Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants

by Allison Chase

  Melinda’s involvement with the corporation—was this what Dr. Bailey had alluded to the day she took ill? Why in God’s name would she have sold this parcel of land? She could not have needed the money. Aidan knew for a fact that her annuities paid over eight thousand a year.

  Or had those annuities somehow proved insolvent?

  Turning back around, he snatched Edwina’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, my dear. You are most astute.”

  “Am I?”

  “Is she?” Emily’s nose wrinkled indignantly.

  Sanford’s lips twisted in disdain.

  “If you will all excuse me.” Their protests hot on his back, Aidan set off, ducking as he stepped out from beneath the canopy.

  “Such breathtaking scenery,” Laurel exclaimed. Having finished eating, she was walking with Melinda and Lord Munster beyond the pavilions. The hilltop’s grassy ridge commanded spectacular views in all directions.

  To the south, the city’s spires, turrets, and domes lay sprawled like the pieces of an intricate puzzle. To the north, a lush, rolling landscape tumbled to the edge of a hazy horizon. “You say these enchanting hills are the Cotswolds?”

  “The southern Cotswolds, yes,” Melinda said with an indulgent smile. She seemed to derive great pleasure from Laurel’s enthusiasm.

  Laurel had worried that this afternoon’s activities would overtire the countess. She had even suggested that they spend a quiet day together at Fenwick House instead, but Melinda had insisted on coming. Looking at her now, with the silk flowers trimming her bonnet complementing the rosy hue of her cheeks, Laurel had to admit that the past days’ rest had done wonders to restore the woman’s youthful vitality.

  Reassured, she gazed out at the panorama before them. “I had not realized how close the Cotswolds are to Bath.”

  “B-but a stone’s throw away.” Lord Munster picked up a pebble and sent it skipping down the hillside. He went on to describe the limestone aquifer that ran beneath the hills, channeling the mineral waters that had made Bath famous.

  Laurel barely took note as she stared out over the blue-green hills stretching as far as she could see. However little she remembered of her early childhood, she did know that her life had begun somewhere in this region.

  Uncle Edward had provided only the vaguest details about Billington, the village the Sutherlands had called home. Assuming he had found it painful to dwell upon memories of the sister he had lost, Laurel had eventually stopped pressing him for information. Now he was gone, and the answers were forever sealed with him in his grave.

  Unless she discovered something on her own . . .

  Lord Munster droned on as she continued gazing out at the knolls and vales she had once called home. Why could she remember nothing of that life? Every part of her, down to her fingertips, trembled with a desire to touch something of her past.

  Melinda took Laurel’s hand in her own. “Is something wrong, dearest? You look pale and . . . and your hand has grown quite cold.”

  That was because her heart had clenched around a painful longing, yet in all those idyllic miles, nothing struck a chord of recollection. How could that be? True, she had not glimpsed these hills for many years, but should she not feel some connection? Some twinge of belonging here?

  She managed a smile for Melinda’s sake. “The breeze has grown chilly. Let’s return to the others now.”

  “Another g-glass of wine will warm you, Laurel.”

  She felt Melinda’s reaction to Lord Munster’s use of her given name in the slight tightening of her fingers. Laurel met her gaze and quirked an eyebrow as if to say, “It is not my idea,” and hoped the other woman understood.

  They returned to the bustling activity of the footmen circulating through the pavilions collecting the tableware. Everyone else had come to their feet.

  “Mr. Giles Henderson of the Bath Corporation is addressing questions concerning the Summit Pavilion,” Lady Devonlea informed them. “Then he will conduct a tour to show us where each wing of the facility will stand.”

  Lord Munster pressed a goblet of wine into Laurel’s hand. She thanked him absently, her attention captured by Aidan’s easy, long- legged stride as he came into view. He halted at the edge of the crowd gathering before the alderman.

  His neighbors politely shifted to grant him a place in their midst. Women curtsied; men bobbed their heads. Several exchanged a few words with him before returning their attention to the speaker.

  Laurel experienced a welling of emotion at how readily Aidan commanded a crowd, how easily he could command her with a mere word or gesture, if she let down her guard. She already had yielded to temptation, once when she allowed him to kiss her at the theater, and again yesterday when she had followed him to Avon Street. She had done so to learn more about him, and what she had discovered had given her more reason than ever not to trust him.

  Will you tell me what you were doing at that place, and in those clothes? she had asked him.

  Just as you told me why you once donned yellow when you should have been in black?

  Thus they had reached a stalemate. What now?

  Beside her, Lord Munster misconstrued the focus of her interest and offered his arm. “Come, Laurel, let us m-move closer and hear what Mr. Henderson has to say. The S-Summit Pavilion and Rousseau’s elixir are intricately intertwined, for each shall ensure the success of the other. Are you interested in investing in the s-spa?”

  She almost said no, that she had no resources for luxuries such as investing in resort facilities. But as a wealthy widow, she would most certainly possess such funds. Not only that, but expressing an interest in an endeavor that held such importance to him was guaranteed to keep him talking.

  At yesterday’s luncheon at his sister’s home, much of the talk had centered around politics, as Laurel had hoped, yet her expectation of finding herself surrounded by Radical Reformers had met with disappointment.

  The group around the dining table, Lady Devonlea included, eschewed many of their new queen’s policies. They felt that as a woman, Victoria allowed her Whig ministers too much freedom, and that soon the influence of the landed classes would give way to a system in which even the poorest workman had a voice in the government.

  Laurel had wondered if that would be so dreadful, but she knew better than to voice such a sentiment. Lord Devonlea in particular seemed to fear that loss of power would lead to loss of wealth. Lord Munster had merely grumbled about the consequences of placing a crown on the head of a naive young chit.

  Though disparaging, the talk had hardly been treasonous. These were traditionalists, Tories, not radicals, and Laurel was beginning to wonder if Victoria had been wide of the mark concerning her cousin. Then again, perhaps George Fitzclarence had wisely concealed his revolutionary opinions from his sister and mutual acquaintances.

  Perhaps he and his fellow rabble- rousers met in secret . . . say, in derelict parts of town where people such as Lord and Lady Devonlea would never dare tread.

  Where Aidan had gone yesterday, in disguise . . .

  “Are you, Laurel? Interested in investing, I m-mean?”

  The repetition of Fitzclarence’s question snapped her out of her reflections. She blinked. “Why, yes, I am most interested. Perhaps you might advise me as to the proper course to take in such a venture.”

  His chest visibly swelled. “I should be d-delighted to. This project is of vital importance to me. I have invested m-much into its success.”

  Mr. Henderson began leading his audience from place to place on the hilltop, describing the future layout of the facility. As Laurel and Fitzclarence followed, he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. Given the uneven terrain, the gesture would not be considered improper, except that George Fitzclarence had a wife. Laurel continually thought of poor Mary Wyndham Fox, at home with the children while her husband pursued affairs with other women.

  With Laurel, at present.

  She resisted the urge to pull her hand away,
or to use it to smack sense and prudence into the man. “I have no doubt,” she said evenly, “that the Summit Pavilion will prove highly profitable.”

  “Oh, but my d-dear, this means infinitely more to me than mere m-money. I wish to contribute to this city, to help create a thing of c-consequence. A legacy, one m-might say.”

  He looked out over the distant spires, his face suddenly younger, animated, filled with dreams.

  Her heart gave an involuntary squeeze. “A most noble goal, sir. I do believe the venture will prove a great credit to such aspirations.”

  “Do you expect they’ll erect a p-plaque in my name somewhere on the p-property?”

  Good heavens, were those tears in his eyes? Did a slight tremor accompany his words?

  Was this vulnerability to be believed, or had he inherited his mother’s acting talents? Smoothing a frown of puzzlement, she replied, “I am certain of it. Given your partnership with Monsieur Rousseau, you are certain to succeed.”

  Beneath her hand, his forearm tightened. From the corner of his eye, he stole a peek at the French scientist standing by Lord and Lady Harcourt, Julian Stoddard, and several others. “Partnership? Ah, you m-mean my investment in his elixir. You will have a s-second chance to sample his formula before we leave here today.”

  Laurel gazed up into his protruding brown eyes, grown heavy-lidded with wine. He had forgotten their talk at the theater, she realized, when he had admitted to collaborating with Rousseau, and others like him, to usher in a “new age.”

  He had been in his cups then, too, and could not keep his stories straight. Which was the truth? If his interests truly lay in establishing a meaningful legacy, why would he lie about his relationship with Rousseau?

  “Are you certain you’re feeling better?”

  While Giles Henderson explained the system of cisterns, piping, and pumps that would redirect the thermal system running beneath the hillside into the Summit Pavilion’s future bathhouses, Aidan walked beside Melinda at the edge of the crowd. “If you’re tiring, I’ll accompany you home.”

  With a coquettish gesture, she tossed her head. “Don’t be silly. I feel glorious. Who would not on such a day?”

  Aidan glanced out over the western sky where somber clouds were gathering. “As long as those thunder-heads keep their distance.” He looked back at Melinda, taking in the brightness of her eyes and the restored glow to her complexion. “You do look exquisite, and young enough to tempt a man half your age.”

  “Perhaps more of those will return to Bath once the Summit Pavilion is built.”

  “Perhaps,” Aidan said. Then a sharp male voice drew his attention to the front of Henderson’s audience. “But it appears not everyone shares your exuberance.”

  “Would it not be easier to place the spa at the base of the hill?” Geoffrey Taft was complaining again. “Perhaps with simpler engineering the project would not have suffered repeated delays.”

  “But in so doing, we would lose this unparalleled view.” Henderson swept an arm out wide.

  “I shall admit to having entertained similar qualms,” Devonlea spoke up. “But our Mr. Henderson is correct. If mere facilities sufficed, Bath would not have ceased flourishing in recent times. Nowadays people prefer to spend their leisure in exceptional surroundings.”

  “What do you think?” Melinda whispered to Aidan. “Were they wise to pick this location, or will these feats of engineering prove impossible to achieve?”

  “Good questions both.” He offered his arm, and with a fond smile she leaned lightly on him as he led her farther from the crowd. “But what most sparks my curiosity is what possessed you to give up this land.”

  Melinda went still, her features frozen in chagrin. “How did you know?”

  He raised an eyebrow in answer.

  She pursed her lips. “Even as a small child, you were far more observant than anyone ever gave you credit for.”

  “A person learns a lot simply by being quiet, and one can never be sure what knowledge will prove useful in the future.” He brought them to a stop, removed her hand from the crook of his arm, and held it between his own. “So . . . the land. Why did you sell it? Surely your finances are not—”

  “Dear me, no, I am in no financial difficulty. And I did not sell the property. I donated it.”

  It was his turn to be dumbfounded. “You gave it away?”

  “Traded would be the more precise term, in exchange for a sizable share in the Summit Pavilion. Oh, don’t look like that. Bath is my home, and I believe in this project. Its success will ensure a great future for the city.”

  “Melinda, it is a risky venture at best. Why didn’t you seek my counsel? Did you at least have one of your sons-in-law look over the records?”

  Anger sharpened her expression. “Need I remind you I am no child, and Fenwick House and all its property belongs to me outright, to do with as I see fit.”

  He studied her. So this was the business she had been conducting with the Bath Corporation, the donation of the land upon which the Summit Pavilion would be built. If it was built.

  And she had clearly not intended for him to know.

  “Why didn’t you mention this?” he asked. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I do. I suppose I didn’t wish to be dissuaded. As I said, I am of independent means and perfectly capable of making decisions for myself. Do you seek outside validation once you have made up your mind? No. Then why should I be expected to simply because I am female?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if there are no more questions,” Giles Henderson announced, “we may now all sample more of Monsieur Rousseau’s elixir.”

  Spurred to action, the footmen hauled a barrel beneath the largest of the striped canopies and pried open the top. Using a ladle, Rousseau himself began filling cup after cup with the foul-smelling water. All around him, excitement eddied through the company.

  It was all Aidan could do not to knock the cup from Melinda’s hand. How many sham remedies had his father held to his mother’s lips in those final months, her body nonetheless wasting away and the family fortune falling to ruins? But he bit his tongue as Melinda tipped her head back and drained her cup. A cup found its way into his own hand.

  Across the way, he watched as Laurel also sipped a sample. Her nose wrinkling, she tossed a glance over her shoulder, another to the side. Was she considering pouring the brew into the grass? He wished she would. Fitz placed his hand at the bottom of her cup and gave a nudge of encouragement. Laurel raised the brim to her lips, shut her eyes, and drank.

  Something inside Aidan’s chest tightened painfully. The woman perplexed him, raised his suspicions, angered him . . . yet all he wished to do was protect her. Yesterday, she had nearly brought a Home Office operation to ruin, yet his foremost instinct had been to ensure her safety.

  Moments like these reminded him that his position with the Home Office often rendered him powerless to safeguard those he cared most about. He could not confide in any of them: not Melinda, Beatrice, Fitz . . . not Laurel, either. He could not explain why he suspected this elixir and the entire Summit Pavilion were fraudulent. He could only go on pretending ignorance until he stumbled upon enough evidence to bring the perpetrators to their knees.

  Had Melinda been swindled out of valuable acreage? Were they all now ingesting poison? He had no choice but to remain silent, keep watching, and hope he found the answers before any real harm was done.

  He raised his cup and drank.

  Chapter 15

  Like fine brandy, the elixir spread warmth and a pleasant tingle through Aidan’s body. He felt no ill effects, nothing that would lead him to suspect the water held anything but the ingredients Claude Rousseau had claimed.

  What had he been so worried about? That the past, his mother’s wretched ordeal, would repeat itself? Or that Melinda’s illness at the Pump Room had been caused by the elixir? Around him, he saw no evidence of that being the case, nothing but high spirits and lively conversation punctua
ted with laughter.

  He could not deny the elixir’s immediate positive effects. He felt buoyant and energized, as though he could easily sprint a mile or go several rounds in the wrestling ring.

  Now, there was a thought. He hadn’t wrestled since university. What on earth made him think of it?

  Melinda studied him as a half smile played about her lips. “Well?”

  “Perhaps there is something to this after all.” The breath he drew deep into his lungs sent a quivering rush of vitality to his muscles. “I feel extraordinary.”

  “And now you understand the excitement that has taken hold here in Bath.”

  “The list,” he said. “You have been on it all along, meaning you’ve taken regular doses.”

  “Yes, and except for a bout of fatigue brought on by overexerting myself, I have never felt better.”

  Aidan nodded, deciding to dismiss the tiny, nagging doubt that persisted in a far-off corner of his mind.

  A crack of thunder ripped across the hillside. Melinda jumped. Several ladies cried out in alarm, followed by nervous laughter.

  “Thunder in March? How very odd.” Lady Harcourt waddled to a corner of the pavilion and peered out at the sky. Her several chins jiggled in urgency. “Good heavens, it is time for us to take our leave. I fear the storm is nearly upon us.”

  The company fell to disorder as people scrambled for their belongings and shouted orders for their drivers to raise the folded carriage tops. As the first fat drops fell, Melinda’s footman came running with an umbrella.

  “Ye don’t want to be catchin’ your death, milady.”

  Melinda ducked under the umbrella. “Where is Laurel? I don’t see her.”

  Aidan didn’t see her, either. In the confusion, he spotted his three cousins climbing into their parents’ sturdy brougham. Fitz handed his sister into her barouche, then climbed in behind her. Devonlea followed him in and shut the door. Margaret Whitfield let out a screech as she and Captain Taft made a dash for his curricle.