Lady Sabrina’s Secret (3 page)

Deborah did not know it, but the redbrick mansion was to play an important part in the days ahead. 

The carriage breasted the final hill, and at last Bath could be seen spreading up the steep slopes of the valley ahead. The sun was just beginning to sink beyond the horizon as the carriage passed through the turnpike gate on the outskirts of the spa.

Bath was a magnificent sight in the fading afternoon light, a city of clean white stone, with elegant parades, squares, crescents, and terraces. The roads were all laid with even cobbles, and the avenues lined with fine trees which would be in leaf in a month's time. The tower of the medieval abbey rose splendidly in the heart of the town, close to the banks of the beautiful River Avon, and was a reminder that Bath hadn't sprung up entirely because of the fashion for taking the waters, but had been there for many centuries before that. Brighton was fast supplanting it as the most stylish resort, but in March Bath was still the scene of balls, assemblies, routs, masques, and all the other diversions so beloved of high society.

Deborah was relieved that the end of the journey was only minutes away now, but her resolve faltered a little as she looked out of the carriage at the raised pavements and elegant houses. St Mary Magna suddenly seemed a very long way away.

Amy was also relieved that the journey was nearly over, for the lavender pomander had long since ceased to have any beneficial effect, and the constant swaying of the carriage had been making her feel very ill indeed. She took some comfort from the thought that it would probably be some time before she would be required to undertake the journey home again.

There were few people out and about as the day drew to a close, and the March wind was cold as it blustered through the streets. A lamplighter and his boy were going about their business, trying to finish before darkness fell, and several carriages bowled over the cobbles, conveying their occupants home to their warm houses. But the most common form of transport in Bath was the sedan chair, not only because there were so many invalids in the spa for the sake of their health, but also because there were streets and alleys so steep and narrow that carriages were not always practical.

The road ahead divided into two, the right-hand branch proceeding uphill toward the center of the town, the
left-hand
branch sweeping down toward the river and the only bridge leading across to the newer part of the city on the far bank. As Deborah's carriage approached the fork, a
gentleman
driving a scarlet curricle came from the direction of the river, intending to negotiate the corner.

He was very much the tippy with the ribbons and tooled his team of high-stepping grays at such a pace that the 
feather-light vehicle seemed to skim over the cobbles. He could not help but see the more cumbersome carriage approaching from the other direction, but he was confident of making the turn with several seconds to spare. He
reckoned
without the coachman's weariness after so many hours on the road. The coachman did not notice the flying curricle, but he did see the uphill climb, and instinctively he urged his team to greater effort, flinging them forward and thus eliminating the precious seconds of leeway upon which the gentleman was depending.

At the last moment the gentleman realized what was happening, and with a loud and very blasphemous curse he managed to rein his team in. The coachman also saw the danger, and as he applied the brakes, both vehicles came to a halt within inches of each other. In the carriage Deborah and Amy were flung sideways as the vehicle lurched to a standstill, and they could hear the coachman's anxious tone as he tried to soothe his rattled team.

The gentleman was beside himself with fury at what he saw as the coachman's recklessness, and after making the curricle's reins fast, he vaulted from the seat and strode purposefully toward the carriage. He was very tall and broad-shouldered and was dressed in the very latest
fashion
, with an ankle-length charcoal greatcoat that was fitted tightly at his slender waist and highly polished top boots with gilt spurs jingling at the heels. The collar of his
greatcoat
was turned up, and his top hat was tugged low over his forehead, casting his face in shadow, but the
unfortunate
coachman did not need to see his face to know that he was enraged.

The gentleman paused by the front of the carriage, his hands on his hips as he looked up. ‘What in God's name 
d'you think you're playing at, man? Haven't you any sense at all?' he demanded in a voice that was misleadingly quiet.

The coachman, whose name was Williams, climbed down reluctantly to face him. ‘I, er, didn't see you, sir,' he admitted unhappily, for he knew that he was the one who was mostly in the wrong.

‘Didn't see me? D'you drive with your damned eyes closed?'

This stung Williams a little, for although he should have been more alert, there was no denying that the curricle had been traveling far too fast. ‘I normally drive with great care, sir, but I have been on the road all day today, and to be honest I did not imagine that anyone would attempt that corner when I was almost upon it myself.' It was as close as he dared come to actually accusing the gentleman of
sharing
the blame, for whoever this toff was, he was most
definitely
trouble.

The gentleman's voice became icy. ‘Are you presuming to accuse me of being at fault?' he inquired.

Williams drew wisely back from the brink, for mere coachmen didn't take on swells who were turned out in the best that Bond Street's tailors could supply. Clearing his throat, he lowered his eyes and fell silent.

By now Deborah had recovered from being thrown around in the carriage, and she opened the door to see what had happened. Seeing the curricle and its irate owner, as well as two passing sedan chairs that had halted so that the chairmen could watch the fireworks, she alighted, and she was in time to hear the gentleman's last inquiry. His manner immediately rankled with her, and she walked over to him. ‘Is something wrong, sir?' she asked coolly.

He removed his tall hat and inclined his head, but his tone was only just civil. ‘Madam?'

She found herself looking at one of the most handsome and memorable men she had ever encountered. He was about thirty years old and had a head of thick steely gray hair that was quite astonishing in one so young. His face was lean and refined, and yet rugged and strong at the same time, and his dark-lashed blue eyes were clear and penetrating, but no matter how good-looking he was, his appearance now was spoiled by the disagreeable
expression
on his face. His whole demeanor left a great deal to be desired, and nothing on earth would have moved her to support his side of any argument.

The way he acknowledged her question made her bridle, and she repeated it in her haughtiest voice. ‘I asked if
something
was wrong, sir.'

‘Yes, madam, something is indeed wrong, for I am not usually given to upbraiding doltish coachmen in public!' he snapped.

‘Indeed? It appears to me that ill manners come quite easily to you,' she replied. How dared he speak to her like that!

A nerve flickered at his temple. ‘You are entitled to your opinion on that score, madam,' he said frostily.

Her disapproving glance went to his curricle, and she immediately realized what had happened. ‘You would appear to have overanticipated, sir,' she observed,
knowing
full well that such a statement would provoke him still more. She was not disappointed.

‘There would have been ample time had not your oaf decided to increase his speed at the last moment,' he replied testily.

‘Ample time? Sir, it seems to me that you must have been the one at fault, for you were turning directly into our path. You should have given way.'

His blue eyes flashed. ‘Given way?' he breathed. ‘Madam, I have no doubt that under your amazing rules I should have stayed safely at home tonight, and thus permitted you full and sole use of the king's highway!'

‘That would indeed have been preferable,' she responded, ‘and it would certainly have been safer for the rest of us.'

Somehow he still managed to contain his fury. ‘May I know who you are, madam?' he inquired.

‘My name is Mrs Marchant.'

‘Indeed. Well, Mrs Marchant, I trust I do not have the misfortune to meet you or your fool of a coachman again.'

‘I trust so, too, Mr, er…?'

‘I am the Duke of Gretton.'

If the title was meant to impress or intimidate her, it failed, for she was far too angry for that – angry and
sufficiently
indignant to deliver a broadside. ‘I confess I am a little surprised to learn that you are a gentleman of such rank, sirrah, for to be sure your conduct is that of a ruffian.'

He was goaded. ‘If we are to stoop to personal insults, madam, let me assure you that I will not hazard a guess as to whether or not you are a lady!'

She was determined to have the last word. ‘My lord duke, your capacity for guesswork is evidently not to be relied upon at any time,' she retorted, casting an insulting glance toward his curricle, and thus implying yet again that she believed his timing and driving to be as atrocious as he. 

He did not deign to say anything more but tugged on his hat and then turned to stride away to the curricle. The moment he had resumed his place he flicked the whip and set the startled grays forward at an immediate pace. With a clatter of hooves, they turned the sharp uphill corner, and soon the curricle was skimming away toward Paragon Buildings and the center of the town.

Deborah gazed sourly after him. The Dukedom of Gretton was a proud and ancient one, stretching back to the time of Henry V and Agincourt, but the present holder of the title was quite odious, and she was as hopeful as he that their paths would not cross again.

She turned then to look at Williams. ‘
Did
you urge your team on at the last moment?' she asked.

‘Yes, madam,' he confessed uncomfortably, ‘but I didn't see him, and he was coming like the devil himself!'

‘I don't want to hear any more, Williams, just keep your wits about you from now on, for I do not wish to be obliged to defend your skill on every corner in Bath.'

‘Yes, madam.'

He assisted her back into the carriage, and then resumed his place at the reins. As the carriage drove away, the
chairmen
who had observed the entire incident exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows. Whoever she was, this Mrs Marchant was a tigress indeed to stand up to the likes of the Duke of Gretton. It wasn't often that the duke came off the worst, but in their opinion he had been bested on this occasion. They grinned at one another and then picked up their chairs to go on their way.

In the carriage Amy's eyes were huge with amazement as she looked at her mistress. It was inconceivable to the maid that her usually shy and quiet employer could square
up to a duke in such a way, and it was such a shock that the maid quite forgot her travel sickness.

Deborah was surprised at herself, but something about the Duke of Gretton had provoked her. He was
insufferable
, and her dislike for him had been immediate and intense. If the incident happened again she was sure she would respond in the same way, and she was glad that she'd put him in his place, but the altercation did not bode well for her stay in Bath, indeed it was a very inauspicious beginning.

The carriage drove past Milsom Street, Bath's most famous and fashionable shopping thoroughfare, and then up through the Circus before driving on to the Royal Crescent, which was acknowledged to be the crowning glory of this city of architectural masterpieces. To be able to boast an address here was a social cachet second to none, and the thirty houses were always taken.

Over five hundred feet in length from end to end, the crescent faced over a wide cobbled carriageway toward an iron railing that separated the road from the downward slope of the open hillside known as Crescent Fields. At the foot of this grassy area, where daffodils bloomed at this time of year, ran the Bath to Bristol highway, and beyond that, one third of a mile distant from the crescent, lay the River Avon. Crescent Fields and the crescent itself were always fashionable places to be seen, but as Deborah's carriage drew up at the curb, there was no one about for darkness had now fallen.

Williams made the reins fast, and then climbed in to go to the door of the Mastersons' house to inform those within that their guest had arrived. Then he returned to open the carriage door in readiness for Deborah to alight. The March
wind blew coldly along the pavement, for it was exposed up here above the town.

Jenny's butler, Sanders, hastened out to welcome their guest. He had been with the family for a long time and knew Deborah from the days when she and Jonathan had stayed here. He was a stockily built Hereford man with soft brown eyes, and he wore a plain brown coat, beige breeches, and a powdered wig. He bowed to her. ‘Welcome to Bath, Mrs Marchant.'

‘Thank you, Sanders,' she said, accepting his hand and alighting.

‘I fear that early today Mr and Mrs Masterson were called away because Mr Masterson's father is gravely ill, but Mrs McNeil is in residence, and expects you,' the butler said.

Deborah was deeply disappointed that she wouldn't see Jenny and Henry, but it would be good to see Jenny's aunt, whose spirited and resourceful outlook on life was a tonic in itself. She paused on the pavement as the butler helped Amy down as well, and then something made her glance along the pavement to the house at the far end of the crescent. There, drawn up at the curb in the full light of a street lamp, was the Duke of Gretton's scarlet curricle. She looked at it in dismay. Please let him be merely calling upon someone, don't let him actually reside here!

She turned quickly to Sanders. ‘That is the Duke of Gretton's curricle, is it not?'

‘Yes, madam. His is the last house. He comes here every year for the season.'