Lady Sabrina’s Secret (5 page)

The strict rules of taking the Bath cure meant that three glasses of the hot spring water had to be taken every
morning
at the Pump Room between the hours of eight and nine. Nothing daunted, society had managed to make the
occasion
into an entertainment, and as a consequence the room was always crowded and noisy. Carriages and sedan chairs choked the surrounding streets and alleys, and the babble of voices carried out into the breezy March air as glass after glass of the restorative but foul-tasting water was served from the steaming fountain inside.

Deborah and Mrs McNeil elected to use chairs rather than the Masterson town carriage for the brief journey from Royal Crescent, and they alighted by the famous colonnade that gave on to the abbey courtyard and the entrance of the Pump Room.

The two women paused for a moment beneath the
colonnade
before entering the Pump Room, and Mrs McNeil leaned closer. ‘It is agreed then, I will simply introduce you as Jenny's friend, Mrs Marchant. I will not mention your first name, nor will I say you are from Dorset. Let us hope that something interesting ensues from this.' Taking a deep
breath, she began to walk briskly toward the door of the Pump Room, and after a moment Deborah followed.

The chamber where the water fountain stood was very splendid and graceful, and decorated harmoniously in pale blue, cream, and gold. At either end were curved recesses, one containing a string quartet playing a Mozart serenade, and the other containing an impressive long-case Tompion clock with a statue of Beau Nash set in a niche in the wall above it. The fountain was situated halfway along one wall, with a counter before it from which a woman was serving glasses of the water, and nearby was another counter with women serving the tea that was necessary to wash away the taste of it. The floor was cluttered with tables and chairs, and it was so crowded that Deborah was daunted as she and Mrs McNeil paused in the entrance.

The older woman was not in the least put off however. ‘Come, my dear, we'll circulate, for she is bound to be here somewhere, she always is.'

They began to make their way slowly around the room, and after several minutes Deborah was dismayed to find herself staring at a face she had first seen the evening before, and which she did not wish to see again, that of the Duke of Gretton.

He was standing with a large group of ladies and
gentlemen
near the fountain, and a shaft of pale sunlight fell across his steely gray hair from a window opposite. He wore a corbeau-colored double-breasted coat and
tight-fitting
cream kerseymere breeches, and there was a diamond pin in the folds of his liberal, unstarched
neckcloth
. His coat and gray-and-cream-striped marcella
waistcoat
were only partially buttoned to allow the frills of his cambric shirt to push through, and he was the picture of
masculine style and elegance. She had to reluctantly concede that in the cold light of day, he was still as
devastatingly
handsome as he had appeared the evening before, but even though he was smiling now, she still thought him odious.

She didn't want to go near him, but the path Mrs McNeil was following would take her within inches of his party. Keeping her eyes lowered so that there would be no chance at all of encountering his gaze, she continued to follow Mrs McNeil, who was intent upon scanning the entire room for a glimpse of their quarry. If Deborah had glanced up, she would have seen the duke turn to take a glass of the water from the counter to give to one of his companions, but she didn't glance up, and at that very moment someone rose from a table beside her, knocking her so that she in turn jolted the duke's arm. The glass of hot water was spilled all over him, and he gave a stifled oath. Then he recognized her.

‘We meet again, madam,' he said stiffly.

His tone was warning enough, and she steeled herself for another disagreeable confrontation. ‘So it would seem, sir,' she replied, any thought of apology dying on her lips.

Those in his party had witnessed the accident, but the rest of the room remained unaware, and the babble of conversation and laughter continued all around unabated.

He held Deborah's gaze. ‘Is it your custom to cause havoc wherever you go? Or do you save your unwelcome attentions solely for me?' he inquired coldly.

She felt her anger rising. If anyone was to blame for what had happened, it was the person who had risen from the table, which person had now vanished in the crowd. Also, the duke had not take sufficient precautions with the glass
but had turned rather hastily in her opinion. She raised her chin defiantly, ignoring the rest of his party, which was watching the developing contretemps in some
bemusement
. ‘Sir, perhaps I should equally inquire whether your attentions are kept just for me? It is hardly my fault if your clumsiness results in a mishap.'

‘
My
clumsiness?'

‘Yes, sirrah, yours.'

By now Mrs McNeil had realized that Deborah was no longer with her and returned in some astonishment to stare at what was happening.

The duke raised a disdainful eyebrow at Deborah. ‘Madam, your capacity for bending the facts never ceases to amaze me. Tell me, do you mean to make a prolonged stay in Bath? Only I would hate to encounter you on a
regular
basis, for I doubt if my health is up to it.'

‘I do not know how long I will be here, sir, but you may rest assured that if I happen to see you anywhere in my vicinity, I will give you a very wide berth indeed, for to be sure you appear to have very little idea of how to proceed without putting others in risk of life and limb!' Deborah was again startled at herself, for to behave like this was totally out of character. She was usually the most
event-empered
and reasonable of persons, but something about this insufferable man touched every perverse nerve in her body. She would trade him insult for insult, duke or not!

‘
I
have little idea?' he breathed. ‘Madam, your coachman was gravely at fault yesterday, as I think you know full well.'

‘My lord duke, it ill becomes you to blame another for the consequences of your own defective judgment.'

‘Indeed? Mrs Marchant, there is one person above all
others who springs to mind when it comes to defective judgment, and that person is
Mr
Marchant!'

She flinched but still held her ground. ‘Sirrah, I neither know nor care whether there has been a woman in the land foolish enough to have become your duchess, but
somehow
I doubt if such a misguided creature exists. I trust that this will be our last encounter.'

He raised his empty glass. ‘Our last encounter? I'll drink to that.'

Her gray eyes flashed with loathing, and on this occasion she declined to have the last word. With a cool nod of her head, she turned and walked away, followed in a moment by an incredulous Mrs McNeil, who could not believe the scene she'd just witnessed.

When they were a safe distance away from the Duke of Gretton and his party, Mrs McNeil seized Deborah's arm and made her turn. ‘My dear, what on earth was all that about? I had no idea you were even acquainted with the duke.'

‘I wish I were not.' Deborah briefly explained what had happened on her way into Bath the evening before.

Mrs McNeil was astonished. ‘I cannot believe that the duke would behave in such a high-handed fashion, for in my experience he has always been the perfect gentleman, and charming as well.'

‘He has been neither perfect nor charming in his dealings with me,' Deborah replied, casting another dark look in his direction, but his back was toward her now, and a lady in his party was endeavoring unsuccessfully to mop up the water from his coat with her lace-edged handkerchief.

Mrs McNeil took a long breath. ‘Well, you stood up for yourself in no uncertain fashion, and no mistake. My dear,
I've never seen you in such a tigerish mood.'

‘That man would try the patience of a saint.'

The remark amused Mrs McNeil. ‘Deborah, patience did not seem to enter into the proceedings on either side.'

‘I hope he takes a severe chill from his damp clothes,' Deborah went on uncharitably.

‘If he does, you may be sure that he will have a very beautiful and attentive nurse to take care of him,' Mrs McNeil observed drily.

Deborah thought she was referring to the lady who was dabbing his coat with her handkerchief. ‘Beautiful?' she repeated in surprise, for that was not an adjective that could be applied to someone with such a horsey face and buck teeth.

‘Not that lady, I'm referring rather to Kate Hatherley.'

Deborah turned to her in astonishment. ‘The actress? But what has she to do with the duke?'

‘You've been in isolation far too long, my dear. Everyone in society knows that Kate is the duke's mistress.'

Deborah stared at her. ‘Really?'

‘What reason would I have to invent such a snippet?'

‘None at all.' Deborah looked toward the duke again. ‘Well, I confess I'm truly amazed, for I thought Kate Hatherley would show better taste.'

‘Better taste? My dear Deborah, whatever you may think of Rowan Sinclair, he is still devilishly handsome, very wealthy, of impeccable breeding and lineage, and he is eligible to a fault. You were right to think that he hasn't yet taken a duchess, but that makes him one of the most sought after gentlemen in society.'

‘But I was under the impression that Mrs Hatherley was renowned for her gaiety and lightheartedness.'

‘And so she is.'

‘Then why on earth has she chosen to favor such a
sour-shanks
as the Duke of Gretton? She must have taken leave of her senses, whether or not he is handsome and wealthy.' Deborah despised him so much that she would have no truck with anything said in his defense.

Mrs McNeil sighed. ‘I see there is no reasoning with you where he is concerned.'

‘No, there isn't, for he is beyond the pale.'

Mrs McNeil suddenly glanced past her toward a group of ladies seated around a table. ‘Those ladies are the ones who usually accompany Lady Ann, but she isn't with them today. I'll just go and inquire after her. You wait here a moment.'

After a few moments, she returned. ‘Well, my dear, it seems that Lady Ann is indisposed and has remained at home today. Come, we'll go there now, and we will be certain to avoid the Duke of Gretton and his party, for I have no desire to witness a repetition of your recent
altercation
.'

‘I wouldn't stoop to speak to him again,' Deborah said.

Mrs McNeil pursed her lips. ‘Indeed? My dear, given the way you feel about him, you wouldn't be able to resist launching in, so I'll keep you out of harm's way. Follow me; we'll go back in a different direction.'

The cold air outside made Deborah's breath catch as she and Mrs McNeil hurried back toward the colonnade and the waiting lines of sedan chairs. Again Mrs McNeil halted for a moment by the columns. ‘I trust that Lady Ann will forgive me sufficiently to serve a dish of her excellent China tea, for I am in dire need of refreshment. The
wishy-washy
brew they serve in the Pump Room isn't excellent,
isn't China, and probably isn't even tea.'

Deborah smiled. ‘I recollect from past experience that you are probably correct on all three counts,' she said.

Mrs McNeil glanced back toward the Pump Room entrance. ‘It seems His Grace of Gretton is departing as well,' she murmured.

Deborah couldn't help turning to look. He'd donned a heavy wine-red greatcoat and was flexing his fingers as he drew on a pair of tight kid gloves. The light breeze stirred through his striking gray hair, and the blue of his eyes was discernible across the abbey courtyard as he met her gaze. He didn't look away at all, indeed she was the one who did so first, and when she stole another glance a moment later, he was strolling away into the shadows by the abbey.

Mrs McNeil watched the direction he took. ‘North Parade, I have no doubt,' she murmured.

‘North Parade?'

‘Kate Hatherley has taken a house there.'

‘Oh.'

Mrs McNeil turned then and beckoned to the nearest chairmen. ‘Two chairs for Great Pulteney Street, if you please,' she said.

Great Pulteney Street lay across the river in the newer part of Bath and was approached over Pulteney Bridge, Lady Ann's residence was to be found about halfway along the street on the left, next to a flight of stone steps leading down to the mews lane and the meadows. The house had a blue door with a polished lion's head brass knocker, and it was one of many uniform terrace properties, all of them elegant, and all built of the same handsome Bath stone.

It was customary on calling to send one's cards to the door, but Mrs McNeil had no intention of allowing Lady Ann to say she was not at home, and so the moment they had alighted from the chairs, she led Deborah purposefully to the blue door and knocked.

A butler answered, and it was clear from his startled expression that he had indeed been given such instructions regarding Lady Ann's former friend. He began to explain that his mistress was not at home, but Mrs McNeil would have none of it.

‘Nonsense, I happen to know that she is in, and since my purpose in coming here is to make my peace with her, I would be obliged if you would convey my felicitations to
her and request a few moments of her time. You may inform her that I am aware of having been in the wrong recently and wish to make amends.'

He hesitated.

‘Well, go on, man. Do as you are told,' Mrs McNeil ordered, waving him away.

He gave up and stood aside for them to enter. Then he went up the staircase, leaving them in the long entrance hall. Mrs McNeil glanced around at the soothing ice green walls and the delicate pink-and-white tiles on the floor. ‘Such elegant taste, do you not agree?' she murmured, but then something on the floor caught her eye. It was a button, and it lay in a corner where it had rolled unnoticed. Picking it up, she stared at it for a moment but then hastily put it in her reticule as the butler reappeared at the top of the
staircase
.

‘If you will come this way, Lady Ann will receive you,' he said.

They ascended to the next floor, and Deborah did not have the chance to ask her companion about the button.

Lady Ann Appleby was exactly as Mrs McNeil had described her and might have been a Spanish infanta instead of the daughter of the very English Earl of Harandon. She was propped up on a mound of
lace-trimmed
pillows, with a warm cashmere shawl around the shoulders of her frilled white silk nightgown, and in spite of her olive complexion, she looked pale and strained. The volume she had been about to read when her unexpected visitors were announced still lay opened on the coverlet of the bed. It was an edition of the first of Sir Walter Scott's Waverley novels.

Mrs McNeil waited until the butler had withdrawn,
which he did promptly because Lady Ann issued no instructions regarding the serving of tea or any other refreshment, and then she faced the woman in the bed. ‘Lady Ann, thank you so much for receiving me. Oh, forgive me, allow me to introduce Mrs Marchant. She is my niece Jenny's good friend and is staying with me at the moment, Jenny and her husband having been called away due to family illness. My dear, this is Lady Ann Appleby.'

‘Lady Ann.' Deborah inclined her head.

‘Mrs Marchant.' Lady Ann was evidently not in the least interested in who Mrs McNeil brought with her, but was very interested indeed in the reason for the call, for her brown eyes went immediately back to her former friend. ‘What may I do for you, Mrs McNeil?'

‘You may forgive me. I have been sadly in the wrong in this whole business of Mr Wexford, and I cannot bear it if we remain at odds over it. I should never have doubted your word, I realize that now, but he was a guest in my niece's house, and he seemed everything that was
charming
and sincere. I was gulled completely, I am ashamed to admit, but now that I have seen the error of my ways, I have come immediately to try to put matters right between us. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me, Lady Ann?'

Deborah marveled at how genuine the apology sounded. Mrs McNeil was indeed the actress she claimed to be. Perhaps Kate Hatherley should be looking to her laurels!

Lady Ann gave a hesitant smile, and then nodded. ‘It would please me very much if we were on amicable terms again, Morag, for I have missed our hours over the chess board.' She smiled at Deborah. ‘Mrs McNeil is a fiendish chess player, Mrs Marchant, and my advice to you is that
you decline any request from her for a game, unless you are a fiend yourself.'

In spite of herself, Deborah found her an oddly
sympathetic
person. She wanted to despise Lady Ann Appleby, but that was not an easy thing to do.

Lady Ann smiled at Mrs McNeil. ‘I'm glad you took the trouble to call, Morag, for it is always disagreeable when one falls out with one's friends.'

‘I could not agree more. Mrs Marchant and I went to the Pump Room specifically so that I could speak to you, but then we learned that you were indisposed, and so we came directly here. Lady Ann, I cannot begin to say how sorry I am about everything, but we were all taken in by Mr Wexford, who is surely the most plausible rogue on earth.'

‘I would rather not talk about him.'

‘But—'

‘Please, Morag.'

Mrs McNeil was obliged to try another tack. ‘How glad you must have been to have your necklace returned. I'll warrant you could not thank dear Sir James enough.'

‘I am not acquainted with Sir James. He took the
necklace
to the authorities, and they brought it to me.'

‘You aren't acquainted with him at all?'

‘No. We've never even spoken.' Lady Ann took a long breath. ‘Morag, I really would rather not discuss what has happened recently, for I find it all very distressing. Believe me, if I could turn the clock back, I would.'

This last was said with such choked emotion that Deborah thought the woman would dissolve into tears. It was a disconcerting moment, for once again it made Lady Ann appear sympathetic.

There was a tap at the door, and the butler entered to
inform Lady Ann that her physician had called. There was nothing for it but for Mrs McNeil and Deborah to leave.

Lady Ann gave a bright smile. ‘I am not very indisposed, Morag, and will soon be quite well again, I'm sure. Perhaps we could see each other then, and enjoy a game of chess?'

‘I look forward to it.'

Lady Ann nodded at Deborah. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mrs Marchant.'

‘And I you, Lady Ann.'

‘Good day to you both.'

‘Good day,' they replied and withdrew from the room.

They passed the physician on the staircase, and then the butler showed them out. The two chairs had gone, and so they began to walk back toward Pulteney Bridge, beyond which Bath rose splendidly across the hillside with Royal Crescent just visible in the distance.

Mrs McNeil glanced at Deborah. ‘Well? What did you think? Can you imagine your brother pursuing her in order to steal her jewels?'

‘No.'

‘Nor I. Oh, I simply don't understand her. I would have accepted that maybe she genuinely believed for some reason that Richard had taken the necklace, but once she let it be believed that he had seduced her first, I knew it was untrue. Now I know even more that she is lying.'

‘Oh?' Deborah paused, looking inquiringly at her. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because it is patently untrue that she and Sir James are unacquainted. I know for a fact that he has called at her house and been admitted.' Mrs McNeil opened her reticule and took out the silver button.

Deborah examined it. It was from a gentleman's coat and
was beautifully engraved with a heraldic device, a
six-spoked
cartwheel.

Mrs McNeil smiled. ‘The cartwheel is Sir James Uppingham's badge and is emblazoned on his carriage, his writing paper, his cane, and even upon the saddle of his new horse. His forebears carried it into battle during the Crusades, and he is justifiably proud of it.'

‘And you think this is his button?'

‘It cannot be anyone else's, for the cartwheel is too exactly his. Do you see how the spokes protrude, around the rim? So, Lady Ann cannot be telling the truth when she says she has never even spoken to him. He would not have been admitted if she wasn't there to receive him.'

‘But why should she pretend not to know him if she does?'

‘Because such a pretense makes their story seem more believable. Why would two perfect strangers concoct a plot against Richard? It might be whispered that two friends or acquaintances could have cause to dislike him sufficiently for some reason or other, but two people who don't know each other? It is a neat touch, I fancy.'

‘I find it very difficult to believe any ill of Lady Ann,' Deborah confessed.

‘I promise you you won't find it similarly difficult where Sir James is concerned,' Mrs McNeil replied, putting the button back into the reticule. ‘When you see him this
afternoon
in Sydney Gardens, I am sure you will think him the most of a weasel you've ever met. Atall weasel, maybe, but a weasel for all that. I didn't like him when he and Richard were close friends, and I certainly don't like him now. Still, I'm sure my Thespian talents are now sufficiently polished to deceive him as I deceived Lady Ann.'

‘Your Thespian talents are nothing short of amazing,' Deborah replied.

‘Yes, they are rather,' Mrs McNeil agreed, without any modesty at all. ‘I have always fancied myself on the stage, and when we go to the theater tonight, you may be sure that I will be picking Mrs Hatherley's Rosalind to shreds. Ah, there are some chairs returning from the gardens!'

As two of the chairs were hailed, Deborah glanced back toward Lady Ann's house. There was something about the lady that simply did not add up. But what was it?