Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  He wandered through the departing crowd, seemingly without haste, to the two shabby men still lounging at the entrance. Gazing at nothing in particular and apparently paying no attention to the pair but simply pausing to adjust his cuff, Trelowen said, ‘Short, fat, hideous yellow waistcoat. Tell me where he lives.’ His cuff rearranged, he moved on.

  The stabling approved and paid for, Archibald Neave stood by the street, watching for a hackney. A mounted groom, hired for the purpose, waited behind him, holding firmly onto the white horse’s reins. The stallion stood quietly until it took exception to the red dress of a woman in a passing carriage and reared. The groom dragged on the reins, muttering fiercely not quite under his breath.

  An empty cab hove into view from among the multitude of carriages coming and going at the Corner’s turnpike. The thin covering of paint barely hid previous owner’s coat of arms on the door panel. Archibald pushed forward and raised his pudgy arm. The jarvey hauled on his reins. The curse he hurled at a phaeton driven far too sharply around him was lost in the general hubbub. The conveyance drew to a halt.

  Archibald pulled the door open. ‘Drive on,’ he called, one foot on the step. ‘You,’ he indicated the groom. ‘Be sure to keep up.’

  The jarvey took Archibald at his word and pulled smartly away. Taken by surprise, Archibald toppled onto the cracked leather seat.

  ‘Damn and blast ’im,’ the heavier of the shabby men watching grumbled. ‘Get after ’im, Webb. Quick.’ He encouraged his companion with a sharp shove at his side. He nudged his companion with a sharp elbow. ‘See where ’e goes. I’ll catch you later, at Bella’s.’

  The slighter man ran four steps after the cab. The thronging traffic impeded its progress for which he was grateful. Running was not his pleasure. His gratitude died when the traffic eased and he hackney drew quickly away. Too quickly for him to follow with ease. Hurrying after it past several buildings alongside Green Park, he eventually stopped, one hand pressed against his heaving ribs. His panting breath allowed him only a gasping curse.

  ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘That’s a sixpence lost.’ Chest still heaving, he chewed a thumbnail. ‘I’ll be cussed if I’m gonna face Trelowen.’ He shuddered. The Viscount had a turn of phrase, despite the invariably soft tone of its delivery, that did not appeal to him at all. ‘Griggsie can do it. I’m not having him venting his spite on me again.’

  Griggs muttered balefully about Webb’s desertion in the face of the enemy for the rest of the day. He was still muttering well into the night while he plodded through the darker streets of London towards the gambling hell that Trelowen favoured. A thought lightened his gloom. Webb’s absence would let him to place the failure firmly on Webb’s scrawny shoulders. He hovered in the gloomy shadows outside the hell that evening, practising his excuses.

  As the first shafts of dawn brushed the rooftops, the Viscount emerged in company with a young man of flushed appearance and nervous hands.

  ‘So sorry about your run of luck,’ Trelowen said, steadying his companion as he stumbled up the step of a hackney. ‘Bound to change soon. Try again tomorrow.’

  The young man’s face blanched. He shook his head and collapsed onto the seat.

  Trelowen shut the door with a narrow smile and watched the cab pull away. Without turning he said, ‘So? Who is he?’

  Griggs emerged from the shadow. ‘Dunno, sur. Webb couldn’t keep up. He lost ’im halfway down Piccadilly.’

  His lordship allowed his gaze to swim round to the figure shuffling from foot to foot. ‘That is not what I ordered.’

  ‘No, sur. Sorry, sur.’ Griggs tried to find a positive aspect of the failure. ‘But I don’t reckon as you’d get much there. Not like that young ‘un.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the disappearing hackney. ‘The fat one didn’t look too downy to me. Very sharp with his cash, ‘e was. Kept ‘is change from the jarvey.’

  Trelowen’s eyes raked the shabby figure from tangled hair to worn boots. ‘Should I find myself in need of your opinion, I will doubtless let you know.’

  His eyes made Griggs shiver. ‘Yes, sur. Sorry, sur.’

  Trelowen dismissed him with the wave of a pale hand. Griggs tugged at his forelock and backed away, heading for his favourite drinking house and a mug of ale. And the opportunity to tell Webb just how pleased their sometime-employer had not been.

  Chapter Six

  Lady Fosbury was lying down with a megrim in a room shaded from the late-afternoon sun. Darling Linton’s new fiancée had proven herself to be nothing more than a cheap jilt and called off the engagement. Otherwise her ladyship would have noticed the commotion outside the impressive frontage of the house next door. As it was she was spared the effort of disapproving.

  A hackney had pulled to a halt. Archibald Neave descended. He waddled up the front steps and banged the brass knocker on the door. Without waiting for an answer he performed an about face and bounced on his toes, one fist tapping the opposite palm behind his back. He watched the skittering progress of his new purchase across the square with pleasure. Mellor, the mounted groom, his allegiance now transferred from Tatt’s to his new employer, led it with great care and no little anxiety.

  The door opened behind Archibald. The under-butler’s doleful face appeared.

  ‘Nesbit, call Miss Araminta here. Tell her to hurry.’ Nesbit cast a quick glance over the object of his master’s interest. Archibald saw him. ‘And no mention of that. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  Araminta arrived in moments having gleefully abandoned the tambour work Miss Orksville had decided should be her needlework accomplishment. She rocked to a halt on the top step. ‘Oh, Pa,’ she gasped. ‘Is it mine?’

  ‘It is, girl. All yours.’

  Spellbound, Araminta watched the groom approach, mouth open above her clasped hands. At last she moved. ‘Does he have a name?’ she called, running down the steps.

  ‘I doubt it.’ His remark was addressed to his daughter’s back. ‘Call him what you like.’

  The creature’s nose was velvet soft. Araminta stroked it. She whispered sweet nonsense into the pricked ears. ‘Pegasus. That’s what you’ll be. Pegasus.’ She turned. ‘Have you bought a saddle, Pa?’

  Archibald pointed at the hackney. ‘In there.’

  In moments the cab door was yanked open and Araminta had dragged the saddle out. It dropped to the flagstones. Disappointment showed on her face. ‘It’s a side-saddle, Pa. You know I hate them.’

  ‘Well you’ll just have to accustom yourself ’Minta. Side-saddles is what young ladies use.’ He stared at the worn leather. ‘It’s only second hand. All they had available but I’ll get you a new one soon as may be.’

  Araminta pushed the offending saddle towards the groom with a foot. ‘Tie him to the railings and put it on. I’ll be down in the quickest moment, as soon as I’ve changed.’

  She ran into the house. Wilhelmina Orksville was crossing the hall. ‘What is all this clamour about?’

  ‘Pa has bought me a horse. He’s gorgeous. Go see.’ Araminta continued her charge towards the stairs.

  ‘First, it is Papa has bought me a horse, and second, where do you think you are going?’

  Araminta lifted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. ‘To change. I’m going to ride him in the Row.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ Araminta had reached the landing. She hung over the balustrade, scowling.

  ‘You are not rushing off to ride anywhere unaccompanied.’

  Two flushed circles appeared on the cream cheeks. ‘I certainly am. He’s beautiful and I want to ride him.’

  ‘I want, never gets,’ Wilhelmina recited. ‘I shall speak to your papa.’

  Her spindly shape glided across the hall. Araminta raced back down the stairs and arrived pink-faced beside her at the top of the three front steps.

  ‘Mr Neave. I understand your daughter wishes
to ride out on that creature.’

  ‘Pa, tell her I may. He’s –’

  An imperiously raised hand stopped her protest. ‘I have of course no objection to her riding out. Indeed with such a beautiful mount it would be cruel to refuse, but she must not go unaccompanied. It is not too late for a second, brief excursion today. If you will summon the barouche she may ride with me to the Park and then mount the animal once there. I cannot condone her taking even a short journey through the streets with nothing more than a groom at this time of day.’

  Araminta’s short breaths subsided into a sigh. ‘Oh, I thought you were going to forbid me altogether.’

  The slightest touch from Wilhelmina’s hand on Araminta’s elbow persuaded her into the hall. ‘Dear child, it is not a case of stopping you from doing the things you enjoy and that are acceptable. It is a matter of doing them comme il faut. Doing them in the correct manner. Now, go and change into your habit.’ A breath was drawn in. ‘It is not what I would like but it will be allowable for today.’

  ‘Perhaps for two or three days? Until my new one arrives?’ The charm of Araminta’s smile rarely failed to please.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Wilhelmina Orksville growled. ‘You are a much indulged child but quite appealing even so. Now off you go. We shall see later what will be allowed.’

  Hollins was startled to find her presence was demanded immediately to help Miss don her riding habit. Some ten minutes later she was bursting to tell someone – anyone – that Miss’s riding habit consisted of a jacket and – Lord save us – a skirt divided into pair of voluminous pantaloons. With linen ones underneath.

  The first person she met was Nesbit, inspecting the dust in a narrow, gloomy backstairs corridor. His council, forcibly expressed, was to keep all such intimate information to herself. Failure might cost her the promotion her new position had secured. Or any position at all. Hollins dawdled back to the Miss’s bedchamber to put away the abandoned blue dimity and take out the deep blue evening gown.

  In the barouche, Araminta fidgeted with her whip all the way to Rotten Row. She only ceased squirming round to watch Pegasus’ elegant movement as Mellor led him behind them when Wilhelmina threatened to return home immediately if she did not abandon such vulgar behaviour.

  Mellor pulled to a halt beside the carriage at the entrance to Hyde Park. ‘If you please, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Grooms mayn’t lead horses into the Row. It ain’t allowed.’

  Wilhelmina Orksville swivelled round to face him. ‘Very well. Turn the animal’s head to the rear and bring it up beside us.’

  She watched impassively as Mellor dismounted to follow her instructions. Satisfied that any chance display of an immodest ankle would be hidden from observers by the carriage, she nodded. ‘Very well. Help Miss Neave to mount.’

  Reins of both horses safely looped round his arm, Mellor bent forward and linked his hands into a stirrup. With a smile that glowed and warmed his disgruntled soul, Araminta put her left foot onto his palms and lifted herself lightly into the saddle.

  As Wilhelmina expected, the gold velvet skirt proved disastrously inadequate. It quite failed to preserve a respectable modesty. A shocking length of calf was exposed to Mellor’s amazed eyes. He hurriedly averted them.

  Not until Araminta managed to arrange the velvet so it decently covered most of her lower boot did Wilhelmina nod her approval. She permitted herself a brief congratulatory moment, well aware that the effect of a golden girl on a white horse was quite stunning. She was not disappointed to see the heads of the people strolling past the gates turn. Two young men even paused to stare. An imperfectly repressed smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Her scheme was working.

  Nonetheless, she forced a frown. ‘Very well, Araminta. Walk on but stay close to the carriage and on no account gallop. You,’ she indicated Mellor. ‘Stay close behind. This is an untried mount.’

  The groom drew his eyebrows together. Untried by the young lady it might be but he had already seen it unseat one showy fellow who had thought to master it when it had first arrived at Tattersalls. He edged alongside the animal prepared to catch the young miss if the worst happened. If it did dump her on the ground his lucrative new post would come to an untimely and unhappy end.

  Araminta nudged a heel into Pegasus’s flank. The hindquarters quivered before he stepped proudly forward.

  Being very late in the afternoon few people were to be seen. Those who were present soon spotted the mounted vision. More heads turned. Among them was the Honourable Everett Blythburgh coming up behind the barouche on a borrowed hack. He pulled his friend Frederick Danver to a halt.

  ‘I say, Freddie,’ he gasped. ‘Just look at that. Ain’t she stunning?’

  Lord Frederick obligingly looked in the direction indicated. ‘It’s a stallion, you simpleton. The one I saw bought just today. It’s a beautiful stepper,’ he added sadly. ‘I wish my pockets had been deep enough for it.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the horse. Just look at the vision on its back.’

  Lord Frederick dragged his eyes upwards. The delightful view of the back of Araminta’s head crowned by the tasselled bonnet á la Ecosse greeted him. ‘If you say so, old chap.’

  ‘You’re a philistine,’ Mr Blythburgh vouchedsafe. ‘Regard the hair . . . it’s positively Titian. A goddess. A veritable goddess.’

  ‘Steady on. It’s only a girl on a horse. The horse is the thing.’

  Araminta trotted on, unaware she was the topic of the conversation. Miss Orksville was, however, more than aware. Her head swam round and she favoured the two young men with one of her stares.

  Unabashed, Lord Frederick executed a small bow in the saddle. ‘If the girl’s a goddess,’ he whispered to his friend. ‘Then the chaperone’s a gorgon.’

  The remark escaped the gorgon but the interest her charge had excited in Everett Blythburgh did not. Mr Blythburgh was generally held to be the foremost assayer of feminine beauty for the past five Seasons. Where he approved, the rest of the ton followed. If he said Araminta was a goddess, then the very people whose endorsement Mr Neave most wanted to engage would certainly agree. Miss Wilhelmina Orksville graciously inclined her head to the gentlemen as they rode past.

  Oblivious to the admiring Everett Blythburgh and his companion, Araminta trotted along beside the barouche. Her fingers twitched on the reins. The temptation to urge Pegasus to the gallop was almost insupportable. Only the most stringent of warnings from Wilhelmina prevented her from shaking the fidgets out of the horse and herself. She leant towards the carriage.

  ‘When did you say it was permissible to gallop, ma’am?’

  ‘In the very earliest of mornings only. You will ruin yourself completely if you do so at any other time.’

  A decision hovered in Araminta’s mind. Did she want to gallop? Most certainly. Did she mind being ruined? Not really.

  Wilhelmina Orksville regarded her charge’s face. The thoughts passing behind it could not have been more obvious. ‘Your Papa would be most upset were you to do so now. Your future happiness and welfare is his greatest concern.’

  Araminta’s head drooped. More than once she had seen the look of pride on his face when he presented her to one friend or another. No, disappointing Pa – Papa – was not to be thought of. Her head came up. She looked around. The day was fine; the sun was shining; she had a beautiful horse that she would certainly gallop at some time. She was very fortunate. A worm of an idea wriggled into her head. The slightest pressure on the reins slowed Pegasus. He shook his head, flicking his white mane into ripples.

  The groom’s horse drew level. Araminta lowered her voice. ‘See how impatient he is,’ she murmured. ‘He most decidedly needs to gallop.’

  Visions of instant dismissal flooded the groom’s mind again. His hands loosened on the reins, ready to grab at hers. ‘Oh, miss, ma’am – you’re not gonna gallop him, are you?’

 
‘No of course not. Or at least not now. Tomorrow morning. Bring him to the house at seven of the clock if you please. We shall come here then. Galloping will be quite unexceptional.’

  The expression on the groom’s face flashed from relieved to anxious. Words of caution hovered on his lips. A sideways glance at the young miss’s delicate chin, determinedly raised, pushed him to silence.

  Araminta flicked the reins and drew Pegasus level with the barouche once more.

  The groom bit his lip.

  He was still biting it at seven o’clock the next morning after a night of restless sleep haunted by dreams of unseated and injured young ladies. Hovering outside the front door he hoped against hope that this one was still under her quilt, fast in the land of Nod.

  He hoped in vain. A drowsy footman opened the door and the golden vision emerged. The groom leapt down and tied both horses to the black-painted railings.

  ‘Excellent.’ Araminta surveyed the skies. ‘It’s a wonderful morning. I shall enjoy a gallop.’ She raised her left foot.

  The groom hurriedly bent and linked his hands into a stirrup. With the lightest of pressure upon it, Araminta sprang into the saddle. Taking the reins when his fumbling fingers had untied them, she turned Pegasus away from the house.

  The groom’s nag attempted to follow. A shake of its head had the reins sliding loose. It managed two steps before the groom caught up the trailing reins. With one foot stuck into the stirrup, he was obliged to hop along the flagstones until he could heave himself aboard. Muttering foully, he set off after Araminta, fearing for his job. Only yesterday the old maid had insisted she drive alongside in the carriage. Now it was just him and the girl. His teeth tore at his left thumbnail.

  The town house Archibald had rented was on the west side of the square, a little way up from the corner with King Street. King Street was the home of a notorious house no respectable woman would pass let alone enter, and led into the equally-notorious male dominion of St James’s Street. Only the house’s distance from the corner had relieved Wilhelmina Orksville’s concern.