Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

O
blivious to Wilhelmina Orksville’s dilemma but very alive to Araminta’s predicament, Lord Frederick Danver paced backwards and forwards across his room under the concerned eye of his valet. Every now and then he would pause and stare out of the window at the house opposite. He ran a hand through his rumpled hair and gnawed at his bottom lip.

A cough sounded behind him.

‘Ah. Kidwall. Yes. Er . . . I’m not minded to change just yet. I’ll ring if I need you.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

The valet bowed himself sadly out of the room. Whatever it was that was troubling his young master it must be serious. It was so unlike him to show anything but a pleasant countenance to the world at large and rarely otherwise to him.

Frederick flung himself onto the chair by the tall chest of drawers. He balanced an elbow on one of its arms and chewed at his knuckle. Vivid images of his charge across Barnes Common in pursuit of Trelowen’s phaeton assailed him. He could clearly picture Miss Neave clinging to the Viscount’s arm with one hand and her bonnet with the other. Her flushed face and thrilled laughter gave no hint of the feminine nerves or terror that might be expected from a lady currently being conveyed at speed along an uneven road in a sporty but fragile vehicle.

Trelowen had not slowed his horses until he had reached the windmill near St Mary’s church. More than one group of travellers had turned to watch its progress. Frederick had fervently hoped that there was no acquaintance of his or Trelowen’s among them. Miss Neave would become notorious.

An expression of puzzlement crept onto his face when it struck him that he would find it a shame if she had to remove out of society. Whatever anyone might say of her connections, Miss Neave’s company had proved entertaining, if unnerving at times. She was not the sort of insipid female whose company always bored him. And of course, she did have an eye for a decent horse.

Frederick flung up from the chair. He thrust his hands into his pockets. The pacing resumed. Trelowen had eventually acceded to his demands that he permit Miss Neave to return to the company of her chaperone once the barouche had reached them. Frederick had dismounted and, reins over his arm, lifted her down from the high perch. Struggling to hide the angry words her disregard for her own safety had prompted, he had helped back into the barouche.

Every expression had been smoothed from Miss Orksville’s face. Everett Blythburgh was a different matter. His eyes and mouth were rounded by amazement. His friend’s reaction worried Frederick more than Miss Orksville’s undoubted disapproval. Everett was no more of a natural dissembler than he. If anyone sought his view of Miss Neave after today’s events, he would be sure to give away his true view, even if he did not mention the dreadful incident itself.

The bottom-lip-chewing recommenced. If no-one had seen her and if he could persuade his Mama to agree, rusticating Miss Neave to Lidgate with her companion for a while might avoid social disaster. Her stallion was still the best piece of horseflesh he had seen that was worthy of Athena. He was determined the pair would be a match.

A carafe of water with a glass inverted over its top stood on the nightstand by his bed. He perched on the edge of the covers, lifted the glass and tipped the carafe by its neck. Water splashed over the glass. Two drops fell onto his pantaloons. Standing the carafe down, he rubbed a thumb over them. The marks spread. Removing Miss Neave was not the only problem. From what he had seen of her father, the attentions of a Marquess would be taken in a good light. A very good light. He would bet his allowance Mr Neave had no idea of Trelowen’s reputation. Well that was a state of affairs he could do something about. And Everett could help.

He put down the water untasted. With the mark still staining his pantaloons, Lord Frederick Danver took himself downstairs and out of the house intent on enlisting his friend’s support.

The Honourable Everett Blythburgh was to be found in Angelo’s fencing academy. Contrary to expectations of such an effete-looking person, Mr Blythburgh was an expert swordsman. Probably the best in London. Not that he was ever stupid enough to defeat the Prince of Wales, of course. His success came from the nimbleness of his movements. It also accounted for his acclaim on the dance-floor.

Mr Blythburgh was mid-bout when Frederick entered the room where the Chevalier St. George’s portrait, foils and fencing shoes were displayed on the right-hand wall. Several gentlemen were without their coats. Some were adjusting their shoes or their neckcloths or easing damp shirts away from equally damp shoulders. Others lounged at their ease on chairs or propped themselves against the walls.

Frederick kept to one side and watched his friend parry and feint. The moves led the perspiring opponent to make an incautious advance. The result was his complete inability to counter Everett’s riposte. The bout ended in a round of applause.

Epee raised to nose and chin, Everett saluted the vanquished gentleman and wandered over to Frederick. ‘What ho. I didn’t expect to see you here.’ His eyes scanned his friend’s appearance with a degree of regret. His own person was as fresh and undisturbed as usual. Only the slightest sheen on his forehead betrayed his recent activity.

‘I need to talk to you.’ Frederick cast a glance around the room. ‘Not here.’

‘If you wish it, so be it. Give me a moment to bid Henry farewell and we can leave.’

He wandered away to the son of the original master who now ran the academy. In three minutes was outside where Frederick was waiting. ‘Well? What troubles you?’

‘Miss Neave.’

‘Ah.’ Everett shook his head sadly. Unsure of Frederick’s intentions, he trod carefully around the subject. ‘I fear today’s outing was not the success Miss Orksville had wished.’

‘No, I know.’ Frederick waved the comment away. ‘Never mind that. What we need is a way to stop her father being taken in by Trelowen.’

‘We?’ Everett’s eyebrows all but disappeared into the curls carefully arranged on his forehead. ‘We?’

‘Yes, we.’ Frederick gave him a puzzled look. ‘You are going to help, aren’t you?’

‘Of course, Freddie, of course. Naturally one is willing to do anything one can.’ He gave a nervous cough and looked across Bond Street. A crowd of such dimension was thronging one part of it that some of the interested parties were obliged to stand on the cobbles, endangering themselves from passing carriages and riders. A sprinkling of less affluent men and boys hovered on the edges. A couple of green-clad men appeared and chased them off.

‘Ah,’ Everett said. ‘These are his emporia, are they not?’ He paused opposite the first window. A selection of boots, whips, fine broadcloth and a magnificently tailored tailcoat were just visible over the heads of the engrossed bucks. ‘My goodness. I’m not surprised Trelowen is interested. Miss Neave must be a considerable heiress and he’s up to his ears in debt.’

‘I don’t think debt is going to deter Mr Neave. We’ll have to find something else to keep her safe.’

Everett’s finely arched eyebrows rose again. He squashed the first response that sprang to his mind. He would not give it voice. Not yet. He had noted the eager light that entered Frederick’s eyes whenever he spoke of Miss Neave. Until today Everett had assumed the frequent mentions came from a mutual obsession with horses. Frederick’s concern for her the safety of her person cast a whole new light on matters. He searched for a way to turn the conversation.

‘Well,’ he said, continuing along the flagway. ‘There’s Isobella Wilson.’

‘Who the devil’s she?’

‘You must have heard of her. Everyone’s heard of her. She runs that house in King’s Place.’

‘Oh, Bella. Yes.’ Frederick frowned. A lady he swerved to avoid stared at him with offended eyes. She sniffed loudly and glided across the road towards the
Ladies’ Emporium
. The girl behind her, barely out of the schoolroom to judge by the blush on her cheek, hurried to keep up. Frederick failed to notice the adoring glance she gave him from under lowered lids. ‘But that’s nothing to fret about either. Johnny Casterleigh goes there, doesn’t he? And Francis Ryker.’

The mention of scions of two noble houses of ancient lineage failed to allay Everett’s concern. ‘I know, but rumour has it Trelowen’s tastes run to the . . . particular and unusual.’

Frederick stopped in his tracks. ‘Oh.’ His troubled expression worsened. ‘At Bella’s house? That’s something to consider. If it’s true.’ He stared at the flagstone under his feet, ignoring the hoots from the two dandies behind him whose promenade his abrupt halt had slowed. ‘I’ve seen her parading her creatures in the Park. Handsome lot but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Never go there myself.’ He scrutinized Everett’s face. ‘Are you sure it’s true?’

Everett sighed. ‘Unimpeachable source, I’m afraid. Quite unimpeachable.’

Frederick resumed walking. He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. He took two paces to the side and leant against the stone corner of a tall, many-windowed, building.

‘Then we’ve got to think of a way to warn Neave.’

The suspicion that had formed in Everett’s mind earlier today rushed to the fore in a flood of confirmation. He examined his friend closely and put his suspicion to the test. ‘I suppose you’d still have the loan of her horse even if she does have Trelowen.’

‘What? The horse? Never mind the horse.’ Frederick answered the unspoken, unsuspected question. ‘We can’t see the girl at that sort of danger, can we?’

His suspicions validated, Everett guarded his expression. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘We’ll have to go and tell him.’

‘Do you say so?’ Everett looked dubious. ‘Why would he listen to us? When all’s said and done, to him we’re no more than a couple of sprigs.’

Frederick gnawed his lip again. He stared back up Bond Street at the hoards round Neave’s shops. His expression lightened and he shoved himself off the wall. ‘George.’

‘What? Where?’ Everett looked about him.

Making his way through the crowd with some difficulty, mainly because of the enormous box he was carrying with a second smaller one balanced on the top, was the Marquess of Levington.

Frederick hurried towards him with Everett trailing in his wake. ‘George. I say, George.’

The Marquess stopped and turned. The corner of the bigger box dug into the wide hips of a dowager in a particularly vivid russet gown and many-feathered bonnet. She flapped her reticule at him.

‘Freddie. Just the man.’ George pushed the box at him and rescued the small one before it could fall off sideways. ‘Hold this for me while I summon a hackney.’ He shoved the small box at Everett. ‘Here. Shalln’t be long.’

‘George.’ Frederick staggered slightly. ‘I need you for something.’

Lord Levington turned away.

‘George. Wait!’ Frederick yelled to his brother’s retreating back.

George ploughed on, stepping into the street and waving furiously at the driver of a tatty looking cab a tired nag was hauling along the cobbles. The driver cast an eye over George, sniffed and flicked his whip over the nag’s back. Head down, she pulled towards the kerb. George dragged the door open before the wheels stopped turning. He took the small box from Everett and flung it onto the seat.

‘George . . .’ Frederick began.

‘Here, give me that.’ George took the large box from him and placed it carefully on the hackney’s floor. He jumped in after it.

‘George!’

‘Can’t stop, old fellow. Got to get these home and packed. Leaving tomorrow don’t you know?’ He rapped on the side of the cab. ‘St James Square. Quick. There’s an extra tuppence if you get me there speedily.’

The driver flicked his whip at the nag’s ears. She strained forward unwillingly in the harness and the hackney creaked away.

Frederick and Everett looked at the retreating vehicle.

‘Not much help there, I fear,’ Everett said.

Frederick frowned. ‘No.’ The frown deepened. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

‘Did he say ‘leaving tomorrow’?’ Everett asked.

Chapter Eighteen

W
hile Frederick was fretting in Bond Street, every occupant but one in the house in St James Square was consumed by worries of their own. Nesbit and Mrs Fowley were anxious for their posts, as was every other member of staff currently gossiping in the yard at the rear despite the darkening clouds. For Archibald Neave anxiety and confusion had succumbed to outright anger. Only Araminta was in any way spared such concerns. Elation from the exhilarating ride in Lord Trelowen’s phaeton still had her blood coursing through her veins until her fingers tingled. The mild annoyance at Wilhelmina Orksville’s Friday face had hardly spoiled her enjoyment one jot. Any fretfulness that lowered her mood was caused by the delay in the arrival of her own phaeton. Anticipation had her fidgeting impatiently up and down the salon. Had she known her father was in the house she would have picked up her skirts and dashed headlong down to the drawing room to ask him how much longer it would be.

As it was, when he opened the door she hurried towards him, smiling with delight. ‘Pa, oh Pa, the most wonderful thing. I’ve ridden in a phaeton.’ Seeing the flush on his face, she stopped half way across the room. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Wrong? Wrong?’ Archibald slammed the door. A porcelain vase on the table beside it trembled. ‘How can you ask that, ’Minta? After all we’ve done for you.’

‘Pa?’ All the excitement slid from her.

‘I’ve been too kind to you. Yes, I have. Let you have your head far too often.’ The flushed creases of Archibald’s face contracted into a scowl. He stomped across the floor. His small eyes scowled up into her face ‘Just look how you’ve repaid me. Repaid us.’

‘Us?’ Araminta’s voice came in a mixture of hurt and puzzlement.

‘Me and Miss Orksville. She’s gone to endless trouble with you and now she’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Gone. Or good as. She’s upstairs packing.’ A fat finger wagged in her face. ‘And let me tell you I’ve plans for her and me as well as you. She’s been a great help to my business in Bond Street and –’ Anger almost drove him to forget Wilhelmina’s restriction. He clamped back the words.

‘I’m sorry, Pa.’ Araminta’s eyes grew rounder. ‘But what have I done?’

‘Done? Gone cavorting off with that Trelowen fellow, that’s what you’ve done. Wilhelmina – Miss Orksville, I mean – says it was scandalous of you. Says she told you not to do it.’ He stared at her. ‘Did she?’

None of her usual vivacity showed in Araminta’s face. She turned away and sank onto the nearest chair. Here was Pa shouting at her. She had not the slightest memory of it happening before. ‘I suppose she did.’ She rubbed a thumbnail along the cuticle of her forefinger. Her voice quavered. ‘I’m afraid . . .’ Her fingers trembled in her lap. ‘I’m afraid she did.’ Her father stared at her, waiting. ‘I thought . . . I thought she was just being stuffy as usual.’ She raised a shaken face to him. ‘I’m sorry, Pa. I’m sorry if I’ve spoilt things for you.’

‘For me? For you, you mean. How’ll I get you well wed now?’

Relief tinged her voice. ‘Don’t fret for me. I don’t mind if I don’t marry a lord. I never really wanted to.’

‘It’s what I wanted. You’ve been naught but selfish, despite our efforts.’

‘Oh, I haven’t, Pa.’ The injustice stung her. ‘I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. I’ve worn horrid gowns. I’ve walked about with books on my head. I’ve even started some embroidery and left off my riding habit. You can’t say I haven’t tried.’

Archibald’s anger vanished at her words. He waddled forward and patted his daughter’s indignant head. ‘I know you have, ’Minta, but you deserve the best. You’re such a diamond of a girl. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife.’

Araminta shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Pa. I’ve seen more of them now. I’m sure they only want pale little creatures without an ounce of spirit. Ones who’ll just sit and sew handkerchiefs. No-one would want someone like me. Someone who’s horse mad and hates sitting still in a drawing room.’

An expression of deep thought printed itself on Archibald’s face. ‘That Lord Freddie might be worth considering then. He’s always after the loan of Pegasus.’ A sigh. ‘But no, he saw what you did today. And he’s only the second son.’

‘That doesn’t matter, Pa. He’s not interested in me.’

‘But he goes about where you are, don’t he? With that friend of his . . .’ He waved a hand to scoop up the name. ‘The pale fellow.’

‘Mr Blythburgh.’ A reminiscence occurred to her. ‘He says all Lord Frederick really wants is to live in the country and raise horses.’

Archibald’s brows drew down. His mouth pursed. ‘Why doesn’t he then?’

‘Because he has no estate of his own. And the Duke says he must stay in town until he’s wed.’

The seed Wilhelmina had planted in Archibald’s brain sprouted. It developed spreading leaves. More leaves unfurled. Light appeared in his small eyes. He patted Araminta’s hair again. ‘You stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.’

He hurried from the room as fast as his short legs allowed. It was a good twenty minutes before he reappeared.

Araminta spent every second of it considering her father’s words. As the minutes passed she sank deeper and deeper into remorse. Despite being almost twenty-one, she felt like a spoilt, selfish schoolgirl not yet out of the nursery. She could not recall another instance when her father had raised his voice to her. Nor when he had refused her any request. She sat on the settee nearest the empty fireplace and stared at her clenched hands lying in her lap. There was no escape from it. She was a creature spoilt beyond propriety. All Pa had done for her had been taken for granted. All he wanted was for her to be happy and settled. In return she had abandoned all maturity and experience and played the juvenile. Now she had risked his plans, just as he had said.

It was a very lowering thought. It stayed in her mind until the door opened and Archibald stood aside to allow Miss Orksville to precede him into the room.

Wilhelmina wore her dark blue cape and brown bonnet with its single blue bow at the side. She stopped near the door, her hands folded at her waist. ‘Well, Araminta? Your Papa has tried to persuade me not to resign my post.’ Her amber eyes examined the seated Araminta from russet curls to green calf half boots and back again. ‘He says you bitterly regret your behaviour of earlier today.’ Wilhelmina’s narrow nostrils flared. ‘I must allow that I am not convinced.’

Araminta stood up from the settee. She walked across the vast room and grasped both of Wilhelmina’s hands in hers. ‘Oh, I am, ma’am, I am. Truly I regret what I did.’

Wilhelmina detached her hands with difficulty. ‘Regret is an easy word to say. Amending one’s ways and not permitting one’s faults to recur is quite another matter.’

Araminta’s mouth turned down. ‘I will behave,’ she said. ‘Only . . .’

‘Only what?’

‘Only . . .’ She cast a quick glance at her father. ‘It has never been an object with me to marry a lord. I don’t like them. Apart from Lord Frederick and that’s only because he likes horses.’

‘Never mind horses,’ Archibald said. ‘Don’t you like balls and dinners and things?’

Araminta scrunched her mouth into a small moue. Her nose wrinkled disparagingly. ‘I do . . . but not as much as horses and riding. And I like travelling. If I’m wed to some lord I won’t be able to any more.’

Wilhelmina watched a puzzled frown print a single line across the smooth young forehead. Sympathy for a desire to travel rose in her. She squashed down immediately. Disappointment had been her dish several times in her life. ‘If you could have your dearest wish, what would it be?’

A few moments passed in silence. Then what could only be described as a grin replaced the puzzlement. ‘What I told Pa weeks ago . . . a house in the country. With a good stable for Pegasus and enough land to gallop him over every day.’ The grin lifted her cheeks up to the lower lashes under eyes still bright with tears of remorse. ‘It would be wonderful.’

Wilhelmina exchanged a swift glance with Archibald accompanied by the slightest of nods. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I believe you truly repent your action. I will continue to supervise you. But you must abandon this childish rebellion. It is unsuited to one of your age.’ She untied the ribbons on her bonnet and took it off. ‘I must still stay in Carlton Street but since I promised to take you to Vauxhall Gardens tonight I shall dine here then we may still go.’

‘Oh, mayn’t we have supper there? I’ve heard it is the most wondrous thing.’

‘No we may not. I fear it will come on to rain before the evening is out.’

Araminta caught her father’s angry eye and had to be content with setting off after an early dinner.

The barouche was called for after the final course of blanc mange, nuts, fruits, sweetmeats and ice cream. Araminta barely touch a spoonful. Her mood swung from excitement at seeing Vauxhall Gardens and back to remorse. She pushed a spoon of blanc mange round her plate and promised herself to be a more dutiful daughter in future.

Hurried from the table almost before she could wipe the napkin to her mouth, Wilhelmina stood on the door step. The clouds were lowering. ‘Put up the hood, Pilton.’

She stood in the doorway until Mellor and Pilton struggled it up. The task completed, the coachman clambered onto the box. Mellor held the door for her and Araminta to settle themselves inside.

Archibald beckoned the man towards him. ‘Have you got it about you?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s on the seat between me and Mr Pilton. And the small one’s tucked into the carriage.’ Mellor frowned. ‘Not but what I ever heard of a lady who could fire one.’

‘Miss Araminta can. Now, get along with you and keep your eyes peeled. I don’t trust those hoards milling about such places.’ He tapped a fat finger against his lips. ‘Perhaps I should send a couple of outriders with you too.’

The groom waited.

‘Papa, is there something wrong? If we don’t leave soon we’ll miss the fireworks.’

Archibald sighed. ‘Very well. Be off with you. I’ll see you later. Or in the morning. I have business with Wixhill at the office. I expect I’ll be late.’

‘Is there a problem, Papa?’

‘No. No. Just a matter of arranging a cargo at short notice. You fix on enjoying yourselves. Off you go.’ He waved Mellor away.

The groom ran down the three steps and jumped into his place. With a lurch, the carriage moved off. It had barely left the square before the first drops of rain landed on the hood. Wilhelmina shrank back under its protection.

‘Humph,’ she said. ‘As I expected. If it worsens we shall have to postpone our visit.’

‘Oh no.’ Araminta held a hand out of the hood’s protection. It remained dry. ‘You can’t call this any sort of rain.’ She leant forward. Two fat drops landed on her bonnet. She pulled back quickly. ‘You should see the monsoons.’

‘I have no desire to see any such thing.’ The shallow body of the carriage swung on its arched springs as it rounded a corner. Wilhelmina clutched at the side of the hood. The dark green shapes of the trees in St James Park loomed into view. Rain pattered on the summer-large leaves. ‘Hmm,’ Wilhelmina repeated.

Araminta scanned her face. ‘I’ve heard the trees have hundreds of oil lamps in them,’ she said brightly. ‘It must look spectacular. Have you seen them, ma’am?’

‘I have.’ The amber Orksville eyes continued to regard the darker grey sky.

‘And . . .’ Araminta continued, a note of desperation entering her voice. ‘And the fireworks, I’m so looking forward to them.’

‘I doubt there will be any tonight. Not with this rain.’

‘Pooh,’ Araminta scoffed. ‘It’s the merest sprinkling. It’s bound to stop soon.’

It did not. By the time the carriage turned past the Abbey and gained the first arch of Westminster Bridge, it had turned into a decided shower. By the centre span, the Archbishop’s Palace at Lambeth was barely visible through the downpour and an uncompromising wind had blown up. The rain was driven directly into the barouche.

Wilhelmina shielded her face with both hands. ‘Pilton,’ she called. ‘We shall return home. Turn as soon as you may.’

Pilton, whose hunched shoulders and head lowered against the onslaught had not prevented water from coursing down the back of his neck, crowed to himself with relief.

‘Thank gawd for that,’ muttered Mellor.

Frustrated words sprang to Araminta’s lips. She turned to protest but they died there. Even in the fading light and rain she could see Wilhelmina’s cheeks were ashen. ‘Ma’am, are you quite well?’

‘Of course I am. It is merely the chill of the rain.’

Pilton reined in as the horses’ hooves clattered off the bridge. His capable hands had the barouche execute a neat turn. Spared the worst of the rain, he clicked the horses back across the fifteen arches.

With the wind behind them, the rain lashed itself onto a rear quarter of the hood. Araminta could see it still drove it onto Wilhelmina’s face. She called Pilton to a halt. ‘Here, ma’am,’ she said, rising to her feet when the carriage had stopped. ‘Take my side. You’ll be better protected from the rain.’

Wilhelmina slid along the seat. She caught Araminta’s hand as the girl stepped over her feet and seated herself. ‘Never mind, child. There’ll be another opportunity. Don’t be downcast.’

‘I’m not downcast. It’s just so vexatious to have a plan and then be thwarted.’ She flicked a raindrop off her nose. ‘I find it very annoying.’ She dragged the rug from the opposite seat onto her own and Wilhelmina’s knees. A small thud sounded and an object bounced onto the floor.

‘Whatever –’ Wilhelmina began.

Araminta rescued the object. A small pearl-handled pistol lay in her hand. ‘Ah ha,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wondered where it had gone.’

‘Do you mean you have seen that thing before?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Araminta tucked it down between her redingote and the seat’s side padding. ‘I was used to carry it when we were abroad.’ She straightened the rug. ‘You can never be too careful you know.’

‘Indeed,’ Wilhelmina responded, making a careful note of a conversation she intended to have with her fiancé at the earliest opportunity.

The journey continued in damp silence to Pall Mall. The rain had worsened so much only two of the thirteen oil lamps lining the south side could be seen.