After a glass of the detestable mineral water, then came another outing if Emily felt up to it: perhaps to a bun shop, a coffeehouse, or the winding delights of elegant Sydney Gardens. Here they met the women of Bath, a less credulous bunch than the men, but quite willing to be plied with costly dainties and polite conversation.
After these interludes came church. St. Mary’s Chapel, a small classical building of golden Bath stone, occupied one corner of Queen Square, and Emily had rented a pew therein at an exorbitant rate. “All the better to encourage regular attendance,” she guessed, and indeed, she went to services each day they were performed. Augusta usually accompanied her, letting the familiar rites and ancient words of comfort wash around her. She did not like the raw reminder of the inscrutable hand of the divine, of love enduring beyond death; still, she went to hold Emily’s hand. The countess always wore a veiled hat so no one would notice the tears that sometimes tracked down her cheeks.
Augusta noticed nonetheless, though she pretended not to.
Before dinner there was time for a rest; after dinner, another. Then came the lengthy preparations for the evening’s outing: an assembly, the theater, a musical entertainment. Mrs. Flowers always wore pastels and was bright and blithe. She danced, she laughed, she flirted—but not too much. No one seemed quite right as a potential lover; for no one could she imagine dispensing with her candied, mannered shell and succumbing to raw passion.
For several days she did not see Joss Everett. Why should she, though? He was in Bath for business, and she had given him the means of conducting it.
Perhaps she would have been less helpful had she known her aid would take him from her presence.
Five days passed like this: days of quiet ease broken by sudden tides of loneliness that dragged at Augusta at unexpected times. She had come to think of these fits of melancholy as an object: a boulder balanced at the top of a steep hill. If she let it tumble, it would roll over and crush her. After she lost her parents and Colin Hawford within the span of a week, her shoulders had been bowed and the boulder had fallen. Wrenching it back into place had taken agonizing months, and its equilibrium had felt precarious ever since. She knew now how easily knocked away were the chocks of love, of everyday life, of expectations.
And so when the boulder tipped, she smiled more brightly, added more flowers to her hair, laughed at every little joke. Day by day, the number of callers for Mrs. Flowers increased. Everyone liked to be with her, sunny and cheerful as she was.
Well. Not everyone, but enough people. At least…it ought to feel like enough.
On the sixth morning, Augusta flipped idly through The Times in the drawing room, looking for the new advertisements for Meredith Beauty’s translucent soap. The soap was a marvel, hard and pure as a topaz. The advertisements should be much larger; she would write a fawning letter of persuasion to the trustees later.
The butler interrupted her perusal by entering with a letter delivered by “a grimy boy dragging about a Bath chair.”
Augusta’s stomach gave a curious flutter. Could this be Joss’s erstwhile messenger? “How grimy was the boy?”
“Extremely grimy.” The butler’s nose wrinkled as he handed Augusta the salver bearing her note, then departed.
She folded the newspaper and left it on the drawing room’s window seat, then pounced upon her letter. Indeed it was from Joss; already she knew his writing, strong and deeply slanted.
I flipped a penny to decide whom to approach next, and Whittington won. If you would like to take part in the negotiations, meet us in Sydney Gardens at midday. Be Mrs. Flowers at her Mrs. Flowers-est. I should like to see what she is capable of.
She toyed with the idea of declining the summons; it would be unwise to allow Whittington to see her. But the frisson that shimmered through her body was more excitement than nervousness. Joss wanted to see what she was capable of.
Or he wanted to see her?
The thought seemed to lighten the air in the swaddled, textured drawing room.
Mrs. Flowers was meant as an escape, was she not? So, this would be an escape.
***
Augusta thought of Sydney Gardens as the still grander stepsister of the elegant arrangement at the center of Queen Square. Tacked onto the eastern side of Bath, one entered not through a mere gate, but through an imposing hotel of stone. After paying admission to the gardens, one was granted access to acres of elaborate glee: smooth paths for walking, a labyrinth for losing oneself, a green for springing one’s horses, a canal to cross over or boat along.
As soon as Augusta had deposited her fee with a servant and stepped onto the winter-dry grass, Joss was at her side. Dressed plainly as usual, he would have blended into the shadow of the hotel had he not been so cursedly handsome.
“You are early, Mrs. Flowers. The clock reads only half past eleven.”
“Yet you were waiting for me.”
“A man can but hope, and hope that hope is rewarded.” He looked her up and down, and a smile lit his features. “My heaven, Mrs. Flowers, you have outdone yourself. ‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?’”
“Naught but the blinding print of my gown.” She did a little twirl, sharing his smile. She had dressed according to her name, just as Joss had requested. Beneath her frilled parasol, far too frail for the March wind, her bonnet was a frenzy of silk blossoms and curling feathers. The accompanying gown had been purchased ready-made from an unassuming Bath dressmaker; it looked as though a garden had sneezed on it, all covered in blooms of riotous color and form. To complete the effect, Augusta had bought a handful of early-blooming phlox in a vivid, showy pink, and pinned it to her spencer.
When she looked in the glass before leaving Emily’s house, she had laughed.
“You asked for Mrs. Flowers. Sir, she is at your service. Though might I ask why she is needed?”
“Indeed you may. I shall even answer you.” He guided her to a scrolled wooden bench, then seated himself next to her. “I did not actually flip a coin to decide with whom I would attempt to speak next. Rather, I sent letters requesting appointments—all without man flirting, I assure you.”
“Applause and felicitations.”
“Thank you. There was one exception; before writing to Mr. Duffy of the foundry, I decided to visit it.”
She lifted a hand—gloved in fussy ruffled lace, naturally. “Hold one moment. Are you admitting that you engaged in a hen-witted espionage caper?”
Beneath the brim of his hat, Joss shot her a dark look. “No. Nothing of the sort. I merely took a walk through a part of Bath I had never yet visited.”
“Hmm.”
He ignored this. “The smell was like nothing I’ve ever encountered. Tar and burning things. Acrid and dreadful. I know we must have metal, and foundries must have coal to make it. But if Sutcliffe could sell his land whole rather than stripping the coal from it—well, it seems to me that would be better.”
“It wouldn’t be better for you, as his man of business. You could almost certainly see the coal sold at a decent price.”
He looked away, in the direction of the canal just visible through winter-bare branches. A few brave souls were punting along the chill ribbon, their voices floating on the breeze with occasional snippets of song. When the punt passed beneath a delicate ironwork footbridge, the sound vanished.
“It wouldn’t be better for the tenants,” he said. “They are farmers, not miners. Nor would it be better for the land itself, which would become barren. Yet I know that to sell off the land outright would be worse for the estate. Perhaps we could buy it back one day, though, whole and unharmed.”
“We could buy it back?”
“We. Sutcliffe and me. Or more likely, his son, if Ted proves less of a—” He pressed his lips together. “Proves inclined to careful stewardship of his holdings.”
“And what do you need of
me?”
He shaded his eyes and looked up at the sky, where sparrows or starlings or some sort of small bird arrowed, joyous and quick through the air. “I thought you might enjoy the amusement of an outing outside the stifling comforts of your rented house. Have you noticed how many men have tipped their hats at you, my dear fake widow? Perhaps this was my true motive: I wanted the smug satisfaction of being the man who sat at your side.”
Did he mean it? Of course he did not; the odious expression of amusement was spreading over his features again. “Enjoy it while you can,” she said primly, “for when Lord Whittingham presents himself, I shall have to leave you behind.”
“Must you? I have no doubt that his lordship would be as delighted to see you as is every other man of your acquaintance.”
“Every man?”
“Oh, well—perhaps half. As I said on the occasion of our first meeting in Bath, I haven’t spoken to everyone.”
“Nor have I, so you needn’t make me sound like a hussy.” She said this without heat, turning over the idea in her mind. Meeting Lord Whittingham would be a delight, a reminder of the years before she lost her parents. And it would knit her, in some small way, to Joss’s side. It would be a place to fit, to belong, for a sliver of time.
He offered to open that window between her and others—or no, he asked her to open it herself.
“I shall think about it,” she added. “We still have a bit of time before he arrives.”
“If you stay for our meeting, say whatever you like, as long as you somehow discuss Whittingham giving money to Sutcliffe. I don’t even care for what reason, honestly. If he wants to pay Sutcliffe to strip naked and dance through the streets of Bath, that’s quite all right with me. I don’t know who would want to see it, but Sutcliffe would certainly be willing to do it.”
Augusta grinned. “I simply must meet your employer again.” She recalled the baron as cheerful and impulsive, but then, she’d only met him and his baroness once at a ball. At which no one, to her knowledge, had stripped naked.
“You might be required to meet him eventually, but let us hope not.”
Another passing man—vaguely familiar as a recent caller in Queen Square—tipped his hat to Augusta. She waved and smiled with her fluffy glove and friendly smile.
“Would he do as a lover, do you think?” some imp made her nudge Joss in the ribs and ask in a low voice.
There was no unsettling the man; he only leaned back against the bench and stuck out his boots, the picture of comfort. “I think not. Though I cannot judge male beauty with anything like the proper eye, he appears too languid for you. See how slowly he walks?”
“That could be because he wants to hang back and look at me more.”
He arched a brow. “If he’s that fascinated, then he ought to have the stones to turn around and speak to you. Unless you wish for a lover with no stones? That would seem to defeat the purpose, though.”
This was what the imp had wished for: Joss Everett, shaping words like lover and stones with his beautifully cut mouth. Warm and liquid, desire swirled within her. “I am quite sure that you ought not to be speaking this way to me,” she managed.
“I am quite sure,” he countered, “that you are right. But I am also quite sure that you like it. There is no need for you to play Mrs. Flowers with me.”
Odd indeed, that the widowed part she played was far more innocent than her unwed true self. Yet Mrs. Flowers had to be bright as sunlight, where Augusta burned low and hot as fire.
Figuratively speaking. She shivered; within her dainty gloves, her fingers were cold.
“Perhaps you might satisfy my curiosity on one point, Augusta. If Mrs. Flowers is not meant to be wealthy nor wellborn, what is it about her that appeals to so many men?”
“Her lack of wealth and birth is to keep them from entertaining notions of marriage. Aside from those dreadful flaws, she is everything a man should wish.”
“Which is?”
Twirling the flimsy handle of her parasol, she considered. “Pleasant, soft-spoken. Cheerful. So feminine—observe the gown, if you will—that she is a creature entirely without threat. Generous with laughter and with flaunts of the bosom.”
He gave her a sidelong glance so quick she almost missed it. “I have observed no such behavior. Are you depriving me of bosom-flaunting?”
“Yes, but you are a special case. As you just informed me, there’s no purpose to being Mrs. Flowers with you because you know she doesn’t exist.”
“And what of the other poor fellows of Bath?” Joss nodded toward the smoothly paved path, along which yet more individuals and couples promenaded. “With this figment, you shall spoil them for all other women. Then they shall be left with nothing.”
“Exactly right. Nothing but a beautiful memory.” The words were unexpectedly piquant on her tongue. She savored the taste.
“You sound a bit bloodthirsty,” Joss observed. “But I’m sure that cannot be your intention, since you have just told me that you mean to be both soft-spoken and cheerful.”
“I would find it easier to be so if you were a bit more soft-spoken and cheerful yourself.”
“Rot,” he said in a voice of perfect cheer. “Though I can be agreeable. Do look at the path: several gentlemen are walking in this direction. Perhaps I might identify one who will do as your lover.”
She should have paid the extra sixpence for tea; her mouth felt dry. Moistening her lips, she offered a honeyed smile. “How industrious you are. Which one would you suggest?”
Joss indicated a bewigged elderly man the shape of a kettledrum, hitching himself along with the aid of two canes. “What of him? With that expression of good cheer, he would doubtless treat you with great solicitude.”
“You are terrible. That man is as fluffy-haired and fat as a pregnant sheep.”
“Good heavens, you are particular,” Joss chided. “I thought you wished only for someone to perform a service for you. Must he be as good-looking as all that?”
“I would prefer he not be painful to look upon.”
“You underestimate the importance of an expression of good cheer,” Joss said. “But let us pass on. What about the light-haired fellow swinging his cane about with such spirit?”
The object of Joss’s comment was clearly a dandy, and something in his appearance set her on edge at once. Maybe it was the man’s ringlets or his wasp-waisted coat or the smug expression on his indolent features.
Augusta pretended not to notice as her parasol knocked against Joss’s hat. “What an excellent suggestion,” she cooed. “He is handsome. And well-dressed, too. Should I speak to him? No, I suppose you’d best introduce us.”
“Please cease beating me with your parasol.” With a determined gesture, Joss tugged the parasol from Augusta’s grasp and folded it shut. “Your bonnet is large enough to shield you and several other individuals from the sun. You’ve no need of this. And I am devastated to learn that Mrs. Flowers does not number an understanding of satire among her virtues.”
“Of course she doesn’t. She’s too cheerful for satire.” Augusta snatched back her parasol and held it sideways in her lap, a feminine bayonet. “To what do you refer?”
“I was not serious when I suggested the light-haired fellow. Well-dressed, indeed. His coat shoulders are as padded as his calves. Only imagine bringing him to your bedchamber, then gaping in dismay as his fine figure is left on the floor for a valet to pick up.”
“You’re saying things you ought not to say again.” Her cheeks felt as pink as one of the blown roses scattered over her gown. Saying what he ought not to say, yes—because the man she pictured in her bedchamber was Joss, and the form about which she wondered was his. No padding filled out the shoulders of his black coat, well cut but not tailored for his form. The thin knit of his trousers, snug over muscular thighs; the worn leather of his boots—he wa
s unpretentious, unconcerned, and unimpressed.
And she was beginning to fear he would spoil her for other men.
He spoke again. “Here’s a promising prospect. Do look at that fellow with his hair tugged back into a queue. Like a pirate, wouldn’t you say? He could drag you off to the docks and ravish—”
“Stop.” She cut him off. “You are no help at all. Keep silent until I identify someone whose appearance is acceptable to me, and then you may tell me if you know anything to his discredit.”
Joss folded his arms.
“What? Nothing sarcastic to say by way of reply?”
He lifted one shoulder, a Gallic-looking gesture of complete nonchalance.
“Now he becomes obedient,” Augusta muttered. “Very well. That man. Do you know anything of him?” Her gesture was broad and almost random, like a tired swimmer pulling for a faraway shore.
Fortunately, there was a man in her path to intercept it. A somewhat handsome, somewhat well-dressed man with somewhat dark hair, promenading along the path with a somewhat languorous air. And a great rose pinned to his lapel.
There. He was perfect for Mrs. Flowers, who had only somewhat of a personality.
“He’ll never do for Mrs. Flowers.” Lips unsealed by her question, Joss spoke with certainty. “That man is a cheat. I saw him outside the White Hart yesterday, trying to swindle a Bath chair carrier by arguing the distance. He was wearing a hothouse flower then too.”
This last was spoken in a tone of scorn.
“There is nothing wrong with roses,” Augusta said. “Or with looking out for one’s own interests.”
“Indeed there is not. But there is a difference between asserting oneself and flying into a temper, and this man did the latter. You would not wish for an argumentative lover, would you?”
“I do not see that it would be much of a problem, as speech is not the principal purpose of encounters with a lover.” Ruby or garnet. Were Emily here, she would surely make a pronouncement on the color of Augusta’s cheeks.
Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress Page 8
