Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  Bond Street was well-known. Was, truth to tell, infamous for the Beaux who promenaded there in the afternoon. Ladies of character would never walk along it unaccompanied. To do so laid them open to scandalous comments. Frederick did not consider himself a Beau, a view shared by everyone who knew him.

  Ambling across the square, he strolled towards Piccadilly, crossed over and entered Bond Street. It was not as crowded as in the Season but something was exciting the curious halfway along its length. A group of men in bottle green jackets were forming a cordon at the front of two buildings.

  ‘Odd,’ Frederick muttered. Thrusting his hands into his pockets in the way that dismayed his valet and his tailor, he continued towards the crowd. Reaching the first of the new attractions he stared at the size and magnificence of Mr Neave’s ‘small shop’. He gazed unabashed through the open lavender doors. A dowager who had surprised herself by completing a purchase for a new turban when she had been determined to find fault with the venture, was leaving. She glared at him, immobile in her way. Sighing excessively she swept round him and gained the protection of her carriage.

  Frederick looked up at the next building. The Complete Gentleman’s Emporium was inscribed in scrolling gold letters on a green placard that ran across the entire front. Men of every shape and size crowed inside the shop where a harassed-looking man held a tray of small glasses of dark liquid. A sweating man in a green uniform was trying to exert some sort of order at the door. He was failing dismally. Despite his build and a countenance suggesting he could control a battalion of uncooperative soldiers with a flicker of an eyebrow, the crowd surged. The cause of his concern soon became apparent. A startled yelp from one Beau split the throng. A shabby urchin raced away.

  ‘Thief,’ yelled the Beau. ‘Stop him.’ He took three paces forward then stopped. Darting between oncoming carriages, the boy disappeared into the darkness of a nearby alley. Chasing after him would shatter any degree of dignity the Beau possessed. He wafted a hand and muttered some carefree phrase to his companions.

  Unconcerned by the familiar event, Frederick abandoned the notion of entering the shop. Hands still in his pockets, he continued up Bond Street, returning to pleasurable thoughts of some incomparable foals.

  ‘Well, well. Whatever is occupying your mind, dear boy?’ a smooth voice queried. ‘Or perhaps I should say who?’

  Lucius Renford, Viscount Trelowen, paused in the elegant doorway of the next building, eyeglass raised. Laughter that resembled sniggers more than joy drifted from the three men hovering behind him. ‘I’ll wager it’s the stunning redhead that’s setting the town alight.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Frederick avowed, his face fierce. ‘That’s a bag of moonshine.’

  ‘If not she, I wonder who?’ Trelowen smirked, descending onto the flagway. His three acolytes followed.

  ‘No-one.’ Frederick dragged his hands from his pockets. ‘It’s no-one.’

  The eyeglass wafted his denial aside. ‘Don’t believe you, dear boy. No-one looks so dream-bound without good cause.’

  ‘Not unless it’s due to a good claret.’ The thinnest of the three companions scoffed.

  ‘You should know all about that, Flixton, if anyone should.’ Trelowen reduced the wit to fury and the others to mirth.

  ‘If you must know,’ Frederick said, scowling. ‘It’s her horse.’

  The mirthful Beaux all but collapsed into laughter. The thinnest one had his revenge. ‘I’ve heard of such predilection, of course. Especially by one barque of frailty at Mother Belle’s. Never heard it admitted in daylight though.’

  Frederick’s colour mounted. He ignored the jeers but his fists clenched. He stared Trelowen levelly in the eye. ‘I’m hoping to put him to Athena.’

  ‘A likely tale,’ Trelowen said.

  ‘It is. I’ve just called on Miss Neave. She’s most agreeable for me to approach her father about it.’ His chin lifted. Unfortunately, he was not a natural schemer. ‘She’ll ask him tonight and tell me tomorrow.’

  ‘And what are you doing tomorrow? Seeing the beauty alone?’

  ‘Certainly not. I’m escorting them to Twickenham.’

  The words had no sooner left his mouth than he regretted them.

  ‘Twickenham, eh?’ Trelowen twirled his eyeglass between finger and thumb. ‘Now what is the attraction at Twickenham, I wonder?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s merely an outing for the ladies.’

  ‘Of course it is, dear boy. Of course it is.’ Trelowen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, we must inhibit your dreaming no further.’ He bestowed the briefest of nods on Frederick. ‘Come along my dears. Let’s leave the lad to his musing.’

  He stepped away, followed by his three sniggering companions.

  Flixton looked back over his shoulder. ‘Horses,’ he snorted.

  Colouring furiously, Frederick marched away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Araminta was up, dressed in her best carriage gown of checked muslin and pacing backwards and forwards by the salon windows before any of the parlourmaids had started the dusting. Archibald waddled into the room. A strip of another gaudy waistcoat showed below his cut-away coat front.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Found you. Your girl said you were up and about. Not that she’s a girl any more. Thirty if she’s a day.’ He frowned. ‘What’re you doing in here so early? Anything amiss?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ She stopped at the right hand window and stared out. ‘There’s a better view of the square from here.’

  A puzzled look crossed her father’s face. He thought for a moment then shrugged. ‘Breakfast’s cooked. Will you eat with me?’

  ‘No, pa, thank you. I don’t want any.’

  Archibald’s pensive expression increased. Araminta was normally a good trencherman. Not one of these simpering misses who pushed a couple of peas around their plate all through a meal. ‘Are you sure there’s not summat up?’

  ‘No pa, no.’ She continued her pacing. ‘I sent a note to Lord Frederick last evening as soon as you’d told me he could have Pegasus. I was wondering if he’d be coming to see you before you left.’

  ‘But ain’t he escorting you to that country place?’

  ‘Twickenham. Yes.’ She paused at the left hand window and again peered out.

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘I meant to ask him if I could have a later foal if there is one but I forgot.’

  ‘Ah.’ Clarity arrived for her father. He tutted. ‘Horse mad. That’s what you are. Looks like he’s the same.’ A thought dawned. He shook his head a fraction. ‘Pity he’s not the heir. You’d have made a fine pair.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Pa. He’s no more interested in that than I am.’ She bent forward suddenly. ‘Ah, here he comes.’

  Archibald waddled to the window. He creaked slightly when he leant forward. The new waistcoat crinkled.

  Lord Frederick Danver, turned out this morning to his valet’s complete satisfaction, was marching across the square. Just before he mounted the pavement, Araminta tapped on the window and waved at him. He looked up, grinned widely and waved back.

  Sounds of the front door opening and closing had Araminta hurrying across the salon and down the stairs. She jumped off the last step, earning a smile from Frederick and a disapproving sniff from Nesbit. The under-butler was not to be denied his role.

  ‘Lord Frederick, miss.’

  Araminta beckoned Frederick towards the drawing room. ‘I forgot to ask you something . . . if all goes well –’

  ‘Araminta.’ A thin voice sounded from above them. ‘I think Lord Frederick will want to make his duties to your Papa.’

  The young people turned. Wilhelmina was descending the stairs, hands clasped at the waist of another of her dark print gowns. Her face bore a particularly blank expression.

  Frederick was forcibly reminded of his first gove
rness. He bowed. ‘Good day, ma’am.’

  ‘Good day, Lord Frederick. It’s a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. Most kind of you to receive me.’ Archibald appeared on the landing. ‘And you, sir.’

  ‘Come, come, lad, don’t stand on ceremony.’ ‘ ’Minta . . .’ A sharp intake of breath from Wilhelmina’s direction gave him pause. He trod heavily down the stairs. ‘I mean, Araminta has said you want to put her horse to one of your mares.’

  Frederick remembered his mother’s comments on such talk in the presence of ladies. He cleared his throat. If his host was prepared to mention it, who was he to demure despite the looks the bracket-faced tabby was giving him? Even so, his answer was somewhat subdued. ‘If you’d agree sir, that would be bang up to . . . er, first rate, thank you.’

  Wilhelmina decided enough time had been spent in such talk. She walked forward and preceded them into the room. Settling herself in the armchair beside the fireplace, she indicated the one opposite. ‘Won’t you be seated, Lord Frederick?’

  ‘Er, thank you, ma’am, but no. I mean to break my fast as soon as maybe.’

  ‘Sound thinking,’ Archibald said. ‘Don’t do to be gallivanting off half-fagged for want of a good filling.’

  Araminta clapped her hands together. ‘That’s marvellous. I haven’t eaten either. Would you like to take breakfast here?’

  Frederick looked from her eager face to Wilhelmina’s. ‘Well . . .’

  Squarely on her dignity and well aware that her employer regarded the unwed state of Frederick’s elder brother with interest, Wilhelmina rose. ‘I am in need of a hot chocolate. If you would care to join us in the dining room, my lord, an extra cover can easily be set.’

  Only her deep devotion to her task combined with a mounting affection for her charge, allowed Miss Wilhelmina Orksville to endure the sight of the young people making a good account of themselves with the ham, eggs, cold roast meat and pound cake instead of the more usual tea and toast. She restrained herself from dampening their enthusiastic discussion of horseflesh and foals. It was obvious that if the Duchess of Ellonby did decline to invite Araminta to her house, there would be two very disappointed young neighbours in St James Square.

  A very few minutes after he had demolished his third slice of cold mutton, Frederick bowed himself out, promising to return in good time that afternoon. He hoped by then he would have persuaded his Mama to issue an invitation. Striding across the square he debated whether it would be best to admit to scheme for Athena and try for an invite to Lidgate straight away or limit his request to a morning call.

  Still undecided when he entered the hall, he mounted the stairs two at a time to his brother’s bedroom for advice. An almost Stygian gloom greeted him. A narrow shaft of light lanced in through a gap where the two heavy drapes had not been properly drawn.

  Frederick addressed the mound in the bed. ‘George. George. You awake?’

  Marquess of Levington pushed a sheet from his face. ‘I am now,’ he grunted. He rolled over the better to glare at his brother. ‘What are you gabbling about at this hour?’

  ‘Oh don’t fly into the boughs.’ Frederick paced across to the window and dragged the drapes apart. Light flooded in.

  George yelped at the glare. He clapped one hand over his eyes. ‘Freddie,’ he yelled. ‘What the devil are you playing at?’

  ‘Oh come on, George. I need your advice.’

  His brother untangled the other arm and flapped the bedcovers back. Blinking, he levered himself up on the pillows. One slipped to the floor. Frederick hurried forward and propped it behind George’s head.

  ‘Thanks.’ George pulled it into a better position. ‘Now what’s pricked you so early?’

  Frederick explained at rather more length than his brother wanted.

  Eventually George raised a hand. He rubbed his chin with two fingers. ‘Was mama out last night?’

  ‘Er . . . I’m not sure. Wasn’t it . . . no. No. I’m pretty certain she wasn’t.’

  ‘If she wasn’t you could ask her now. But you’d be a plain mutton head to do it if she’s knocked up after some route or other.’

  ‘I’ll ask Mitcham. She’ll know.’

  ‘Good idea.’ George rolled over so his back was to the light streaming in through window. He pulled the covers over his ears.

  ‘I hope she wasn’t out. I really need to know as soon as maybe.’

  The covers were pushed down an inch. ‘Why? What’s the rush?’

  ‘I’m escorting Miss Neave to the Berrys this afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ The covers flew back. George sat up in his nightgown, his knees bare. ‘The Berrys? You might have said.’ In a single blur of movement he swivelled round and planted his feet firmly on the floor. A nightshirt-clad arm reached for the bell-pull.

  Frederick blinked. ‘What’s it to you? You’re not interested in them. Neither am I, truth to tell, but –’

  ‘Don’t you know Sir Arthur’s back from Portugal?’ George yanked the bell-pull twice, almost dragging it from its link. ‘The on dit is that he’s reporting on that shabby Cintra Convention.’ He yanked the cord again. No valet appeared. He strode to the door, nightgown flapping, pulled it open and yelled ‘Burford’ straight into the rotund face of the panting man two paces away. ‘Get me dressed. I’m going out.’ He dragged the nightgown over his head revealing a body honed by frequent practice in Angelo’s fencing academy in Bond Street.

  Burford clutched at the flying garment. He hurried around his master to the clothes press for fresh linen.

  George turned on his brother. ‘Don’t go harrying Mama about horses. If I can persuade Sir Arthur to let me accompany him, even as a civilian, I’ll need her kindly disposed.’

  ‘That’s demmed sharp of you,’ Frederick countered. ‘It’s my ruse not yours.’

  ‘Don’t fly into a dudgeon. This is important.’

  ‘So is Athena. She’ll be in season in a week or so. It’s got to be agreed now.’

  Burford tried to lever the Marquess into his drawers while looking as if he had been struck stone deaf. With the greatest difficulty he managed to drop the shirt over his patron’s head without the drawers falling to the floor.

  ‘Stop wailing.’ George thrust his legs into his pantaloons. ‘She’ll be in season again in another three weeks but this could be my only chance. Sir Arthur’s sure to be off somewhere soon.’ He sat at the dressing table and grabbed a cravat from Burford.

  ‘Well I still call it demmed sharp of you.’ Frederick repeated. He made for the door.

  ‘Hey, what time are you setting off?’

  ‘About one.’

  ‘Riding?’

  Frederick opened the door. ‘I shall be in the barouche with the ladies.’

  ‘Good. I’ll sit with you.’ George applied himself to the cravat.

  With a last, disappointed glance, Frederick took himself off to lick his wounds.

  He did not have to lick them alone. As he descended the stairs from his brother’s room onto the first floor landing, the butler arrived at the top of the main flight. The Honourable Everett Blythburgh had arrived and Sallis was looking for a family member to receive him.

  Left alone in the hall, Mr Blythburgh was gazing at a large painting of Lidgate Hall set in its parkland that adorned the wall to the right of the door. He ceased gazing at the sound of Frederick stamping down the stairs.

  ‘Morning, Freddie.’ Everett focussed on his friend’s face. ‘You look mighty downcast. Dipping too deep last night?’

  ‘No I was not.’ Frederick led the way into the dining room. ‘Come in here. I need a sustainer.’

  ‘Good,’ Everett said. ‘One must admit to some slight peckishness oneself.’

  Heedless that he had already eaten, Frederick stood at the buffet, piling a plate with cold meat and a spoon of
pease pottage. Cook always made it especially for him. No-one else in the house ate it.

  Everett stared closely at the gloomy yellow mass and followed their example. He helped himself to a small square of ham from a large platter, one kipper filet and a spoon of creamed eggs from neighbouring chaffing dishes. Carrying his plate delicately to the table, he sat down opposite Frederick.

  ‘What has turned you about this morning?’

  Frederick jabbed his knife at a thick portion of rare roast beef. ‘George.’

  Everett waited. He carved himself a minute square of ham.

  ‘All he thinks about is joining the blessed army.’

  Everett put the ham into his mouth and chewed.

  ‘Nothing but the blessed army has any importance at all.’

  Everett lifted a portion of kipper off the skin. He paused, fork midway to his mouth. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with horses, would it?’

  The dam burst. Frederick flung his fork onto the plate. It skidded off onto the polished table. ‘There I was,’ he said, arms tetchily folded. ‘Had it all arranged to take Miss Neave on a jaunt, sort out about Pegasus and Athena, and just needed Mama to invite her to Lidgate and now George has upset it.’

  Everett lowered his own fork. A slight frown pleated his smooth forehead as he ploughed through memories of what had passed for a classical education, trying to connect Pegasus with Athena. He failed. ‘You’ve lost me there, old chap. Who’s Pegasus?’

  ‘Miss Neave’s horse, of course. The one we saw her on in the Park.’

  An expression of delight replaced the frown. ‘You mean the titan-haired goddess?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frederick vented an exasperated sigh. ‘She’s agreed to let me borrow him for Athena. She’ll be in season next week. Probably. If I can persuade Mama to invite Miss Neave to Lidgate she’ll bring her horse with her and we can see to it then.’