When?
A decade ago?
Or longer?
Justina took in the dark green script announcing the establishment’s name as well as the well-appointed porch upon which sat several rocking chairs, a porch swing, and two benches. All contained cushions and thick throws for those guests bold enough to brave the outdoors in November.
Aunt Emily brushed the snow from the shoulders of her wren-brown redingote then raised her black-gloved fist to knock upon the door, painted the same vibrant green as the sign. However, before she rapped, the carved panel swung inward, revealing a footman attired in neat green and black livery.
A black patch covered his left eye, and a wicked-looking scar creased his cheek and jaw.
A former soldier?
“I think the new owner has a penchant for green,” Justina whispered out the side of her mouth.
The footman’s lips twitched, and his good eye, a warm and friendly pale brown, twinkled in merriment. “Indeed, he does admire the shade a great deal. Wait until you see the dining room and the greenhouse. All manner of exotic birds are housed there, every one of them rescued in one manner or another.”
Ah, so the man has a tender heart.
Pride evident in his voice and bearing, the servant declared, “Mr. Bathhurst is quite the philanthropist.”
Bathhurst?
The man was vain enough to name the establishment after himself. Certainly not unusual, but it did give one pause.
As if reading Justina’s thoughts, Aunt Emily queried, “Bathhurst?” She tapped the small dimple in her chin. “The name is familiar, though I cannot think why. Perhaps he is an acquaintance of one of our ducal friends.”
Aunt Emily referred to several of Justina’s school friends, six of which were now married to dukes.
Extraordinary.
Duchesses, each and every one, and not all nobly born.
But none were bastards, either.
Justina stepped inside, taking in the polished parquet flooring and a pair of matching tufted benches on either side of the foyer. These were seafoam green, rather than the emerald hue of the front door. A marble-topped rosewood table flanked each bench, and at the far end of the entrance, a pair of highbacked chairs—not green, but claret-colored—drew one’s attention to another table upon which appeared to be a chess set.
Clearly, the entry was intended to be used for more than guests entering and exiting the establishment. If felt homey and hospitable, the furnishings tasteful and understated, but of unmistakable quality.
A scraggly dog in mottled shades of black, brown, and gray and favoring his front left paw emerged from a room farther along the corridor and lifted its nose, sniffing the air. Evidently satisfied Justina and her aunt were not a threat, he lumbered forward, his gait uneven.
He plopped on his haunches beside Justina, gazing at her expectantly, and she ran a hand over his soft head. He whimpered and rested his head against her leg, staring at her adoringly.
The flirt. Did the little beggar hope to get more pets?
“Do you have any rooms available?” Aunt Emily asked without preamble.
Her aunt’s inquiry snapped Justina back to the present, and she offered a hopeful smile. Good gracious, what were they to do if Bathhurst Hotel and Spa were full as well? Many of the hotels had closed for the off-season, and she’d considered them fortunate that this lodging house was open so near the main route to Bristol.
“Indeed, we do, ladies.” The footman nodded in the affirmative as another joined him.
This one boasted a distinct limp, and upon further covert inspection, Justina realized he was missing two fingers on his right hand.
Yes, most definitely a former soldier.
Her opinion of Mr. Bathhurst rose another notch.
Many employers wouldn’t hire those maimed by war, and yet not only did Mr. Bathhurst rescue birds, of all things, but he also gave positions to those most in need.
“We’ll see to your bags. You can check in there.” The second footman angled his head toward a gleaming mahogany counter, paralleling a staircase to the upper floors. “I am Coyle, and this is Perkins.” He indicated the first footman. “Oh, and the dog’s name is Duke. Mr. Bathhurst has a sardonic sense of humor.”
Indeed, he did, for Justina had never seen a less aristocratic appearing canine in her entire life.
Duke, indeed.
“Welcome, to Bathhurst Hotel and Spa,” a wiry little man, wearing spectacles boomed from beside the gleaming counter. “We just finished updating and refurbishing the hotel.”
Justina started at the commanding voice coming from such a diminutive man. He couldn’t have been above four feet in stature, and she realized he must be a dwarf. Behind his spectacled eyes, lively intelligence and humor shone. Liking him at once, she returned his congenial smile.
“I am Solomon Bixby, manager of this fine establishment,” he announced, pride ringing in his unique voice. “You’ve arrived in time for afternoon tea in the drawing room, ladies. We’ve six other guests staying with us presently,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “We’ll see that the fires are stoked in your chambers, and they’ll be warm as bread fresh from the oven in no time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bixby. That sounds simply wonderful.” As she usually did, Emily took charge.
Of late, that habit had begun to grate on Justina a bit. She was far more capable than her overly-protective aunt allowed. Others had noticed Emily’s protectiveness too. Why, at the Twistleton’s musical last March, she’d overheard two nobles referring to Aunt Emily as a dragon.
Affront for the woman she’d called aunt for a decade encompassed Justina. Aunt Emily was nothing like an angry, violent, intimidating dragon. She was simply cautious and guarded. A young widow having a ward thrust upon her and having to navigate Society without raising suspicion wasn’t easy.
Keeping the secret they both well knew could destroy them wasn’t easy either.
Chapter Two
Bathhurst Hotel and Spa
An hour later
Baxter Bathhurst threw open the back door, his preferred entrance, to the hotel. Stepping aside to allow Princess to bolt inside and find her injured brother, he balanced the box containing the honey he’d purchased this afternoon.
He raised his head slightly and sniffed appreciatively.
Mmm.
Roast beef for supper tonight, and—Baxter inhaled again, turning his mouth upward into a satisfied smile—apple pie if he weren’t mistaken. “Nothin’ like a slice of pie to warm a mon’s body,” he muttered to himself, allowing the Scot’s brogue he usually kept in check to roll off his tongue.
It grated the English’s pompous arses that he, the son of a simple Scottish innkeeper and tavern owner, should’ve inherited the elite San Sebastian dukedom. A smirk pulling his mouth to the side, Baxter shook his head, still reluctant to believe he was a sodding duke—had been for five bloody damn years now.
This was the world he preferred. The life he’d enjoyed for his first five-and-twenty years. The simple, fulfilling existence of a hotelier. Well, he owned six hotels now, in addition to several other businesses, but never mind that. He’d used his title and influence to help the less fortunate by hiring those others wouldn’t.
The world was a cruel, cold, heartless place to anyone deemed different.
He didn’t even permit his staff who were aware he was titled to address him as San Sebastian or Your Grace. That personage was reserved for London or, at the very least, assemblies and the like, which required him to acknowledge his English birthright.
He grimaced upon recollecting he was expected in London in a fortnight, and he’d foolishly allowed the dukes of Heatherton, Pennington, and Bainbridge to coax him into attending the Duke and Duchess of Sutcliffes’ Christmastide house party.
God curse my three-times great grandfather for not having more older sons.
God curse me for a fool.
Setting the box on the table provided for just
such articles, Baxter nudged the door closed with his boot heel. As it clicked shut with a satisfying snick, he shucked his caped greatcoat. After hanging it on a hook, he removed his hat, scarf, and gloves. They landed in a heap next to the box of honey.
Finally, with a shake of his head to dislodge any lingering snowflakes, he picked up the honey and marched down the wooden corridor to the kitchen. Mrs. Felton would be beside herself when she saw the treasure he carried, and Baxter could count on fresh rolls liberally topped with butter and honey for several days to come.
As he entered the kitchen, Mrs. Felton glanced up from arranging biscuits and other dainties on a tray. “Just in time, Mr. Bathhurst. Coyle is taking another tray to our guests, momentarily. We’ve eight now, and the cold seems to have stimulated their appetites.”
Brisk weather had a way of doing that.
He supposed humans weren’t any different than other species that fattened up in preparation for a long, cold winter.
Baxter set the honey down on the table and gestured. “I persuaded that crusty old bugger, Warner, to part with a dozen jars of honey.”
In truth, the old man had been in dire need of finances but was too proud to accept charity. Baxter had paid five times what the honey was worth and would’ve paid double that. He also meant to see Warner’s roof was repaired and that he had sufficient wood to last him the winter. And that his bee hives provided honey for Baxter’s five other hotels, three restaurants, and his signature mead.
“Oh, my!” Mrs. Felton’s face lit up, and she promptly brushed her hands together to rid them of crumbs before wiping them on a damp cloth.
Enjoying her excitement, he chuckled.
“Such a treat,” she said, making her way to the table, a smudge of flour on her dark brown cheek. Black eyes shining, she picked up a jar of the amber liquid and winked. “I suppose you’ll want fresh oatmeal rolls to go with supper tonight?”
Baxter gave her a boyish grin. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Go on with you. Greet your guests and have a cup of strong tea,” she said in her lyrical voice as she motioned toward the door leading to the main house. “I’ll make enough rolls to keep you satisfied for a few days.”
“Thank ye.” The rolls reminded Baxter of his homeland.
He might be an English duke, but his heart would always belong to Scotland.
Hesitating for an instant, he pondered whether he ought to make himself presentable first. Glancing down, he noted the melting snow on his Hessians, but other than that, he looked presentable enough in his fine black wool jacket and trousers, he supposed.
After all, this wasn’t Almack’s Assembly Rooms or Countess Lieven’s drawing room.
He’d never been one to put on airs or wear fancy togs. What was good for the ordinary folks was suitable for him too. Having made his decision, Baxter gave Mrs. Felton a jaunty wave and wink before turning and following the meandering corridor toward the main part of the hotel.
As he walked, voices carried to him marked by an occasional laugh.
He slowly curved his mouth upward into a lazy smile.
Excellent.
If his guests were pleased, they’d spread the word, and in turn, more guests would visit the hotel. As with his other establishments, once Bathhurst Hotel and Spa was running efficiently and profitably, he’d turn the management of the hotel and spa over to a trusted servant. In this case, Solomon Bixby, and then Baxter would move on to his next project, which he’d yet to identify.
Another hotel? A restaurant?
No, he wished to try his hand at something different this time.
But what?
Horse breeding? Shipping? Investments in new inventions?
Now there was an intriguing notion.
Humankind was capable of such extraordinary ingenuity.
A life of idleness and boredom, filling his days with walks and rides in Hyde Park, attending a mind-numbing series of balls, routs, and soirees, or gambling, drinking and wenching were not for him. Baxter made a discontented noise in the back of his throat. Even if he was a bloody, damn duke.
Glancing at himself in a gilded mirror above a highly polished table, he stopped short. His thick dark blond hair needed brushing. Instead, he raked his fingers through the unruly tresses a few times, managing to tame the worst of his mane.
He stared back at the man in the reflection. The pale brown eyes—very near the color of the honey in the kitchen—gazed back at him: his mother’s eyes and hair rather than his sire’s black hair and piercing blue eyes.
As he’d never wanted for feminine company when he desired it, Baxter supposed he was attractive enough. However, now that he’d come into a title, he never knew whether a woman was genuinely interested in him or if the dukedom posed the attraction.
More on point, he didn’t know if becoming the next Duchess of San Sebastian motivated the eager women flocking to his side.
With a careless shrug, he continued on his way.
Unless he mastered mind-reading—which was a likely as sprouting wings or a second head—he could never be certain of any woman’s motives.
At the entrance to the drawing room, Baxter took a moment to assess his guests.
Mildred and Marian Popkin, an elderly pair of spinster sisters, perched like a pair of curious birds on the edge of a forest green settee. They batted their almost nonexistent eyelashes behind their matching spectacles at Mister Godfrey Howlette, a self-important dandy standing by the fireplace, posing for the benefit of the ladies.
Obnoxious coxcomb.
Baxter almost expected him to stretch out his neck and crow, so obvious was his posturing.
Paul and Hester Harmon occupied the armchairs nestled in the bay window. Newlyweds, they only had eyes for each other, though each did glance in Baxter’s direction and gave a brief nod in greeting.
Of middling years and boasting quite the most astonishing mutton-chops Baxter had ever seen, Major Carlton Spaulding of His Majesty’s Army conversed with the new arrivals, both of whom had their backs to the entry.
Miss Mildred spied Baxter first and fluttered her fan flirtatiously. It somewhat resembled an angry or startled fowl flapping his wings. “Mr. Bathhurst. Please do join us, and permit us—
“—to introduce Mrs. Grenville and her niece, Miss Farthington, to you,” her sister finished in a rush.
Every person in the room turned their attention to Baxter as he sauntered into the drawing room. When he bowed, his gaze meshed with the younger woman with eyes the color of the filmy ferns and horsetails growing in the damp woods near Strathyre.
Ah, green. My favorite color.
His signature color too. Which was why all of his establishments were decorated with a matching theme: shades of greens and burgundies.
He found himself staring at her, and pink tinted the young woman’s high cheekbones before midnight lashes lowered to fan her cheeks, and she turned her head away.
Coyle arrived with the promised tray, and Baxter gave a silent prayer of thanks for the interruption. Else he still be gawping like a farmhand seeing a proper lady for the for the first time.
He bowed, perhaps more extravagantly than needed. “Ladies and gentlemen, our fondest wish at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa is to meet your every need. Should you require anything, we’ll do our utmost to provide it for you.”
He didn’t miss the sly, lecherous gaze Howlette slid the pretty woman from beneath his half-closed eyes.
Bastard.
Baxter forced his hands to relax at his sides rather than curl into fists. And punch the lecherous glint from the dandy’s face.
Clearing his throat, Baxter produced one of his most amiable smiles. “Anything within the strictures of propriety, that is, of course.”
An ugly flush washed Howlette’s face, and Baxter swore the green-eyed goddess hid a grin behind her fan. Humor assuredly sparkled in her eyes.
Major Spaulding abruptly coughed into his tea, which caused both of the Popkin s
isters to fuss and declare they hoped he wasn’t coming down with the ague.
In short order, introductions were made, and Baxter had claimed a seat beside Miss Marian. No sense in being too obvious, even if Miss Farthington had captured his interest the moment their eyes had met. However, he couldn’t prevent his attention from straying to her several times.
Her hawk-eyed aunt caught his perusal and arched one winged eyebrow knowingly. Her keen gaze seemed to say, “Caught you, cad.”
“So, what brings you to Bath during the first snowstorm in a decade, Mrs. Grenville?” Baxter asked.
A pretty blonde, either late in her third decade or early in her fourth, she regarded him for a long moment before answering smoothly.
“My niece and I are en route to our home. The roads were simply too unmanageable, and I feared for the safety of our drivers and the team. Generally, when in this area, we stay at the Royal Arms. However, as I’m sure you know, they suffered a fire recently. Therefore, we sought lodgings elsewhere. We’ll be on our way as soon as this unfavorable weather allows.”
“I’m certain your drivers will be satisfied with their accommodations in the stables,” Baxter said. His confidence was well-placed since he’d assured the servants’ quarters at Bathhurst Hotel and Spa were clean and comfortable.
He didn’t fail to notice Mrs. Grenville hadn’t mentioned precisely where their home was. He couldn’t decide if he admired her for her protectiveness or if her ambiguity irked him. Nor could he help but wonder if her attitude would rapidly change if she knew he was, in fact, a duke.
Most people’s did, and it annoyed the hell out of him.
“Most fortunate for us,” Major Spaulding offered. Having recovered from his fit of coughing, he puffed out his barrel-like chest. “Do either of you play cards?” he asked hopefully.
The Major was a terrible cheat, and the Popkin sisters equally dreadful players.
Both sisters speared him an injured look. Their numbers had been balanced until the arrival of today’s guests, and even if Baxter took part in the evening’s entertainment, they were one male short. Which meant someone would always be the extra wheel.
Wedding Her Christmas Duke: A Regency Romance Page 2
