A Holiday in Bath

by Julie Daines

  Henrietta shook her head. “She’ll find us.”

  “You really think so?”

  “There’s a strong possibility.” And she knew just how to raise Jack’s chances. Her reasoning, after all, was very simple. She’d never mention it to Percy, but Jack was the ideal corsair lover: dark and tall with a fading scar, the aristocratic bearing of his French forebears, and the magnetism of his sister, a former actress. Any young lady who wasn’t already attached—as she was, quite happily—would be intrigued by him. And Jack was hiding something. The meeting hadn’t been just a simple passing in the park.

  They made their way around the Circus and turned on to Bennett Street. Bath might no longer be England’s foremost resort, but the buildings of the Upper Rooms hadn’t been convinced of that. Basking in the morning sun, they welcomed visiting notables—and if these persons were less exalted than in former years, they were too dignified to notice.

  “You never felt it necessary to come here before,” Percy muttered.

  “The boys weren’t sufficiently well for me to leave them,” Henrietta said innocently. “This is expected.” From her reticule, she fished out the clipping she’d taken from the newspaper and read: “Visitors are asked, on Arrival, to insert their Names and Places of Abode in the Book kept for this Purpose at the Pump Room, enabling the Master of Ceremonies to comply with his Wishes and the Expectations of the Public.”

  “I see.” But he looked skeptical.

  “Trust me. She’ll find us in a week.” Henrietta passed blithely under the columned entrance and brought her husband inside. Pretending interest in her surroundings, she paused. A moment later, her hopes were fulfilled.

  “Arundel? Is that you?”

  They turned, confronting a trio of Bath tabbies. Henrietta smiled. She felt her husband swallow.

  “Lady Margaret. It’s been an age.”

  The shortest one, brittle and lacy as a snowflake, closed her fan and beckoned them closer. “You were in long shirts, then. It’s good to see you, Percival.”

  Henrietta let her husband make introductions. Besides Lady Margaret, there was a dowager countess and another lady Henrietta thought was the aunt of a bishop. Her teeth were false, and her skin gray as a wet November. As Lady Margaret reminisced about a young Percival—“Such a trial to his mother. Everyone called him Chuckles!”—Henrietta excused herself.

  “I’ll put our names in the book,” she whispered. Her fingers were tingling with excitement when she picked up the pen. Should she put Percy down for the card room? The extra money would be worth his consternation. Good wives were always loving, but not always kind. As for the dress balls . . . Yes, they’d do those too. Poor Percy. This wouldn’t be much of a holiday for him.

  In flowing, untidy script, she wrote both her and her husband’s names, then tapped the pen against her chin, delayed only seconds by her expiring conscience. Jack wouldn’t like this; he might even be furious, but she’d take the risk. With more care than before, she wrote Jack’s particulars. Instead of the name he habitually used, Dr. John Edwards, she put down the name he’d long forsaken: Jacques-Marie Phillipe Leon Edouard Lecroy-Duplessis, Comte D’Aiguines. And added their address in Bath.

  If Jack’s mysterious young lady had any gumption at all, she’d find them.

  Chapter Three

  Rakish fellows who ransomed dogs for kisses couldn’t be trusted. Such a man was capable of anything and best forgotten. Unfortunately, Caroline found the forgetting difficult—only because the experience was so singular, she told herself. If life were not so tedious just now, she could have banished him from her mind without any trouble.

  A loud clap at her ear made Caroline start. It was Grandmama, smirking behind her shoulder.

  “Woolgathering? Again? We have callers.”

  Caroline put away her half-finished letter. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize there was company.” Grandmama was anxious to make her presence known now that they were settled in the house. Resigned, Caroline accompanied her to the drawing room, where she made the acquaintance of Mr. King. The Master of Ceremonies of Bath’s Upper Rooms was correct in dress, speech, manners—genial too, without being too much of a toady. He was happy to welcome the Dowager Countess of Lynher back to Bath and tell her with whom she might wish to renew her acquaintance.

  “Lady Margaret Derwent is resident these past six weeks and intends to stay out the summer. The Misses Palmer, of course. They have a house on Laura Place. You may recall—”

  “Cats, both of them,” Grandmama whispered to Caroline. “Never married.”

  “General Rockford—”

  Grandmama chortled. “Now he was a handsome blade back in the day.”

  “A friend of yours?” Mr. King asked, but Grandmama only twinkled. He left after Grandmama promised to put their names in the subscription book, a duty they performed the following morning. Circling in the Pump Room’s revolving exhibition, Caroline’s mind wandered while Grandmama picked apart the characters of the other visitors in scarcely heard asides, happy as Ormonde when he got into the butter.

  Caroline recognized most of Bath’s gerontocracy, but it wasn’t her set. Nor had she any wish to acquaint herself with the put-upon lady’s companions and the daughters-too-plain-to-be-puffed-off. The best and brightest were in London doing the Season; classing herself with these hapless souls was depressing. She did exchange greetings with one former friend, Emma Barnes, come to Bath to recover from a difficult confinement, but that was uncomfortable. While she didn’t envy Emma her husband, it was past time she had one of her own. More and more Caroline recognized the grim and frightening prospect of being left behind.

  No sign of the rogue from the park—not that she was looking. She was simply being careful.

  They walked around again. Grandmama twittered while Caroline fought back her yawns. Perhaps tomorrow she could plead off and walk with Ormonde instead. They needn’t go to the park. They could look in the shop windows on Milsom Street—if she didn’t mind risking the other shoppers’ necks. Ormonde’s erratic darting made it almost certain they’d trip someone. Smiling vaguely at another lady with gray, crimped curls, Caroline decided it was beneath her to avoid the park simply because she’d met trouble last time. She scanned the room again, but he wasn’t there.

  Perhaps he didn’t move in polite society.

  Over the next two days, she endured a music concert and calls to and from Grandmama’s friends. She wrote a long letter to Kit and a shorter one to Uncle Warren, saying Grandmama was in excellent health and spirits and in need of no one’s company. Only Kit wrote back, saying he’d been introduced to Miss Matilda Clarkwell. Caroline didn’t know the girl but recognized the fortune. Preoccupied with Miss Clarkwell, Kit answered none of her questions about removing to London. The only man she spoke with on her early morning walks was General Rockwell. He might have been dashing once, but his face had hardened into a leer.

  Then, after an afternoon of gossip with Grandmama’s friend Lady Margaret, she saw him again. She almost didn’t recognize him, for her attention caught first on the dainty lady beside him wearing an alarming shade of blue. She was coaxing along a solemn boy of three or four, who was dragging a stick along the iron railing in front of the houses. The lady laughed, making the man’s head turn.

  Yes, it was him. Same jaw, same eyes, same smile. Caroline tensed. His unguarded face made the fondness he felt for the lady in blue emphatically plain.

  “Who’s that?” Caroline sounded half strangled. Surprised, Grandmama followed her gaze.

  “I’m not certain, but it looks like Lady Arundel. Haven’t seen her in years.” She laughed. “I remember her. Aware to the inch how pretty she is and bold as brass. Dresses terribly, though.”

  The man was laughing with her, saying something in reply, but any moment they’d resume walking.

  “Don’t let them see us!” Caroline hissed, seizing Grandmama’s arm and wheeling them in the direction of the green.

  “What’s
got into you?” Grandmama asked. “Yes, he’s handsome, but that’s no reason to— Have a little countenance, Caroline!”

  “Shh!” With her arm firmly in her grandmother’s, Caroline marched across the street, away from the houses of the Royal Crescent. Her mind turned several cartwheels, then righted itself. Arundel. “Who’s the gentleman?” Because the rogue was definitely not Lady Arundel’s husband. Caroline remembered him.

  “Don’t know him from Adam. But Arundel’s just over there.” With a slight jerk of her head, Grandmama directed Caroline’s attention to a stooped-shouldered man in front of them on the lawn. He also had a young boy beside him, and there was a nursemaid too, toting a baby. Lord Arundel knelt on the grass, examining something in the palm of his hand. It was too small for Caroline to see, but the boy was riveted.

  Caroline cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  Behind her, the rogue scooped up the boy with the stick, lifted him onto his hip, and went up the steps of a house. Lady Arundel followed, turning back to wave to the rest of her family, who didn’t notice. Caroline’s breath came easier.

  She remembered Lord Arundel, a staid fellow who’d somehow brought the most entrancing girl of the season to the altar seven years ago. Christopher had talked of it, one of the disappointed number. Caroline was seventeen then and only just going out to parties—small ones hosted by political families who’d been friends of her father.

  Grandmama had complained then too, bitterly animadverting on Uncle Warren and Christopher’s continual politicking. They were turning Caroline into a bluestocking. “What kind of husband will that get her?” she sniffed.

  None, as it turned out.

  Caroline cleared her head with a blink and a quick breath. Thoughts like these weren’t helpful, and Grandmama was eyeing her.

  “Do you know these people?”

  “Not a one,” Caroline said, knowing it was no way to fend off Grandmama’s probing. “Will you be all right to go home in a chair? I just remembered an errand I must run in Milsom Street.”

  “I’m sure I can manage.” Her eyes held questions, but these Caroline ignored. She got Grandmama a chair and took off in the direction of the shops on Milsom Street. Once the chair was out of sight, Caroline changed course and hurried to the Pump Room, heading straight for the subscription book. She flipped back a page.

  Mrs. Minerva Fitzmorris, Colonel Redmond, Mr. and Mrs. Edgerton . . . There. Three names in a single, showy handwriting, but one leaped out at her, long enough she read it twice to be sure. No wonder he’d been so outrageous that morning in the park. A French Comte could be excused—or even expected—to behave in just such a fashion. It was still unforgivable, but now she found herself wondering where he’d got that faint line of a scar and how many women he’d utterly ruined.

  He likely made the process quite pleasant. Best stay clear of him. He’d probably kissed scores of ladies in public parks.

  * * *

  Jack told Henrietta he felt out of place at dress balls, as well as balls of every other sort. This in no way deflected her. It was Monday night, and they were going to the ball at the Upper Rooms, and what’s more, he would dance.

  “You know how,” she said, as if that settled it.

  He couldn’t tell her there was someone he meant to avoid. Henrietta already made too many arch comments about the young lady he’d “helped” in the park. It had only been a few days since that incident and, as everyone who was anyone would attend this evening’s ball, chances were good she’d be there. It was too much to hope she’d left town.

  They walked to the assembly rooms, Henrietta and Percy talking in lively and elusive terms about some wager—Jack didn’t want to know what. Couples. He lagged behind, trying to convince himself this command appearance was a blessing in disguise. At least he’d get it over with. When he saw her, he would simply look away—assuming she didn’t first—and they could pretend nothing had happened. Nothing had, which was a pity, because he would have liked kissing her. But play like that was for courtiers, not earnest physicians like him. You’d think the navy and medical school would have trained such quirks out of him—and most of the time, they had.

  “Why are you scowling?” Henrietta asked. “You’re allowed to have a little fun.”

  He had, four days ago, and tonight it was going to get him in trouble. He felt it like the change of wind in the air. Wary, he followed Percy and Henrietta inside.

  The rooms were crowded, and there was considerable jostling before they made their way to the cloakroom. Henrietta’s enthusiasm was undimmed. Shedding her cloak, she righted her headdress, seized her husband’s arm, and set off for the ballroom. Allowing the crowd to separate them, Jack meandered through the Octagon to the card room, pretending to watch the play.

  “Would you care to join?” One player looked up at him. He had jaundiced skin and overlarge rings on his hands.

  “Thank you, no. Just enjoying the game in passing.” Jack moved on through a cloud of tobacco smoke. Eventually though, Henrietta found him. Informed that she was parched with thirst, he accepted the inevitable and took her to the tea room for lemonade. Of course after that, he had to dance with her.

  Not that he minded so much. She was good company. Even if he wished she’d exert herself in other directions, she was spending considerable effort on him.

  “You look fine tonight,” he told her as they took their place at the bottom of the set.

  “I know. So do you.”

  “A necessity. I shouldn’t like to embarrass you.”

  “Hmph.” She glanced out the corner of her eye. “If only I could take the credit for you.”

  The first strains of a reel silenced them. Jack counted time, watching the fellow beside him so he’d know when to start. His memory of the steps was rusty. Except for infrequent capering after dinners at his sister’s, he hadn’t danced since a long-ago Gibraltar ball.

  The first time they changed partners, he turned left instead of right, but corrected the mistake before the musicians advanced to the next measure. Marking time again, the lead couple chased down the line, linked arms, swung right and left, and they all began again. Bow, step forward, turn, and join hands. One step forward rising up on the toes, then a step back and letting go of Henrietta’s gloved hand. A sweeping stride on the diagonal, joining hands, and walking past a dark-haired lady in blue. Next came a girl in yellow with bouncing curls, then a slight one too timid to meet his eyes. He gave them only cursory glances himself, his attention on the steps, so he didn’t notice the girl from the park until she was in front of him, taking his hand.

  His step faltered, but he avoided a mistake, skimming to her side. Now he didn’t have to face her, but there was still a chance, through their joined hands, she’d detect his feverish pulse. Jack stared at the backs of the couple in front and schooled his features. She circled around him, gliding like a prima donna amidst the ballet corps. When the pattern of the dance brought them face-to-face again, she looked through him.

  Keeping his face pleasant enough to avoid attention but distant enough to discourage conversation, Jack made it to the end of the set. It was typical of his luck that almost immediately upon arrival in Bath he’d mishandled the lady who turned out to be the most beautiful one in town. Inwardly shaking his head at such folly, Jack took Henrietta’s hand and led her off the floor. “Who was the lady with the pink sash?” he whispered.

  “I’ll find out.” She was off before he could stop her, leaving him to buttress the pale, classically decorated wall. He shouldn’t have asked. At this point, it was better not to know.

  Henrietta returned quicker than he expected. “Well spotted,” she whispered, shielding her mouth with her fan. “The lady is Caroline Trenholme, niece of the Earl of Lynher. She’s worth twenty thousand pounds.”

  Jack could have cursed. No doubt he looked like the worst kind of fortune hunter. Why couldn’t she have been a rector’s daughter? Not that she looked like any rector’s daughter he’d
ever seen. They didn’t wear that many jewels. She had pride in the set of her mouth. Perhaps that was what first beguiled him. She was Quality and knew it. He was lucky she’d merely made him kiss her dog instead of summoning the watch or reporting him to the network of Bath gossips.

  Jack ran his tongue over his teeth behind closed lips. Unless she had. He’d been too unsociable thus far to know if he was being shunned. “Henrietta—” No. He couldn’t think of a way to explain.

  Miss Trenholme was on the same side of the room, barely twenty feet away. He mustn’t look at her.

  * * *

  Boiling fury or icy rage? Caroline wasn’t certain which was stronger, only that she was trembling, too angry for original thought. How dare he?

  He’d shown nothing on confronting her, not a twitch of an eyebrow, not a single sideways glance, not a flicker of recognition, nothing but a hesitant step—and he’d made several throughout the set. She’d counted three. The humiliation of being ignored was worse when she considered the care she’d taken tonight with her appearance. Unable to help herself, she’d put pearls in her hair and dressed up her décolletage.

  “Did you not enjoy the dance?” Grandmama asked once Caroline had thanked and dispensed with her partner.

  “It was ripping.”

  That earned a look. Caroline didn’t normally use slang.

  Caroline tapped her closed fan on her lips. In spite of herself, she’d imagined their next meeting—a chance encounter in a dim corridor behind the cloakrooms or a meeting in early morning half-light at the park. She’d even toyed with the idea of kissing him—and he was too smooth or too bacon-brained to remember her!

  “You look like you’re about to do something rash.”

  Probably. “You see that gen— That man there?” She indicated with the tip of her fan.

  “The one we saw in front of Lady Margaret’s?”

  It was always a mistake to underestimate Grandmama. Caroline nodded an eighth of an inch. “I want you to bring him to me.”