Mayhem in Bath Page 6

  “Nonsense, you look exquisite in all your togs,” he interrupted hastily, glancing at the longcase clock at the far end of the room. His chair scraped as he grabbed his walking sticks and rose quickly to his feet. “Do be swift, my dear, for one is supposed to drink the water between eight and nine, and it’s half past eight now. Ah, there’s the carriage now.”

  She got up quickly. “I’ll put on my spencer and bonnet,” she said, and gathered her skirts to hurry from the room.

  The carriage was not the only thing at the curb outside 1 Royal Crescent, for Bodkin was there too, albeit invisibly. The brownie had been up for some time, first observing with great pleasure the havoc he’d caused with his overnight mischief, and then taking a leisurely honey breakfast in his hayloft. After that he’d left the stable to start searching for Nutmeg, but just as he emerged into the sunlight, he recognized Hordwell’s second carriage being driven out of the coach house pertaining to 1 Royal Crescent. Its presence could only mean that Polly had followed him to Bath, in the process leading him to the very house in which to find Nutmeg! Delighted, Bodkin ran after the carriage, jumped aboard, and held on tightly as it swung out of the mews on its way to the front of the crescent. As it swayed to a standstill, the brownie climbed down again and stood looking at the house. After a minute or so, the front door opened, and Polly emerged with Hordwell, who was hobbling on his walking sticks. Bodkin’s eyes sharpened, for Polly was smiling and clearly not at odds with her uncle as she assisted him down the steps toward the waiting vehicle. The brownie stared at her in dismay. She’d taken Hordwell’s side! She approved of what had been done to Nutmeg!

  Feeling too betrayed to even howl with boggart fury. Bodkin edged past them and slipped into the house.

  Chapter 9

  Dominic had ridden to the Pump Room, in the certain hope that Georgiana and her duke-to-be would also go there, because it was the place to be seen in the mornings. Set right in the heart of Bath, alongside the abbey, the room was a splendidly elegant place, with harmonious and restful pale blue walls and exquisite cream-and-gold decorations. Great Ionic columns soared up to the high ceiling, and there were curved recesses at either end, in one of which stood a fine longcase Tompion clock that had been made especially for the premises. There was a clatter of crockery at the numerous little tables, and above the babble of polite conversations the small orchestra in the gallery could just be heard. A flower woman was selling the little herbal nosegays that were all the vogue this year, and which she had successfully pressed upon most of the gathering.

  The famous water, which had an unpalatably rusty taste, was served at a counter by a young woman in a crisply starched mob-cap and apron, who had pyramids of gleaming glasses arranged before her. It was expected of everyone that they should drink three glasses of the water, and then take tea while endeavoring to appreciate the daily concert on the gallery. It was a dreadful press of chattering groups, both large and small, a sizable number of unfortunates in wheelchairs, and numerous hobbling persons on walking sticks and crutches, all of whom made Dominic’s progress quite hazardous as he threaded his way around in search of Georgiana.

  Suddenly he saw her. She and her uniformed dukeling were at the water counter, receiving their first glasses. Transfixed, Dominic gazed adoringly at the object of his affections. How breathtaking she was, with her raven hair, melting dark eyes, and matchless profile. As was the latest vogue, she had fixed false white curls to her coiffure, and they looked perfect beneath the wide brim of her stylish orange silk hat. Her silk pelisse and gown were orange too, and there were pearls at her creamy throat. She was engaged upon the subtle art of flirtation, employing a nosegay to tickle Lord Algernon Lofty’s receding chin, which fond attention was doing very little for his allergy to flowers.

  Dominic’s expression soured as he looked at the future Duke of Grandcastle. The twenty-six year old Marquess of Hightower was a tall, exceedingly thin young man, with straight mouse-colored hair, small brown eyes, and a receding chin. When not in uniform, he possessed a taste in fashion that verged on the theatrical on account of his delight in vivid colors. His partiality for a fearsome shade of mauve was often much discussed, but Bath was being spared today, for he was in uniform. However, the regimentals of the Duke of York’s Own Light Dragoons, while splendid on the likes of Harry Dashingham, somehow contrived to make Hightower seem more lanky and chinless than ever. The duke-to-be was not a pretty sight, and his claim to intelligence was questionable to say the least, but Georgiana—at her most kittenish—treated him as if he were the most handsome, romantic and witty fellow in the world.

  Jealousy washed hotly through Dominic as his rival’s sneezes rang out above the general racket of the room. Hightower was a fool, and grand title or not, surely Georgiana must realize by now how desperately unhappy she would be with such an article. Or was ambition truly her be-all and end-all? It was time to let her see what she was throwing away in favor of his future dukedom!

  Taking a deep breath, Dominic pushed his way toward his goal, and Georgiana turned, almost as if she sensed his approach. Her dark eyes flickered, and her lips parted, then she seized Hightower’s arm so violently that his glass of water splashed over his uniform. Her intention was to hurry him away in the opposite direction, but all she achieved was his yelp of horror as he hastily drew out a lace-edged handkerchief to mop his elaborately braided blue jacket.

  In that second Dominic was upon them both, sweeping a gallant bow, before drawing her little brown-gloved hand to his lips. “Lady Georgiana, what an unexpected pleasure.” He straightened and nodded coolly at her companion. “Hightower.”

  Lord Algernon’s small brown eyes swung toward him. “Fortune,” he muttered with equal brevity, and then continued his mopping up. He knew Dominic was Georgiana’s previous lover, and disliked him accordingly.

  Georgiana looked fit to have the vapors, for Dominic was the very last person she wished to encounter, but she managed a weak smile. “Why, Sir Dominic, I quite forgot you were here in Bath,” she declared with monstrous untruthfulness.

  Dominic didn’t know what to say next, for her dismayed reaction wasn’t at all what he’d hoped. By presenting himself unexpectedly like this, he’d wanted to startle her into realizing he was the one for her. The opposite seemed more the case.

  She recovered a little and took out her scented handkerchief to dab at the marquess’s soaked uniform. Dominic was subjected to a cross look. “That was ill done, sir,” she declared accusingly.

  Taken aback, Dominic stared at her. “Ill done? I... I don’t understand ...”

  “Of course you do, sirrah. How could you startle me like that? There was no need, no need at all! Now look what you’ve done to poor Algie’s regimentals.”

  Dominic’s face was a study, but he allowed her to get away with it. “I apologize, Lady Georgiana, but in truth I did not mean to alarm you.”

  “Nevertheless, that is precisely what you did.”

  He didn’t reply, for although he loved her to distraction, he wasn’t going to apologize again!

  She colored a little, and while the marquess’s attention remained upon things sartorial, she decided to be a little cruel to Dominic, suddenly smiling at him in a most yearningly seductive way. Her lovely dark eyes promised every delight under the sun—and between the sheets—but her words were politely conversational for the marquess’s benefit. “Have you been in Bath long, Sir Dominic?”

  “I arrived yesterday. Lady Georgiana,” he replied, plunging joyfully into her gaze. She did love him, she did!

  “Are you going to Claverton Down to see the Duke and Duchess of York review Algie’s regiment?” she asked then.

  “Of a certainty I am, and the ball the day after. As to the regiment, it was mine, too, remember?” he added.

  “Was it?” Her eyes were wide and innocent as she went on. “What of the Halloween festivities in Sydney Gardens?”

  “Halloween festivities?”

  “There is to be a bon
fire, fireworks, and all manner of other entertainments. Fancy dress isn’t mandatory, although it is rather expected, and dressing up is so much more fun than ordinary togs, don’t you agree?”

  “Er, yes, I suppose I do.”

  “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 t
hat 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.