Frederick bowed. ‘As you wish, sir.’ He backed out of the room.
Sylvia, her Grace of Ellonby, returned home just before three in the morning. Her maid was drowsing in the padded armchair in her bedchamber. She jumped to her feet as the Duchess entered.
‘Good evening, Your Grace. Did the rout prove enjoyable?’
A delicate sigh drifted from the Duchess’s sweet mouth. ‘Tiresome, Mitcham. Tiresome. Everyone kept asking if George really was going as secretary to Arthur Wellesley.’ She permitted the maid to slide the flimsy wrap from her bent arms. ‘One does so hate to be the focus of curiosity.’
The evening’s events were proving too much for the maid to retain. ‘Indeed, milady, but . . .’
Sylvia’s finely arched eyebrows curved higher. ‘Mitcham?’
‘Oh, milady,’ she gasped, all the superiority of a duchess’s maid abandoned. ‘Such goings on. I declare I’ve never seen the like.’
‘Goings on? Whatever can you mean?’
‘A shooting. Right on the steps of this very house.’
The Duchess stopped arranging herself at her dressing table. ‘Shooting?’ She stood up, hands gripping together. ‘His Grace? George? Frederick?’ The names tumbled from her lips.
‘Oh no, Your Grace. No-one from the family. It’s the old lady from across the way. Shot. In the body.’
‘Lady Fosbury shot?’ The Duchess’s pale hand flew to her bosom. ‘Never say.’
‘No, not her. It’s the one who keeps company with the young person staying next to her.’
‘Wilhelmina? Goodness gracious. On our steps, you say. Was she carried home safely?’
The maid drew herself up. ‘She’s in the blue room, Your Grace. Lord Frederick said to put her there.’
Sylvia Ellonby was not an unkind woman. She hurried to her door. ‘Come with me, Mitcham. We must be sure she has all she needs.’ Her quick footsteps had her rustling to the room in moments. She opened the door quietly and gasped at the view that greeted her.
A young woman lay curled in a wide blue armchair drawn up to the bed. Light from a single branch of candles burnished a head of disordered titian curls resting on an arm folded along the edge of quilt. It flickered on a flawless cream skin of a half-seen face and cast a shadow from the line of a dark brow to the curve of dark lashes. The fingers of the other hand were locked into those of the still figure under the covers. The girl’s eyes opened.
‘Oh,’ said Araminta Primrose Neave.
She unfolded her feet and stood up, still holding Wilhelmina’s hand. With bowed head, she swept a deep curtsey. ‘Your Grace. I beg your pardon for invading your house.’
Sylvia found herself impressed by the girl and her manners. ‘Not at all, my dear. That is Wilhelmina Orksville I believe. How does she?’
‘Better now, I think, ma’am. The doctor extracted five pieces of shot from her shoulder before she woke to her senses.’
‘Great heavens.’ The Duchess ventured forward. She looked down at the pale face. ‘I hope someone here could assist him.’
‘Oh, no, ma’am. I did it. I could not leave Miss Orksville to others.’
A pair of charming blue eyes looked up at her. They regarded her steadily for a moment. ‘I see. I am sure she will appreciate your attention. Will you permit me to find a better rest for you than an armchair?’
‘I am grateful, your Grace, but I have no wish to disturb your household further. And Miss Orksville might wake and be troubled by where she is. I would prefer to stay here.’
The blue eyes studied Araminta again from head to toe and back. ‘Very pretty of you, my dear. However you cannot rest properly in a chair. Mitcham.’ She beckoned her maid. ‘I believe we have a truckle bed in my dressing room. Pray have it brought for Miss Neave.’
Mitcham’s mouth assumed a firm line that sloped slightly down at the corners. It was the bed she used. ‘Very well, Your Grace.’
Sylvia seated herself on the upright chair before the dressing table. Her fluffy appearance and lazy manner hid an intellect that was by no means either fluffy or lazy. ‘Now child, tell me what happened.’
Araminta recalled the events as best she could. Partway through she stopped.
‘My dear?’
Araminta stared at nothing in particular. ‘The man. The one I shot.’ A frown pleated her forehead. ‘He called me by name.’
The Duchess looked at her. ‘By name?’ She took a breath. ‘How very odd. Why ever would he know your name?’
Araminta looked at the Duchess with troubled eyes. ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’
The Duchess stared back. By all accounts the girl was a considerable heiress. She resolved to instruct Freddie to pass on the revelation to the girl’s father.
Chapter Twenty
Across the square Archibald Neave arrived home at midnight to astounding news. He paraded his portly figure up and down the elegant salon and chewed his thumbnail. Araminta’s message had been brief and none too explicit. Details of whatever injury Wilhelmina Orksville had sustained had been sparse. He was in two minds as to whether or not to present himself on the doorstep opposite and demand speech with his daughter. One the one hand was his understandable concern but on the other was the likelihood of being asked to remove himself and Araminta from such a distinguished household forthwith.
Several minutes of anguished reflection followed. Eventually he hit upon the notion of thinking what the only real lady of his acquaintance, Rowena, Countess of Conniston, would do. Determination soon filled him. He tugged at the bell-pull.
Nesbit, woken from a dose in his pantry, appeared at the door stony-faced and bleary-eyed. He received, without comment, the instruction to get himself to the doors of the Emporium in the earliest hour of the morning and purchase a particular Chinoiserie basket of charming appearance. Then he should buy sufficient posies of violets to fill it. Such a charming trifle, Archibald told himself but not Nesbit, when presented to Her Grace with an elegantly worded note would cause her to perceive immediately what a wonderful match Araminta would be for one or other of her sons, preferably the elder.
Archibald sat at a table to compose the note. He scrunched up the first attempt and tossed it to the floor. The second followed. So did several more until a snowfall of paper surrounded him. In the small hours of the night he held up one that, on third reading, said what he wanted in the manner he wanted it to.
While Archibald was pacing and struggling with his lexicon, across the square Lord Frederick paced the salon from fireplace to middle window. He struggled with the information from his Mama that the attacker had addressed Miss Neave by name. A sleepy Mr Blythburgh watched him with concern and not a little enlightenment.
‘Why the devil would anyone want to attack Miss Neave?’ Frederick asked. ‘She’s a sterling girl.’
‘Her Papa,’ Mr Blythburgh replied, rousing himself, ‘has an awful lot of sterling. Not to mention even more guineas.’
‘Money?’ Lord Frederick swung round from flicking the fringe on the chintz draped at the window. ‘You think it was a ransom?’
Everett shrugged. ‘What else could it be?’
Frederick paced to the fireplace and stopped. ‘We’ll have to watch her. Make sure no-one tries again. If they’ve failed once . . . well, who knows?’
‘Freddie, you can’t sit in the girl’s pocket. You’ll raise expectations. And scandal. And you can’t possibly tell her why. Scare her witless.’
‘I don’t think it would. If she can shoot a fellow, she can’t be that easily frightened.’
‘Even so, people would remark upon it. You’d ruin her reputation.’ Everett shook his head. ‘No. No, the best thing is to induce her to leave London.’
‘That’s it! Well done. What a stout fellow you are.’ Frederick buffeted his friend heartily on the arm. ‘I’ll take her to Lidgate.’
; ‘Now Freddie.’ Everett stood up, rubbing his arm. ‘If you following her around in Town would be enough to cause comment, just consider what taking her to Lidgate would do.’
‘But it’s simple. Miss Orksville needs to convalesce. I want Pegasus for Athena. Two good reasons for us all to Lidgate.’
‘Not her pa too?’ An element of horror crept into Everett’s voice. ‘The Duke would never agree.’
‘No. Well . . . no. Perhaps not Mr Neave as well.’
‘And you’ll need your Mama to go. To chaperone.’
‘No we won’t. Miss Orksville will be there.’
Mr Blythburgh sighed heavily. ‘Frederick, if the lady is in bed convalescing she cannot be held to be a chaperone.’ He studied the transformation of his friend’s face from joy to gloom. ‘Her Grace won’t want to leave Town, you know. She never does.’
Frederick sat himself down heavily on a carved sofa. Everett continued to study him. ‘Is there some sort of aunt you could use? A cousin, perhaps? Every family has some sort of relative for these things.’
Frederick’s expression and posture underwent another change. ‘Aunt Leonora,’ he crowed. ‘That’s the ticket. She’ll do.’
‘Aunt Leonora? I thought neither of Their Graces had a sibling.’
‘No, they don’t. We call her aunt but she’s a second cousin on the Ellonby side. Or third. Whoever . . . she’s always angling to go to Lidgate.’ He charged to the door. ‘I’ll ask Mama now.’
‘Er . . . hold hard. It’s almost . . .’ Everett hoisted his fob watch. ‘Almost half three in the morning. Best not disturb Her Grace now. Wait ‘til after breakfast at least.’
Ensconced in her magnificent bed, her Grace of Ellonby regarded the tray the maid placed across her knees with some interest. On one corner was a small basket of daintily-woven porcelain strands. Violets overflowed each side. A matching ribbon was threaded round the arched handle. Propped in front of it was a note sealed with a wafer and inscribed with her name in a flowing script.
Her curiosity aroused, the Duchess slid a pale fingertip under the seal. The paper unfolded. She read it in silence, her delicate lips curved. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Very pretty. Very pretty indeed.’
‘Your Grace?’ queried the maid.
The Duchess waved a hand. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Off you go.’
The disappointed maid opened the door and backed out of the room right into Lord Frederick. She squeaked. He smiled and put her aside to stride into the room.
‘Good morning, Mama. I hope I find you well.’ He crossed the thick rugs to the bed and raised her hand to his lips.
‘A little fatigued, I fear.’
‘Oh.’ Fatigued was not what Frederick wished to hear. He had hoped his Mama would be in a cheerful mood.
A sweet smile lifted the Duchess’s mouth. She gazed fondly upon her youngest son. ‘Don’t look so downcast. Come . . .’ She patted the bed. ‘Sit and help me eat all of this.’ She indicated the small repast of toast and fruit on the tray.
Frederick looked at it. ‘A pretty favour, Mama,’ he said, pointing at the basket.
‘Indeed. Most elegant. And most unexpected.’
A little-boy grin brightened Frederick’s face. ‘One of your beaux?’
‘Not at all. It’s from the young lady’s father.’
‘Mr Neave?’ Frederick could not have hoped for a better opportunity to introduce the Neaves into the conversation. ‘Now you mention her, I wonder Mama, if you could help me with her horse.’
‘Her horse?’ A small frown. ‘I thought we were not going to speak of such things.’
‘I know but I have had an idea. I thought . . . I mean . . . wouldn’t it be a kindness to let poor Miss Orksville repair to the country to convalesce?’
‘Indeed, but how does that concern me?’
‘Well . . .’ Eagerness and hope sparkled in his eyes. ‘I thought if we could let them spend a few weeks at Lidgate, Miss Neave might take her horse with her.’
‘Oh, no dearest. I am not minded to go to Lidgate.’
Frederick grasped her nearest hand. ‘There’ll be no need. I’m sure Aunt Leonora will be pleased to go there.’
The Duchess held her sons close to her heart. The expression in her youngest son’s eyes was more than she could resist. She affected a sigh. ‘I am almost persuaded, my dear, but I fear His Grace will not be so inclined.’
Frederick’s grip on her hand tightened. ‘But if you mentioned it to him, Mama ..?’
Both of them knew the Duke doted on his pretty Duchess even now. Lifting a single violet to her lips, she nodded. ‘Well . . . perhaps I could mention it.’ She gave herself to further thought.
Frederick held his breath, surprised at how important the matter had suddenly become. He studied his mother’s face anxiously.
‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Miss Orksville and Miss Neave may go to Lidgate but please know that the Duke will not want Mr Neave to accompany them.’
Frederick bounced up from the bed. The china on the tray rattled. ‘Thank you, Mama. Dearest Mama. I’ll pen a note to Aunt Leonora immediately.’
‘No you will not. It would be quite improper. I will do so.’
Frederick dashed to a delicate escritoire and hefted up the polished mahogany writing case resting on it. He dumped it on her Grace’s bed. She sighed, moved the tray away and, while her chocolate grew cooler and cooler and her son paced around her pretty boudoir, wrote to her husband’s second cousin.
The Duchess signed her name. Frederick held out his hand. ‘I’ll beg his Grace for a frank.’
The letter was gently moved out of his reach. ‘I think, dearest, that I should do so. Don’t you?’
Impatience subsided. If anyone was going to overcome his Grace’s undoubted objections, it would be his charming wife. A severe, parent with an autocratic manner, everyone in his several households knew his devotion to her had not weakened since the day he had led her out of the church almost twenty-nine years ago.
Frederick kissed his mother’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mama.’
He strode out of her boudoir and across the landing to the stairs to the room where Miss Neave would be sitting at Miss Orksville’s bedside. He scratched on the door and waited until it opened.
Araminta peeped out. ‘Lord Frederick.’
‘Miss Neave. I have a suggestion for Miss Orksville’s continued recovery.’
Araminta stepped into the passage. She pulled the door closed with one hand and lifted the other to brush back a lock of hair.
Frederick noticed she did not look as composed as usual. He frowned. ‘I trust, ma’am, that Miss Orksville improves?’
‘I think so. I’m not sure. She has taken a fever.’
‘Oh.’ The Lidgate plan threatened to disintegrate. ‘She is not well enough to travel I presume?’
Colour flooded into Araminta’s cheeks. ‘I am so sorry. Of course Their Graces must be wishing us away from here.’
Frederick’s eyes spread in horror at the misinterpretation. ‘No. No, not so. It’s Mama – Her Grace. She has suggested you take Miss Orksville to Lidgate to recover.’ Araminta stared at him. ‘And,’ he continued, ‘I thought perhaps if you were minded to ride you might send for Pegasus.’
A gurgle of laughter greeted his comment. ‘Why Lord Frederick I might wonder if you were the one to attack us for that very purpose.’
It took his lordship several seconds to realise she was joking. He flushed like a schoolboy. ‘You tease me, Miss Neave. Not even for Pegasus would I subject delicate females to such an ordeal.’
‘I’m not so delicate, sir. I shot a man dead.’ A wave of remorse swept over her features. She bit her lip.
‘No, ma’am. No.’ Frederick possessed himself of one of her hands. ‘The scoundrel was not dead. He was not there when I sent to look.’
‘Oh, that is a relief.’ She studied Frederick seriously. ‘I had to do it of course but I didn’t want him dead even if . . .’ Her voice faded. She looked up at him. ‘I believe they were after me.’
Frederick captured her other hand. ‘I beg you not to worry, ma’am. I will make it my concern to ensure your safety at all times.’
At the far end of the passage a door open and a brown-haired chambermaid emerged. Araminta snatched her hands away from Frederick. He stepped back. The maid, eyes downcast, disappeared at speed through another door.
Frederick cleared his throat. ‘I beg pardon ma’am. I sought only to reassure you that you would be safe at Lidgate.’ He paused. ‘Will you inform your Papa – Mr Neave, I mean – that they were fixed on you?’
Araminta shook her head. The escaped curl descended again. ‘Not at present. It will only cause him anguish. Perhaps when we all leave for Lidgate . . .’ She coloured. Her eyes raked his face. ‘I’m sorry . . . I fear I had assumed you will be accompanying us.’
‘Of course I’ll be escorting you.’ His face clouded. ‘If you should wish it, of course.’
‘Most certainly, my lord. It would be a great kindness.’
Lord Frederick grinned. It occurred to him that he looked forward to that day with considerable enthusiasm.
Chapter Twenty One
Dawn was not yet lightening the sky over the rooftops of St James Street when Everett Blythburgh toddled out of Boodles two days later. He was, as usual, completely sober, unlike Viscount Trelowen. Not that anyone but the most particular observer could tell his lordship had imbibed too well. My Blythburgh, though, was indeed a particular observer. He had also noticed that the Viscount had moved towards the door only when he himself had called it a night and risen from the chair he had occupied for most of an evening spent watching green fools losing at cards until their pockets were to let.
‘Well, well,’ Trelowen mused, pausing beside him while the doorman walked into the street to summon a cab with a raised his hand. ‘Out all alone. Where is your alter ego?’
Everett’s face assumed a look of indifference. ‘One presumes you mean Lord Frederick.’
Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) Page 17
