Amanda Scott (35 page)

“You afraid he’d turn you off with the rest?”

“I wouldn’t go, sir, but I don’t deny I fear his rages right enough. ’Twas one of them put him where he is now, which is to say flat on his back in his bed. Another such could carry him right off and aloft, the doctor did say.”

“He’s seen a doctor? You astonish me.”

“Found unconscious on the floor, he was, sir, three days ago. I had been to the receiving office and back, and had to go out again almost directly, and while I was gone, one of the maids heard a terrible crash and rushed into the study to find him lying on the floor, unconscious and looking ever so queer, she said. She set up a screech, of course, and Mrs. Hammersmyth sent for the doctor, not knowing what else to do and fearing he might die. He awakened after they had got him into his bed, and was right furious, of course, that so many persons had dared to enter his rooms. Turned the lot of them off, he did, before ever I had returned, even the Hammersmyths, who’ve been here as long as I have myself, and how we shall find another housekeeper and butler as capable as what they was, I’m sure I do not know, and so I told him, but I might as well have talked to a fencepost.”

Brandon grimaced. “Something must be done about that.”

“Said they won’t come back, sir, not if Lady Axbridge were to ask them, but I do think they ought to get their pension.”

“What, he cut them off?”

“Turned them all out without a character. A shame it was, and so I told him, but there, I told you the good that did.”

“Well, I don’t know what you think I can do about it. If Sybilla were here, she might be able to manage him, a little, and she would certainly provide references for the servants who need them, but until she returns from the Continent, I don’t see what can be done. I certainly can’t write characters for them. A lot of good it would do if I tried. Perhaps Mrs. Charles would—”

“People would shake their heads at any testimonial for a position in Bath what came from a lady living thirty miles away, sir, and she hasn’t even met one of the chambermaids who left.”

“Well, I’m sorry then, but I can’t think what you expect me to do. Good Lord,” he added as a new thought struck him, “don’t tell me we haven’t got a cook!”

Borland shook his head. “Cook is still here, sir, and the scullery maid. They don’t never leave the kitchen, so I took the liberty of telling her she weren’t included in the order, and she agreed to stay, though it was a near-run thing, she being right friendly with the Hammersmyths. If you don’t mind waiting until I get Sir Mortimer settled for the night before having your dinner, I’ll serve you myself. But you must see him, sir.”

“Very well, I suppose I must, but don’t expect any good to come of it. I mean to ask him for that advance, you know, and he is likely to rant at me when I do so, just as he always ranted at you when you served as my envoy.”

“You won’t get it, sir, but you’ve only to stay here, after all, at least till quarter-day, and I’ll have new servants hired in a pig’s whisper, so you’ll be comfortable enough.”

“But I don’t want to spend a fortnight in Bath.”

“See him, sir. Let him tell you what he wants of you.”

“You tell me.”

“I’ve promised him I won’t do that.”

“Do it anyway.”

Borland smiled. “No, sir. I’m Sir Mortimer’s man.”

“Very well then, damn your eyes. Take me to him.”

At the door to Sir Mortimer’s bedchamber, Borland paused, looking at Manningford as if to give him time to collect himself.

Manningford merely nodded, whereupon the door was opened, revealing a bedchamber decorated in the French manner, with tall, aqua-satin-draped windows overlooking the rolling green hills and fields to the south. The walls were hung with blue-and-white-striped cotton, repeating the colors in the floral Aubusson carpet, but the chief article of furniture, the one that promptly drew his attention, was the wide bed with its blue-silk spread and ornately painted headboard and footboard. But it was not the bed itself that interested him so much as its occupant.

Propped up against thick pillows, his craggy face pale with illness, Sir Mortimer, in a white nightshirt, and a cap from beneath which his gray hair hung limply, glared at them with startlingly blue eyes hooded by heavy lids, looking not the least bit pleased to see his younger son. “Wondered where you’d run off to, Borland,” he grumbled, his voice weak, his words slurred, as though he had drunk too much wine.

“I’ve brought Mr. Brandon to you, sir.”

“So I see,” he replied testily. “Get me some water, man. I’m parched.”

Borland hurried to the side of the room, where a ewer and basin sat on a mahogany side table. Pouring water into a glass, he hurried back to the bedside. The old man made no attempt to take it from him, and the manservant held it to his lips so that he might drink.

When he had done so, Sir Mortimer turned his head away from the glass and glared again at his son. “Well, you see why I sent for you. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry you are ill,” Manningford said, “but I don’t see what it has to do with me. I came up because Borland insisted and because I hoped you might see your way clear to advance me my next quarter’s allowance at once. ’Tis only a fortnight, after all, before it’s due, and I’ve had some unexpected expenses.”

“Have you now? Thought you’d learned the futility of trying to hang on my sleeve. I suppose it’s because Axbridge is out of reach, since Symonds never has a groat he don’t need himself and Clarissa keeps Charlie firmly under her fat thumb. Well, you’ve dipped your bucket into a dry well, coming to me.”

Having expected the old man to leap into a rage, Manningford was encouraged rather than daunted by this reply. Seeing no good to be gained by denying that he had made any attempt to borrow money from his other relatives, he drew up a chair next to the bed and said calmly, “I don’t suppose you mean that you’ve lost all your wealth, sir, so perhaps you will be good enough to explain to me just what you do mean.”

“Where do you suppose I get my wealth, sir?”

Taken aback, Manningford replied, “I don’t know. No one ever thought to tell me, and I never thought to ask.”

“Just came ’round with your hand held out.”

“I suppose I thought it came from your estate at Westerleigh,” Manningford said calmly.

“All that’s been turned over to Charles long since. I’ve kept only my private fortune, augmented by certain investments I’ve made, but the main source no one would guess if he were to speculate from now till the millennium.”

“Then I shan’t try. Do you mean to tell me?”

“I never meant to do so—never thought it would be necessary—but the case is altered now. My right hand’s of no use to me since that fool seizure, but Borland has all he can do to look after me and I refuse to have my privacy invaded by an outsider, so you are the logical answer to my problem.”

“I suppose you mean for me to manage your investments,” Manningford said, “but I know nothing about such things. You would do better to hire a proper man of affairs.”

“The investments are part of it, certainly,” the old man snapped, “and since, if you behave yourself, you stand to inherit this house and a tidy fortune when I’m spent, you’ll do well to learn how to keep it all and not give me a lot of backchat. I’ll see to it you get a proper power of attorney, but that ain’t even the heart of the matter. There’s still the novel.”

“What novel?”

Sir Mortimer’s glare faltered, and he looked away, saying gruffly, “That’s what I’ve been doing this past quarter-century. I write books.”

“Good God, sir, what sort of books?”

“Popular ones, damn your eyes! Gothic romances. And you needn’t poker up like that. You’ve been willing enough to take the profit, damn you; the time has come to do some of the work.”

Twenty minutes later, fiercely indignant and hoarse from arguing, Manningford stormed down the stairs and into the library, startling Mr. Lasenby so much that he spilled his wine.

“By Jove, Bran, look at that! My best waistcoat!”

“I don’t give a damn, Sep. We’re leaving Bath. But before we go, we’re going to abduct ourselves an heiress!”

B
Y THE FOLLOWING MORNING
, the last of the rain clouds had departed and the sun shone brightly as Nell walked along the path near the bowling green behind the Sydney Gardens Hotel. There were no bowlers to be seen just then, for the peaceful gardens were nearly empty of people. The air smelled fresh and clean, and the birds sang cheerfully, their songs combining in a chorus from the shrubs and trees lining the smooth, well-raked gravel path, but the only other sound was the crunch of Nell’s sensibly shod feet as she walked.

Her great-aunt, having entrusted her with the subscription card that served as a ticket of admission to the gardens, had told her that a significant part of the social round in Bath included a daily stroll along the gardens’ paths and promenades, where to be recognized and to be bowed to was confirmation of one’s approval by Bath society. For this purpose, however, Lady Flavia had pointed out in her acerbic way as Nell placed the card carefully in her bulky, knitted reticule, it was generally considered an advantage to be strolling at a time when there were other strollers about. Nevertheless, in Nell’s own opinion, since her primary purpose in visiting the gardens had been to think matters out for herself, her timing was excellent.

Ahead of her, to her right, was a pair of tennis courts, but they too were empty, and she wandered on, adjusting the strings of the unwieldy reticule over her arm and wondering what she ought to do about her future. Remaining with her great-aunt was clearly ineligible unless she could think of a way to contribute to the expenses of the household. And since Lady Flavia objected strenuously to any plan put forth with regard to Nell’s possible employment, she could think of no way to accomplish that end.

She was not, she realized forlornly, much suited to employment, anyway. She had been given an adequate education, but she did not think anyone of sense would hire her as a governess, nor did she imagine for a moment that she would enjoy such a position. That was the rub, that she did not, in all honesty, think she would enjoy a menial position, for the simple reason that her temperament was more determined in nature than most employers would tolerate in a dependent. She smiled, remembering her brother, Nigel’s, description of her.

“But I am not obstinate,” she informed a scampering squirrel that paused to look at her, sitting back on its haunches, nose a-twitch. “Really, I am not. A bit willful at times, I suppose, perhaps even a trifle recalcitrant when I think someone is attempting to take advantage of me, but I should prefer to think of myself as resolute, persevering, or tenacious, rather than just tiresomely stubborn.”

It was a game of hers, to think of words, to play with them in her mind, to find exactly the right one to suit the moment. Reading had been her chief joy for many years, and she had also enjoyed writing little tales for her own amusement, but since neither interest could provide her with employment, when the squirrel dashed on, disappearing through a shady grotto into what appeared to be a vast, hedged labyrinth beyond, she drew her mind inexorably back to the problem at hand, ignoring a strong temptation to fling her cares aside and follow the squirrel, to explore the labyrinth to her heart’s content.

The enormous maze was not the only distraction the gardens offered, for they had been designed in imitation of the famous Vauxhall Gardens in London, with artificial waterfalls, grottoes, thatched pavilions, and even a sham castle with cannon. Ahead of her now, built over a section of the Kennet and Avon canal, diverted to flow through the gardens, was an iron bridge in the Chinese style. She approached it, mentally sorting through a list of genteel occupations, discarding one after another.

Her great-aunt would suffer an apoplectic fit, she was sure, should she apprentice herself to a milliner or a modiste, or try to find a position as a lowly shopgirl. And Lady Flavia would approve even less of anything that smacked of Nell’s reducing herself to the servant class. About the only thing she could imagine that might possibly find acceptance in the old lady’s eyes was hiring herself out as lady companion to some elderly, albeit not impoverished, gentlewoman.

Stepping onto the bridge, Nell paused a moment in its center to look down at the clear water flowing beneath it, and sighed at the thought of spending her future days at the beck and call of an imperious employer, who would no doubt demand that she fetch and carry and listen to all manner of megrims and complaints. And what if the employer were sickly or, worse, a hypochondriac? Her recent history made it impossible to imagine herself fortunate enough to find employment with a paragon.

On the other side of the bridge, the gravel path wound south to follow the canal for a time, and she suppressed her cheerless thoughts for a few moments to enjoy the sight of a sextet of baby ducks who, under the watchful eye of their dignified mother, floating nearby, were flinging themselves from a low rock near the shore into the water, then swimming back and, with their wings aflap, clambering up the rock again to repeat the action with the same gleeful abandon that children might have shown.

Smiling, Nell wandered on, following the path along the canal, stopping briefly to admire a swing wide enough for two people to sit upon. A few yards beyond, the canal disappeared into an underground tunnel, and the path, crossing over it again, joined the hard-packed earthen ride that encircled the gardens, where horsemen exercised their steeds early each morning and others rode to be seen in the late afternoon. Shortly after that she came within sight of the labyrinth again and realized that she had made her way around a full half of the gardens.

The labyrinth at this point appeared to be divided by the ride, with a portion continuing into the shrubbery between the ride and the high wrought-iron fence that separated the gardens from the Sydney Road. She could hear carriage traffic from the road. Indeed, it sounded surprisingly nearer than that.

With something of a start, she realized as she came to the place where the ride passed between the two sections of the labyrinth, traffic was nearer than she had thought possible—for surely carriages were not allowed within the gardens themselves. Yet approaching now from the direction of the main gate was a crane-necked phaeton of the sort the bloods called a high-flyer, rattling along at speed behind a team of powerful-looking, perfectly matched bays.