The Quartet’s concerts had been glorious, but the pain of the memory of her first meeting Lord Dommick made her insides twist like a kitchen rag being wrung of water.
She straightened her shoulders. She was a fool to allow old memories to hurt her. She continued up Milsom Street, although her steps resembled a march more than a stroll.
If those three bachelors were to remain in Bath, she would more than likely see them at the social entertainments of the winter months. One or all of them would be trapped by some well-meaning older woman into being introduced to Alethea, and she would need to admit they had already been introduced years ago in London.
But perhaps they were simply here for a day or two before travelling on to London or their estates. She might be worrying for nothing.
Alethea walked toward her aunt’s home in Queen Square. It had been a new, expensive development during the time Aunt Ebena’s husband had bought it, but in more recent years it had begun to fall out of favour, inhabited by a more dowdy set than the fashionable residents of the Crescent and Laura Place, and now the homes in Queen Square reminded Alethea of aging baronesses attempting to hide the ravages of time and neglect.
She was near her aunt’s home when she heard from behind her, “Pardon me, milady. Might I have a word?”
She froze, partly because of “milady,” and partly because the male voice was unfamiliar to her, uncultured, with a slick overtone that reminded her of cold congealed beef.
She should have simply walked on. After all, it could be nothing but trouble for a lady to be so rudely accosted on the street by a stranger. But because he’d startled her by knowing she was no ordinary miss, it gave him the opportunity to hurry around her stiff figure to stand before her.
She had anticipated the sticklike grey man from the marketplace, but she was almost relieved to find this man was different. He had a round belly that strained his bright yellow-and-green striped waistcoat and spindly legs encased in puce breeches. The puce at least matched the amethyst stickpin in his starched cravat, and the yellow stripes almost matched his blond hair.
Something tight coiled in Alethea’s stomach at his audacity and the fact they were alone on this remote street. The general stamp of her neighbors were unlikely to bestir themselves to chivalry and rescue her.
“Mr. Golding at your service, milady. I wish only a moment of your time.” The man’s mouth curved in a strange V shape that tilted his eyes up at the corners and made his face seem to leer at her.
How did he know her rank? Was it a guess? Nothing in her plain straw bonnet, dark blue dress, and wool cloak indicated she was anything more than an upper servant. “Pray excuse me.” She attempted to sidestep him, but he blocked her way.
“I have a lucrative proposition for you.”
“Let me pass,” she said.
“Perhaps you have in your possession a violin?”
Of all things he could have said, that was the last she expected.
“My employer is willing to pay a substantial sum, if you were in the mind to sell it,” Mr. Golding said.
“Who is your employer?” she demanded.
“My employer wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Of course he would,” she said dryly, then realized the man hadn’t identified his employer as a man or woman.
“You may name your price,” he said. “Enough to buy another violin. Enough to afford better lodgings for yourself and your aunt.”
The cold of the season suddenly made itself known to Alethea through her woolen cloak. How did he know about her aunt? Perhaps the same way he knew about her violin and her rank. The words had been amiable, but the man delivered them like a faint threat.
No, she was being silly. This was exactly like the time the new butcher in the village had tried to insist that the rotting meat he had delivered was the same quality as always. As lady of the manor at Trittonstone Park, she had put him in his place when she had the cook prepare a piece and demanded the butcher take the first bite.
She drew herself up. “I refuse to have any interactions with someone of whom I know nothing.”
Mr. Golding’s brown eyes narrowed, and his V smile flattened.
“However, should your employer wish to call with a note of introduction, I would be pleased to receive him. Good day.”
She stepped around him and continued down the street as quickly as she dared. She half expected him to follow her, but instead she heard the heavy stamp of his footsteps moving away. She peeked around and saw his broad back, encased in purple superfine, as he headed away from her. He had turned the corner and was out of sight by the time she reached Aunt Ebena’s door.
She was surprised by a post chaise stopped in front of her aunt’s home. The coachman who stood holding the horses’ heads gave her an insolent grin, which she froze with a cold glance. Raised voices sounded from behind the front door, causing Alethea to quickly enter the house.
The narrow front foyer was chaos. A trunk took up most of the space, while the rest was filled with a woman twice as broad as Alethea, shouting at Aunt Ebena, who stood firmly at the foot of the staircase.
“ ’Tis your responsibility now. I wash my hands of her!” The woman shook her meaty paws at Aunt Ebena.
Alethea’s aunt was a good stone lighter but taller than the woman, and her gimlet stare could have set a small fire. “I was present at the funeral. The solicitor clearly stated that the girl was the responsibility of her blood relatives. Of which I am not.”
A light voice piped up at Alethea’s elbow. “You might as well sit down. They’ve been at it for at least fifteen minutes.”
Alethea started. A small girl sat in one of the hallway chairs shoved against the wall. She had been partially screened by the door when Alethea entered the house, and she hadn’t noticed her.
The girl calmly sat as though awaiting an audience with the queen. She could be no more than eleven or twelve years old, with light brown hair in rather wild curls. Her dress was too short for her, exposing tanned forearms and dirty shoes and stockings. She also had a dark smudge of something across her nose, and another streak across her chin.
Alethea had rarely interacted with children. She had not been close friends with the women in the neighborhood of Trittonstone Park since they did not understand her love of music and considered her something of an oddity, so exposing their children to Alethea’s unconventional notions had been the last wish of their hearts. At a loss, Alethea blurted out, “You have something on your face.”
“Oh?” The girl scrubbed at her cheeks with a sleeve, which caused a grey mark to appear.
“I think it’s from your dress.”
The girl peered at her sleeve. “That must have been from the dog at the inn. He was quite dirty.”
The woman in the hallway bellowed, “You are expected to undertake your husband’s responsibilities.”
“Expected by whom? The blood relatives who should be taking a more active interest in this matter?” Aunt Ebena shot back.
“What is happening?” Alethea asked the girl, feeling foolish doing so.
“They’re arguing.” The girl’s tone implied Alethea was a bit of a simpleton not to have deduced that already.
Alethea’s gaze narrowed. “That much is obvious. What are they arguing about?”
“Me, of course.”
“What about you?”
“Why, if I shall come here to live.”
Alethea had a coughing spell for a few moments. “Here? With Aunt Ebena?”
The girl’s eyes brightened. “She’s my aunt as well. That means we are cousins.”
“Who are you?” Alethea asked belatedly.
“Margaret Garen.”
Garen. The name of Aunt Ebena’s husband. Alethea realized Margaret was looking at her expectantly. “I am Alethea Sutherton.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Margaret said as if they had been introduced over tea.
“Why would you stay here? Wouldn’t you rather be with your moth
er?” Alethea glanced at the strange woman, still arguing. The sounds echoed off the walls of the foyer.
“She’s not my mother. She’s my Aunt Nancy. My parents are dead.” Margaret said the words with unconcern, but Alethea noticed the tightening of the small mouth, the clenching of her hands in her lap.
“When did they die?” Alethea asked gently.
“Eight months ago. I have lived with Aunt Nancy since then, but she is terribly stuffy.”
Something about the way Margaret said the word made Alethea remember her own childhood, ruled over by nursemaids and governesses. Alethea had grown old enough to rather pity those poor women. “Does your definition of stuffy mean intolerant of frogs in the drawing room seat cushions or something of that sort?”
Margaret grinned. Her blue eyes lit up, and twin dimples peeked out from her round cheeks. “I knew there was something about you I liked.”
Alethea realized with a powerful sense of dread that perhaps she was being punished for all the mice in shoes and charcoal drawings on bed sheets that she had inflicted upon her childhood servants.
“Try and stop me!” roared Margaret’s Aunt Nancy. She whirled around.
Alethea jumped aside before the large woman crashed into her and then was nearly clocked in the forehead by the front door being yanked open. She stumbled backward and ended up sitting in Margaret’s lap. The girl gave a great, “Umph!”
A swirl of chill wind, then the deafening slam of the door. Alethea was left staring at the suddenly quiet hallway, broken only by the sound of Aunt Ebena’s angry gasps. “How—! How dare she—!”
Alethea felt squirming beneath her.
“Could you get off me? You’re terribly heavy.” Margaret pushed at Alethea’s back.
Alethea regained her feet and stood. She caught sight of the butler, the housekeeper, and the cook peeking from around the corner of the stairwell, round-eyed and pale. The other servants were probably peeking from the top of the stairs.
Aunt Ebena pressed a bony hand against her chest, which showed up white against the black silk and lace of her gown. Her wide grey eyes took in Alethea, standing awkwardly next to the trunk, then Margaret’s small form in the hallway chair. Aunt Ebena took a breath as she straightened to her full height, pressing her thin lips closed and looking down her beaky nose at Margaret. “Hill, send for Mr. Garen’s solicitor,” she ordered the housekeeper. “We shall get to the bottom of this.”
Aunt Ebena turned and made her way back up the stairwell. A scuffling from the floor above indicated the other servants were scattering before being caught by their mistress. “I don’t know what she was thinking. I have no use for a child,” Aunt Ebena muttered.
Earlier, Margaret had borne the argument with an almost quirky sense of humor. Even now, she kept her chin raised and her back straight, but Aunt Ebena’s words made her eyes flicker downward. It was not there on her face, but Alethea could see the bruise formed on her soul. How often had Alethea heard her own father say, “What use is a girl to me?”
The sight of Margaret’s face caused a burning in Alethea’s chest. It had been the same as when the village women told her she should not play with Lucy. It was the sense of an injustice she had the ability to right, or to ease. Others had disregarded her existence, but she would ensure she did not do the same to anyone else.
“Did you ever try spitting crickets?” Alethea asked conversationally.
Margaret blinked at her. “Crickets?”
“They feel quite odd moving about on your tongue, and their flavor is distinctly earthy, but spitting is highly accurate for proper placement of said cricket into, for example, a governess’s teacup.” Alethea couldn’t quite believe she managed to speak with a straight face. “Or at least the vicinity of the tea tray.”
In addition to her dimples, Margaret’s wide smile showed a slight overbite that made her look like a darling fairy child. “That is quite a good idea.”
Alethea wondered if she was welcoming chaos upon her aunt’s home, but Margaret reminded her of how she had felt, abandoned to Trittonstone Park year after year by a father who despised her and a brother who only sought to use her. Alethea had been unwanted and unappreciated by any except her half sister, Lucy, and her widowed neighbor, Lady Arkright. She would not let this child feel as she had.
“Let’s get your trunk upstairs.”
Margaret looked distastefully at the battered trunk. “Don’t you have servants to do that for you?”
“Our aunts have chased the servants away, so I would need to send someone to collect them, and there is only the butler, who’s got sore knees, and the cook, who’s making breakfast. So, would you rather haul your own things or not eat?”
Margaret hopped to her feet. “Where is my room?”
Responds well to threats of starvation. She recalled being the same at that age. If Margaret was here to stay, it may not be too bad. Really, how difficult would it be to care for a young girl?
Bayard Terralton, Baron Dommick, leaned against the squabs of his coach as it continued down Milsom Street. That young woman had looked at him as if horrified.
“You’ve lost no time, Bay,” Ian remarked with a sly smile. “She seemed taken by you.”
“Who?” Ravenhurst demanded.
“That pretty young maid on the street.”
“She looked at me as if I were a corpse come back to life,” muttered Bayard.
“Did she recognize you as the Mad Baron?” Ian asked flippantly.
Bayard’s mouth tightened at the nickname his former betrothed had given to him during the season in London when she was spreading rumours about his sanity.
Raven’s foot shot out and kicked Ian’s boot where it rested atop his knee, knocking it down. Ian straightened more in surprise than anger.
Raven said nothing, simply gave Ian an ice-cold stare.
Ian grimaced, shrugged, and looked away.
Ravenhurst turned to Bayard. “We are here in Bath to rectify that situation.”
Bayard was not so certain, after the damage done by Miss Church-Pratton, the woman he had almost married. But he had to succeed for the sake of his sister and his mother. He would not cause them pain again. “Can’t this coach go any faster?” Bayard pounded his head against the leather squabs.
Raven wisely ignored his whining and addressed the root of his concern. “You’re certain Mr. Morrish is here in Bath?”
“My sister’s letter said he arrived the morning she wrote to me.”
“Your mother’s chaperonage in the house isn’t enough to guarantee your sister’s safety against Mr. Morrish?” Ian waggled his dark gold eyebrows.
Raven snorted. “Please. You know Bay’s mother as well as I.”
Bayard wasn’t offended. He knew that Raven, Ian, and David—his close friends since Eton—loved his mother as if she were their own. But Bayard’s mother, while kind and generous, preferred to be pampered rather than responsible for others.
“I didn’t tell you about this summer.” Bayard’s sister, Clare, would kill Bayard for revealing this, but he depended upon his friends to help protect her.
“Do tell.” Ian grinned, his dimples peeking out from cheeks showing a golden-brown shadow.
“The squire’s younger son—a nasty piece of work, the kind to pull legs off of frogs for a spot of fun—tried to force himself upon Clare in an empty stable.”
Ravenhurst’s icy-blue eyes glittered. “Did he, now?”
“The idiot also confessed he wanted to ruin her so she’d be forced to marry him.” Bayard’s knuckles ached and he looked down, realizing he’d clenched his hands into fists.
“Please tell me your resourceful sister did not stand for such treatment,” Ian said.
“She remembered what David taught her and hit the boy in the throat with her closed fist. She then ran out.”
“That’s my girl.” Ian grinned.
Raven sighed. “I will never again complain about David teaching your sister those fighting tricks.
”
“It was so she could hold her own against the village bullies. I was surprised she remembered after all these years.”
“Bullies, suitors. Same class of chaps, don’t you think?” A lock of straight blond-streaked brown hair had fallen over Ian’s eyes, and he swiped it away impatiently. He happened to catch the eye of a shopgirl as they rode past her on the street, and he flashed her a smile.
Bayard was used to his friend’s easy way with the opposite sex, but after the disastrous end to his betrothal last year, the gesture now caused a pang in his chest. He did not have Ian’s charm, Raven’s title, or David Enlow’s powerful presence. He was simply . . . Bay.
“I will never understand how women flock to you even while you need a haircut and a shave.” Raven tugged at his immaculate cravat. “You look positively uncouth.”
“Artful disarray,” Ian corrected him. “And women prefer it to starchy.”
“Enough,” Bayard said before the insults escalated.
Ian’s grin widened. Raven’s white-blond eyebrow angled upward, but a smile hovered around his stern mouth.
“We need David around to keep us in line,” Ian said. “It’s boring for Bay to have to do it.”
But the fourth of their group, Captain David Enlow, was fighting with Wellesley somewhere on the Iberian Peninsula. Last year David had returned to the war three months after saving Bayard’s life in Corunna.
The squeal of horses, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the screams of men dying . . .
Bayard drew breath and forced his mind from the memories before they overwhelmed him. Again. He needed to have more command over himself. Lord God, help me learn to control myself.
“Bay?” Raven’s voice was cautious.
“I’m fine,” Bayard said.
“We’re here.” Ian opened the carriage door.
The front door to the house opened, and Bayard’s sister hurried down the steps to throw herself at him. He staggered backward even as he wrapped his arms around her. His injured shoulder twinged, but he did not loosen his embrace.
Prelude for a Lord Page 2
