had sniggered, earning himself a withering look from both Blake and his friend Michael, who was still confined to a wheeled Bath chair after the damage to his back and legs during the battle of Toulouse over eight months before.
But it was really Michael's frame of mind which was his worst malady, for after having been the perfect solider ever since the Peninsular war had started in 1808, Michael now was plagued by remorse over all the men he had killed. The fact that he had done it to preserve life and freedom seemed to be lost upon him. He was horrified because he said he had actually enjoyed it.
Blake had tried to steer his conversation away from the topic, to music, which had been one of Michael's great loves, to the politics of the day.
Michael was an ardent Radical, as were all his friends. Blake promised to get Michael and the Rakehells together again just as soon as he was well enough to receive visitors.
"No, no visitors," Michael refused for the hundredth time. "I'm officially dead, remember? I want it to stay that way. My family are not to know!"
"But--"
"I'm polluted. Not fit for decent society," he argued vehemently.
"Your legs are improving every day. Your mind will as well, eventually. They're old friends. They served in the war themselves. They will understand. It will-"
"No one understands! No one," he maintained.
"I'd like to try."
"You, who have saved so many lives? How can you possibly understand!" Michael had said bitterly.
"You saved lives too! Hundreds of them, thousands. The French were the enemy, for Heaven's sake. They invaded Portugal without the least provocation. The Spanish only gave them leave to march through their country, but the French turned on them and desposed their rightful ruler. Installed Joseph Bonaparte in his place. It was tyranny, plain and simple! Look how they devastated both countries. There would have been far more bloodshed if we had not gone to fight!"
Michael shook his head. "I bathed in blood for almost six years. I can
still smell it. Taste it. Feel it. See it. The hot red stickiness..." He took a ragged breath. "I'm not fit to be in civilized company."
Blake had sighed. "Michael, it's all a sick fancy. It's over now."
His handsome friend, looking worn and haggard as though he rarely slept, shook his head. "It will never be over for me."
"I pray God that's not true. Christmas is a time of miracles, forgiveness. Gifts of joy, love and hope. I pray you are blessed with some sort of happiness some day," he said sincerely.
Michael's eyes, pale blue and glittering like a wolf's, fixed his friend coldly. "You may pray for me, Blake, my friend. But we both know I deserve no such thing."
"Perhaps that's why God is so merciful? He gifts us with life and love and happiness even when we don't deserve it."
Michael sighed raggedly, but managed a small smile. "And you, Blake? What of your love and happiness? Your life is just as blighted by your past as mine is."
Blake shrugged. "We are not talking of me, but you. And speaking of Christmas, it's a time when families re-unite-"
"No, never. Out of the question."
"But at least-"
"No. In no circumstances. Swear you won't interfere."
"I won't, but-"
"Promise me!" Michael had demanded.
"I give you my word," Blake had reassured him. "Now come, let's have that game of cards you promised me."
Blake had tried to be unfailingly cheerful and polite for the rest of the evening for the benefit of his brooding friend. But the very next day after his arrival he drove the seven miles to Bristol and back, and got information about the apothecary, including his full address in the town. He was in two minds as to whether he should leave a note. In the end he decided not to. He still had no idea what to do for the best about Belle.
By his third day there, Blake thought he would go wild if he didn't leave Bath soon.
Finally even Michael said to him, "All right, out with it! What on earth is the matter with you? You're like a cat on hot coals. And I don't think it is because we quarrelled. Or at least I hope not."
Blake stared at his friend and blurted, "Dash it all, Michael, I think I'm in love."
Michael laughed shortly, envy burning in his breast, though he was genuinely glad for his friend too. "Thought so. You have it bad, that's for sure. Some little chit from Town you met at a ball?"
Blake shook his head ruefully. "Worse than that. The woman I met in the carriage accident the other day. I have no idea how to find her again."
Michael listened patiently to his tale of woe and remorse. At the end of it he said, "By all means then you must go seek her out. Take my carriage. My driver is bound to have a friend who can bring your own carriage on to London or mine back here. If you hurry, you'll be back in London in time for the New Year."
"Yes, Rosalie is giving a magnificent ball, if you can imagine, and actually had the bare-faced gall to invite me."
Michael shook his head in disgust. "A ball? So soon after the scandal? I do hope you're not even considering going."
He had never liked the woman, and had been astonished that Blake could have allowed himself to be so deceived. He wished he had told him at the time that Rosalie had subjected he and several other of their circle of acquaintance to her blandishments. Michael had no doubt that if he had shown the slightest bit of interest, it would have been his own title and even more substantial fortune, not Stanton's, which would have bankrolled her life of licentious excess all these years.
"I shan't go near it. I would never do anything to make it appear I condone her behaviour, and it would be most disloyal to Robert. He's a good man, for all he was deceived by her and hurt me at the time. However, I might visit Lady Pemberton's."
"Yes, excellent wine to be had there, as you well know, since you always help her with her cellar."
"Listen, Michael, I must apologize-"
"Don't you dare! Off you go." He offered his hand. "Good luck. Let me know if you find your lovely young lady. And my advice to you is, when you do, make sure of her. Marry her. Then the rest will all fall into place."
Blake sighed heavily. "If only it were that simple."
"Love ought to be."
"I told the poor girl where was no such thing as love."
"Then you are an even bigger twit than I thought. It does exist," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You just have to be intelligent enough to trust in it when it comes your way. If it does. Carpe diem. Seize the day."
He sighed as he looked down at his paralyzed legs. At his hands, still covered with phantom blood-stains. He crushed them together to stop them trembling.
Blake thanked his friend with a hearty handshake and clap on the back. He promised to come see him again very soon.
Blake packed hastily and went all the way back to London riding post. As they progressed, he struggled to finish a paper he was to present on fevers. More often than not his mind wandered as he tried to imagine how on earth he was going to locate Belle. He had so little to go on.
Private detectives were the best way to sort out things like this. Perhaps his friend Alistair Grant the distinguished barrister could recommend one.
Then he groaned. He would also have to go see Mr. Brown the solicitor about his new ward. How could he propose to Belle when he had a little girl he was now going to have to be responsible for? He also couldn't very well make Belle his mistress, have any unsavoury amatory acts occurring in the townhouse in the presence of Peter Davison's sister.
Also, he had left instructions for his ward to be put in his mother's old room. Well, the suite had not been used for years, and it had too many unpleasant associations for him. But if he were to be married, they were the master bedrooms, with their adjoining bath and dressing room and nursery.
He sighed. He would just have to move the child, or redecorate the townhouse. Much as he hated to admit it, he would not be able to marry immediately even if he did find Belle. There would be far too many questions if he did.
So he would have plenty of time to remodel, and would just have to cool his heels and his lusts to ensure that everything was done properly and above board. They were a grand pair of rooms…
He drifted off to sleep nodding over his fever paper.
When Blake arrived back at the townhouse three days after leaving Bath, he was astonished to discover that his ward had actually come down to London already.
"What, not by herself surely?" he asked, shocked.
"No, in the company of an elderly gentleman with a most rustic accent, apparently," Travis said, recalling her description of the man who had dropped her off at her brother's chambers. No sense in worrying Mr. Blake or anyone unduly, now was there?
"I see. Where is she now?"
"Out shopping with her maid, sir."
"In that case, she shall be out all day. I shall dine at four as usual, something special for the holiday, if you please, and then head off to Lady Pemberton's for the New Year's festivities."
"Very good, sir."
"My ward. What is she like?" Blake ask in a distracted manner.
"A most promising young lady, sir."
"Good, good," he said flicking through his correspondence hurriedly before plunking it back down to read whilst he ate, as he usually did.
"I'm off into the bath now. Please have my man come up and lay out my black and silver waistcoat and cravat."
"Very good, sir."
"Oh, and have a note sent round to my solicitor asking him to call the day after tomorrow on a matter of some urgency. I would ask him for tomorrow, but it's New Year's Day. Yet another delay," he sighed as he strode up the stairs.
"Very good, sir."
He soaked in the bath for an hour, idly wondering what little Arabella was like. Well, he would no doubt see her in the morning and they would go riding. He could hire a pony for the occasion. He could take her out to the zoological gardens or the park and stuff her full of unsuitable treats, and then have to dose her with ca
stor oil. He liked children, but the thought of having one full-time made his quiver with apprehension.
Blake dragged himself out of the bath eventually and dressed with care. He did not feel particularly cheerful this New Year's. It was the first year that Europe had known peace in nearly twenty-five years, but if he knew old Bonaparte, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
On the other hand, he might soon have a lover or wife if he could find Belle. And now he had a ward. Well, hadn't he been wanting a normal domestic life? Now perhaps it was in his reach after all?
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 71
