Mayhem in Bath (8 page)

“The Duke and Duchess of York will be there to light the bonfire, and tickets are naturally at a premium.”

“Indeed? Well, I will endeavor to acquire one.”

Having raised his hopes with such talk, she now chose to dash them again. “Well, to be sure I
may
acknowledge you, but after your clumsiness today, I may not,” she declared witheringly, then turned to smile dazzlingly at the marquess. “Oh, Algie, I do admire men in uniform.” She sighed.

Her contrariness made Dominic feel angry, as well as foolish, but nothing she said or did seemed to dent Hightower’s doglike devotion, for that gentleman beamed adoringly at her. “Oh, my dearest Georgiana, how glad I am to hear you say that, for I vow I felt quite out of sorts at not being in my mauve.”

Her smile became fixed. “Your mauve? Oh, I
much
prefer you in uniform,” she said quickly.

Dominic’s lips twitched.
Everyone
preferred High-tower in uniform, for his beloved mauve was an assault upon the eyeballs!

Georgiana tossed another glance at Dominic. “I fear we must proceed with the regimen. Sir Dominic, so I trust you will excuse us...?”

With a shock, Dominic realized she’d delivered his
congé .
It wasn’t something to which he was accustomed; indeed he was usually the one to deal such things rather than receive them. Now it was his turn to color, and with an abrupt nod he turned to walk away. He was angry, and vowed never to approach her again, but he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. Her lustrous gaze was upon him, and she gave him another of her yearning seductive smiles. Once again his emotions were in turmoil. He didn’t know where he was with her! A prisoner of his worshipping heart, he found himself a table from where he could watch as she and the marquess sipped from each other’s glasses, and gazed into each other’s eyes. Dominic knew he was only torturing himself, but he simply couldn’t help it. Where Lady Georgiana Mersenrie was concerned, he had no will of his own.

At that moment, Polly and her uncle were arriving at the colonnade that separated the abbey yard and Pump Room from the Bath street. Polly was deep in thought, for as the carriage had driven around the comer past Zuder’s, she had observed a very strange scene inside. The assistants, and Herr Zuder himself, recognizable by his famous goatee beard and waxed mustache, had been gathered around a table close to the window. Scratching their heads and looking generally puzzled, they were clearly discussing something as mystifying to them as the overnight events in the Royal Crescent mews. Bells rang in Polly’s head. Bodkin! Had the brownie recommenced his comfort gorging? She would have to make a point of calling at the shop on the return to the crescent.

She was aroused from her thoughts as the carriage halted, and with much groaning and complaining, Hordwell allowed himself to be helped down by two of the Pump Room’s footmen. She climbed down as well, but her uncle hadn’t shuffled more than a few yards on his walking sticks when he declared he must secure one of the wheelchairs that stood in line for hire. Polly was dismayed, for the chairs looked cumbersome to push, and she wasn’t exactly muscular, but Hordwell didn’t consider her at all as he plumped himself in the nearest one. He placed his walking sticks rather awkwardly across his lap, then gazed serenely ahead as the wheelchair man held out his hand for payment. With a sigh, Polly reached into her reticule, produced the necessary coins, and then began to push the unwieldy chair toward the Pump Room door.

Her dismay increased tenfold when she saw the enormous crowd squeezed inside. She wanted to deposit Hordwell at a suitable table, and then proceed alone to the counter for his first glass of water, but he would not hear of it. Nothing would do but that she pushed him to the counter so that he could ask himself. Resignedly, she began to push him forward, apologizing to left and right as his walking sticks prodded various persons on the way. She passed Dominic without noticing him, nor did he notice her, for his eyes were fixed upon Georgiana. At the counter, Polly glanced momentarily at Georgiana, whose orange togs were perhaps the most modish in the room. She didn’t know Georgiana was Lord Benjamin’s sister, not that it would have made any difference to the ensuing fracas.

It started as Hordwell was handed his glass, and Polly turned the wheelchair toward a free table she’d noticed nearby. The dreaded walking sticks jabbed Georgiana’s elegant posterior, and with a startled shriek, that lady whirled about, lost her balance, and fell against the marquess, who in turn fell against the counter. The pyramids of glasses went crashing, and in the ensuing shocked moments the only sound was Georgiana’s hysterical shrieking. Every eye in the room was directed toward the scene, and Polly felt so dreadful that she could only stand there with her hands pressed to her crimson cheeks.

In a trice Dominic was on his feet to rush to Georgiana’s rescue. He pushed past Polly and in order to stretch out a hand to his beloved, stepped over the marquess, who had been dazed by one of the falling glasses. As Georgiana’s trembling little fingers closed gratefully over Dominic’s, and as he drew her to her feet, he flung a furious glance at Hordwell. “Have you no sense, sir? Walking sticks are not to be used as weapons!”

Hordwell gave him a cold look. ‘‘Walking sticks have more right in here than fripperies,” he replied, then gazed ahead again, his expression one of stony indifference to the mayhem he’d caused.

Dominic kissed Georgiana’s fingers reassuringly. “There, there, all is well again,” he murmured, before turning his outrage upon Polly. “I begin to despair of you, Miss Peach, for wherever you are, there also is trouble.”

“One might say the same of you, sirrah!” she retorted indignantly.

“You are the cause, madam, not me,” he replied, cradling the weeping Georgiana to his manly chest.

Polly was furious with him, and with herself for being so drawn to him. “Then please allow me to warrant your low opinion,” she answered, and before she knew it was in her mind, she’d picked up the only glass of water remaining upright on the counter. With a flourish she tossed the contents all over him, although in truth it was her own hot emotions she needed to douse.

Unfortunately she drenched Georgiana as well, and the lady in question screamed all the more. There were gasps all around, and Dominic looked as if he could cheerfully have choked his blonde assailant, but before he could give in to any such urge, two burly footmen hurried over to eject Polly and her uncle, wheelchair and all.

Thus Polly’s first—and only—visit to the Bath Pump Room came to a premature and rather undignified end.

Chapter 10

As Polly and Hordwell were politely but firmly ejected from the Pump Room, a bitterly angry Bodkin was busy searching 1 Royal Crescent. He was so dismayed by Polly’s apparent betrayal that he could barely marshal his thoughts. His tail twirled resentfully, and as he combed the house for Nutmeg, he was plotting boggart revenge on his former friend.

His quest began in the basement and gradually moved upward, but there was no sign of his lost sweetheart, not even a little brownie dustpan. Disheartenment was beginning to set in when he reached the third story, where the principal bedrooms were to be found, and opened the first door he came to. It was instantly identifiable as Hordwell’s room, because of the old Turkish slippers placed neatly by the bed. A wicked smile creased the brownie’s face. Hordwell always hid his valuables beneath his mattress, so the removal of said valuables—deeds, an important account book, a purse of gold coins, a fine pocket watch, jewelry, and various other items of importance—to a place where the miserable old curmudgeon would
never
find them, would cause a monumental fuss! Rubbing his hands with vengeful glee. Bodkin hurried toward the mattress.

Unfortunately for him, it had slipped his mind that there were other brownies in the world apart from Nutmeg and himself, and that they too had charge of houses, as he did of Horditall House. It was a cardinal rule that before entering a strange house, the resident brownie’s permission must always be sought. The moment he entered 1 Royal Crescent, Bodkin had broken that rule, and he was about to be confronted in no uncertain fashion, because resident brownie, an elderly but very spry fellow by the name of Ragwort, happened to be clinging to the top of Hordwell’s curtains, using a long-handled feather duster to clean the pelmet.

Ragwort had looked after the house since it had been built, and before that had been one of the select band of brownies looking after Bath Abbey. Like Bodkin, he only communicated with one human, in this case Giles, the footman. Ragwort was on good terms with all the other brownies on the crescent and had many friends in Bath itself, so when an impudent stranger entered unannounced, the house brownie wasn’t at all pleased. Holding the feather duster aloft, he swung down the gold velvet curtains and dropped silently behind Bodkin, who was muttering impatiently under his breath as he felt beneath the mattress.

Ragwort’s tail began to swish, and suddenly he jabbed at Bodkin’s behind with the duster handle. “Hey, you! What are you up to? Trying your hand at a little thieving?”

Bodkin whirled about and gaped at the other brownie.

“Cat got your tongue?” cried Ragwort, prodding again with the duster.

Bodkin ran to a comer to grab one of Hordwell’s spare walking sticks, then returned to confront his attacker, his tail lashing threateningly to and fro. “And who do you think
you
are? How dare you poke me like that!” he shouted, holding the walking stick like a sword, and assuming a fencing position he’d seen on one of Hordwell’s sporting prints at Horditall House.

Ragwort did the same with the feather duster. “I’m the brownie of this house, and
you’re
an intruder, that’s what!” he declared, his tail matching Bodkin’s lash for lash.

“How do I know
you’re
not an intruder?” yelled Bodkin, lunging forward with his weapon.

Ragwort parried the thrust, and for several minutes the angry brownies fought a rather unlikely duel, which only ended when Bodkin tripped over Hordwell’s slippers and fell. Ragwort immediately pressed the feather duster to his throat. “Identify yourself, thief!”

“I’m not a thief,” protested Bodkin angrily, trying not to sneeze because the feathers were tickling his nose.

“You were looking under the mattress! That’s not exactly innocent behavior!”

“I... I know I was, but I have good reason. I was going to hide old Hordwell’s valuables to pay him back for what he’s done to me. Oh,
please
can I get up?”

“Do I have your word you won’t try to escape?” demanded Ragwort, and on receiving a compliant nod, he slowly removed the duster.

Bodkin scrambled to his feet, and kicked Hordwell’s slippers petulantly. Stupid things, if they hadn’t been there, he’d have won!

Ragwort eyed him. “Right, explain yourself, beginning with your name.”

“I’m Bodkin, of Horditall House. At least, I
was
of Horditall House, but I’ve walked out.”

“My name is Ragwort.” The other brownie bowed politely.

Bodkin did the same. “I’m sorry I entered without your permission, Ragwort, but I was so angry I just didn’t think.” He explained all that had happened, before asked hopefully, “Have you seen Nutmeg?” 

Ragwort shook his head. “There hasn’t been anyone like that on the crescent. I know all the brownies here, and if a new one had arrived, I’d be aware of it.” Ragwort’s brow darkened then. “Is it really true that Lord Benjamin and Mr. Horditall came to an agreement over her? What sort of agreement? A
financial
one?”

“I don’t know exactly what form it took, but they certainly traded her in some way. She was brought here to look after Lord Benjamin’s house, and the fact that she apparently went without protest must mean that either Hordwell or Lord Benjamin possesses her belt.”

“No wonder you want to hide the old miser’s valuables,” Ragwort replied with feeling, then added, “I must say I’m surprised that Miss Polly is party to it. From what I’ve seen of her, she just doesn’t seem to be like that.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bodkin replied bitterly.

“Well, we’ll punish all three of them, for it’s no more than they deserve.”

Bodkin looked urgently at him. “Are you
sure
Nutmeg can’t be here?” He glanced around the room, almost as if expecting to see her.

Ragwort shook his head again. “I’ve already said so, haven’t I? Besides, it probably wouldn’t be this particular house anyway.”

“Why? It’s Lord Benjamin’s, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly. It belongs to his father, the Duke of Lawless. Lord Benjamin has only just moved here from his other house.”

“What other house?” Bodkin asked swiftly.

“Further along the crescent. I forget the number, but I know which one it is. He resided there a year ago, when your Nutmeg disappeared, and it’s still in his name, but he’s let it to someone called Sir Dominic Fortune.”

“So Nutmeg might be there?”

“Look, I keep telling you that I’d know if there was a stranger on the crescent. Ever since Caraway left, that house hasn’t had a brownie. It’s the only one that doesn’t.”

“Caraway?”

Ragwort colored a little. “A close lady brownie acquaintance. She and I had a terrible falling out, and she went off in a huff to stay with her family in Wells. That was before Lord Benjamin took the lease.”

“Oh, what am I going to do?” wailed Bodkin, sitting on the floor and hiding his head in his hands.

Ragwort looked sadly down at him. “Well, to start with, I’ll take you to meet the other brownies on the crescent. There’s always an outside chance someone might know something. But before we go, let’s find Hordwell’s precious bits and pieces and hide them. What about the chimney, eh? There’s a nice little ledge not far up. We can put some other things there as well, his brush and comb, for instance! Come on!” Grabbing Bodkin by the arm, he made him get up again to continue with the examination of the mattress. Hordwell’s valuables soon came to light, and the brownies hid them all up the chimney, taking care to keep clear of the rather smoky fire in the hearth. Hordwell’s brush and comb followed, then his two pairs of spare shoes, and his entire supply of monogrammed handkerchiefs.