Amanda Scott (3 page)

“I remember no such thing. And why are you wriggling so? Proper young ladies sit up straight with their feet placed firmly upon the floor and their hands resting neatly in their laps. Do so at once, and—Good gracious, what is that?” she demanded as the book, freed by Carolyn’s automatic obedience to the familiar command, fell between the sofa’s back and seat and crashed to the floor. “Bring that to me at once. I cannot imagine what sort of book it must be that you attempt to conceal from me.”

Feeling suddenly more like a child of ten than a young woman rapidly approaching the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, Carolyn fumbled beneath the sofa for the book, then got up and reluctantly approached her godmother. It was at times like this, infrequent though they were, that she valued Lady Skipton’s general lack of concern with her conduct. As she put the volume in the dowager’s outstretched hand, Carolyn mentally braced herself for reprimand.

“This is not the book I gave you to read this morning.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You would have had no need to conceal that book, I think.”

“No, ma’am.”

“I cannot imagine,” the dowager went on, “where you can have come by such a book as this.”

“She got it from me, I’m afraid.” The words, spoken in a gently apologetic, masculine voice, came from behind them, and both ladies turned their heads in surprise toward the tall, slender, fair-haired, elegantly attired gentleman who had entered the library so silently that neither had heard him do so. The owner of Bathwick Hill House had come home, thus gratifying his mother by fulfilling her prophecy and delighting Miss Hardy by his exquisite timing as much as by the simple fact of his return.

M
R. SAINT-DENIS, INSTANTLY NOTING
Carolyn’s delight and unmistakable relief at his arrival, wasted no time in self-congratulation on his timely arrival, for he knew he could not long depend upon his mother to remain silent. However, no sooner had he opened his mouth to continue his bland speech when Carolyn interrupted him without ceremony to demand to know where on earth he had come by his “hideous” waistcoat.

Amused, he opened his dark-blue coat to give them a better view of the pink-and-gold-silk confection beneath and drawled, “’Tisn’t hideous, my dear, but quite admirable in fact. Trust meetings are such sober occasions, you know, and one is expected to dress appropriately, but I do like a touch of color to brighten a dreary day. I had thought to wear it evenings with knee breeches and pink and gilt clocked stockings, but Weston prevailed upon me to order an emerald one for evening and to don pantaloons and Hessians with this. You must not fail to give me your opinion of the other rig when I wear it.”

The dowager, rarely interested in anyone’s clothing but her own, said sharply, “Never mind that, Sydney. This book is not suitable for a young girl to read, and so you must admit.”

“I cannot agree, ma’am,” he replied, moving nearer the warmth of the hearth. “’Tis precisely the sort of foolishness that all young women delight in reading, though I do trust that Carolyn at least has the sense to enjoy such stuff without believing everything the idiotish author tells her to believe.”

Carolyn did not rise to his bait for once, but said sweetly, “If you would like to show off your knee breeches, sir, there is to be an assembly tonight at the Sydney Gardens Hotel.”

“At my hotel?” He smiled, wondering how it was that he had not noticed before how greatly time and two London Seasons had improved her looks. Though he usually visited the city only to replenish his wardrobe or attend an auction, he had heard enough about her activities there to believe she had not altered much from the mischievous girl who had plagued him so in his youth.

He was forcibly reminded of that imp when she wrinkled her nose at him just then and said with dignity, “It’s been years since I was childish enough to believe the gardens or hotel were named for you, sir, so pray don’t tease me.”

“I shouldn’t dare,” he replied, gracefully taking snuff from an elaborately figured silver snuff box. “I’d be terrified to find myself trying to sleep tonight in an apple-pie bed.”

She chuckled. “I doubt you are ever terrified, Sydney, and I haven’t turned up your sheets since before you visited China.”

“Can it be that long? That must be nearly five years ago.”

She nodded. “Before we came to live here, I’d scarcely seen you since your uncle Beauchamp died and left you this house. Only during your brief visits to Swainswick at Christmas.”

“Then the least I can do to renew our acquaintance properly is to escort you to the gardens tonight.”

Lady Skipton said austerely, “I have not said I wish to go.”

Seeing Carolyn about to protest, Sydney said calmly, “I do not doubt, ma’am, that if you find you cannot care for the outing, Cousin Judith will agree to chaperon Carolyn.”

“That will not be necessary,” Lady Skipton replied. “Since you desire it, there is no more to be said. We will all go.”

Winking at Carolyn, Sydney bowed and left the room, making his way up the stairs to his bedchamber, where he found his valet unpacking his cases.

“You’ll have to stop that for now, Ching,” he said. “I have decided to go out this evening.”

“Indeed, my master,” said the valet, whose proper English attire did little to disguise his oriental heritage. Bowing low, he said in a lilting voice that retained but a trace of an accent, “You are not in general capricious, sir, but I believe you said not an hour since that you had formed the intention to remain within doors this evening. I trust nothing is amiss.”

“One would think,” Sydney said plaintively, “that considering how much I’ve learned from you in the four years you have been with me, you might at least have learned how unbecoming curiosity is in a gentleman’s servant.”

“Self-cultivation,” said Ching Ho, moving with swift grace to help him out of his tight-fitting coat, “has no other method but to extract its essence from one’s fellow man.”

“Good Lord, what does that mean?”

“Only that if one would understand oneself, my master, one must first understand others. Will you wear knee breeches?”

“Yes, I am to escort my mother and Miss Carolyn to an assembly. I’ll wear the new green waistcoat, as well.”

“Ah, Missy Carolyn,” the valet said wisely. “I see.”

“No, you don’t see, you inscrutable rascal, if you think I mean to set up a flirtation with her. She is the merest child, for one thing, and a guest beneath my roof, for another.”

“I do not understand western ways,” Ching Ho said, stepping to the wardrobe. “In my country, a man may easily choose to fix his interest upon a woman living beneath his roof, for she must obey his will in all things.”

“Well, take it from me, it won’t answer here,” Sydney said. “As it is, the chit will lead me a merrier dance than I like if she means to disport herself here as she did in London. While she lived beneath my brother’s roof, I could leave it to him to look after her—not that he or Matilda did any such thing, or Mama, for that matter—but now it is up to me to see that she don’t go betrothing herself to some other complete ass, thinking she can cry off later, as she did in town. That won’t answer here in Bath, where the quizzes like nothing so much as a bit of scandal to nibble, but as there are few eligible young men here, one expects the worst. The black coat, Ching, the black coat! Put that blue thing away. And make haste, man, we’ve less than three hours, and my supper to eat in the meantime!”

Rather more than three hours later, at the hotel’s carriage entrance, Mr. Saint-Denis dismissed his coachman with orders to return for them at eleven—later than which no assembly in Bath ever persisted—and offered his arm to his mother, magnificently attired in rose satin and a silver-plumed turban. Ahead of them, visibly shivering in white muslin with sapphire-colored ribbons that matched her eyes, Carolyn walked up the steps with Miss Pucklington, swathed in shawls, at her side. They passed into the vestibule beneath the hotel’s high, round portico and followed a number of other people along the wide corridor to the ballroom, where musicians in an arched gallery provided harmonious background for the hum of conversation.

To Carolyn’s disappointment, the room seemed at first to be filled with elderly ladies and a few gentlemen who were of an age with them. There seemed to be no young men at all, unless one counted Sydney, who was nearer thirty than twenty. To be sure, there was a scattering of very young ladies whose mamas believed the late-autumn Bath assemblies provided a perfect introductory opportunity for daughters who would make their London come-outs in the spring, but Carolyn had no interest in them. She had nearly decided she had wasted her time, not to mention a very becoming gown, when, just as Lady Skipton and Miss Pucklington paused to speak to an acquaintance, the dowager Viscountess Lyndhurst approached, accompanied by her tall, handsome son.

Greeting them both warmly, Carolyn turned to Sydney, as the viscountess moved on to talk to Lady Skipton. “Do you know Viscount Lyndhurst, sir?”

“We’ve met,” Sydney said, nodding politely.

“Indeed, we have,” the dark-haired younger man agreed with a brief, oblique glance at him, “though not above twice, I daresay. Don’t seem to run in the same fields, do we, Saint-Denis?”

Sydney murmured a polite response, but the viscount had already returned his full attention to Carolyn.

“Do you suppose we’ll be able to form a full set of competent dancers?” he asked her with a droll grimace as he gestured toward the assembled company. “’Tis always the same with these late Season gatherings, I believe—more observers than participants. Still I see there are some young angelics being dangled before our appreciative masculine eyes.”

Carolyn laughed but found herself wondering how it was that the viscount, with his dark good looks and fashionable attire, appeared somehow unfinished, even rather untidy, next to Sydney, who was, as usual, precise to a pin in his cream-colored knee breeches, dark coat, and snowy linen. Even the bright emerald waistcoat he sported seemed just right, while the more restrained embroidered one the viscount wore seemed somehow rather gaudy.

The viscount’s behavior toward her seemed different, too. In his own house he had been flatteringly attentive, but now his attitude bordered on the possessive, and when the music at last grew louder and the master of ceremonies announced that the grand march was about to begin, she was not at all surprised when he held out his arm to her, although he had certainly not asked for the honor of escorting her. Nevertheless, she was anything but pleased when Sydney intervened.

“My privilege, I believe,” he said quietly.

Lyndhurst bristled at first, but after casting a glance at the company and another at Sydney, he shrugged and smiled at Carolyn. “Reserve the first set of country dances for me then, Caro, my love. And don’t dare to tell me you’ve already promised them elsewhere, for I’ll not accept a second put-off.”

She agreed, concealing her displeasure at his use of her nickname so that Sydney would not guess her feelings. She wondered if he would comment but wasn’t surprised when he did not, and when he held out his arm in his customary polite way, she placed her fingers lightly upon it and allowed him to guide her to their place in the line, noting—also without surprise—that a stout figure topped by a silver-plumed turban and a thin one draped in shawls were just disappearing into the card room.

The grand march was followed, as always, by a stately minuet, and Carolyn was glad Sydney was unlikely to engage her in conversation, for she knew she would quickly betray the confusion she was feeling if he were to ask her about Lyndhurst. Though she was annoyed with Sydney for interfering, she was equally annoyed with the viscount for casually assuming she would allow him to partner her in the grand march without first having had the courtesy to ask her to do so.

Despite her annoyance, however, when the first set of country dances was called, she greeted Lyndhurst with pleasure, for she had observed him gazing at her more than once during the intervening time and could not help but be flattered by the fact that he seemed to have eyes for no one else, although many more people had arrived. While she danced with him, she saw several other young acquaintances among the company, including a fair-haired, handsome young man with twinkling hazel-green eyes, who stepped up to claim her hand the minute the country dances ended.

She greeted him with delight, persuaded that he, at least, would not be too much criticized by either her godmother or Mr. Saint-Denis. She had first met Brandon Manningford several years before, when he was a student home on holiday and she had been one of the young angelics allowed to attend her first grown-up parties in Bath. Though his visits home were sporadic at best, since most of her Bath swains were of an age with her godmother, it was scarcely surprising to anyone that she formed a friendship with Mr. Manningford. They had many acquaintances in common, in London as well as in Bath, and since he was interested only in finding new ways to amuse himself, excluding matrimony, she had come to look upon him as a brother rather than as a potential flirt or suitor, and she was always glad to see him.

Turning now to Lyndhurst, who still hovered attentively at her side, she said, “You know Mr. Manningford, sir. His family have lived in Bath forever, I believe.”

“Not really forever, Caro,” Brandon retorted, laughing as he exchanged nods with the viscount, “and I know Lyndhurst quite well, of course. Dash it all, everyone is acquainted with everyone else in Bath. Moreover, I took a monkey off him less than a month past, when he wagered I couldn’t slip old Nolly into the Pump Room without raisin’ a dust.”

“That awful bear!” Carolyn exclaimed. “I thought you got rid of him. Wasn’t it enough that he once nearly tore your leg off? Now you’ve got to go frightening old ladies in the Pump Room!” But she was grinning. She knew she would have heard if there had been any dire consequences, and Brandon’s penchant for the outrageous matched her own love of a good joke. Indeed, she had often envied his creative imagination, well aware that her own was not nearly so droll. “Tell me about it,” she begged.