Amanda Scott (4 page)

“Rarely,” Sybilla admitted. “Oh, I’ve braved his wrath more than once, to be sure. No one else was willing to tell him of my betrothal, for example, and I would not let them write to him about so important an occurrence. My aunt Eliza was my mother’s sister, you know, and it was her advice that I should ignore his protests and tell him personally. I did so, and my ears rang with his reproaches for hours afterward. And even when Aunt Eliza died, he did not leave his rooms to attend her funeral.”

“But what about your brother, Mr. Charles, m’lady? He bein’ the heir, ’n’ all—surely, he talks to him.”

Sybilla sighed. Though it was not customary to have such conversations with one’s servants, her father’s behavior had made it necessary that she make exceptions if she did not wish certain rumors activated regarding his mental health. “Mr. Charles,” she said, “sees Papa once a year. He writes for an appointment, stays twenty minutes, and then leaves again, usually redder of face and diminished in spirit.”

Elsie went away shaking her head, and Sybilla closed the pianoforte and went to speak to Sir Mortimer’s cook. These little contretemps cropped up every day, and she had become most adept at handling them. Better than anyone else. How anyone—naming no names—could think the house in Royal Crescent could run without her, goodness only knew.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING SYBILLA
was in the little ground-floor office she used to tend to household matters, engaged with Mrs. Hammersmyth, her father’s plump, amiable housekeeper, when her footman entered to announce the arrival of a visitor.

“Mr. Beak, m’lady.”

“Mr. Beak?” Sybilla raised her eyebrows. “I do not know a Mr. Beak, Robert.”

“From Haviland’s Bank, he says, m’lady.”

The housekeeper clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Sir Mortimer deals with Mr. Haviland himself, Robert, as you ought to know if you’d a lick of sense. And he deals with him through the post, never in person.”

Sybilla smiled, taking pity on the young footman. “Never mind, Robert. Show Mr. Beak to the library. I’ll see him there. Mrs. Hammersmyth, we can go over these linen inventories later.”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Sybilla, but I can attend to them myself, if you like. There’s naught here but lists of what’s been done and what’s to be done.” She didn’t add that she could attend to the business better without interference from her mistress, but Sybilla recognized the tone.

She smiled ruefully. “You do as you think best today, Mrs. Hammersmyth. After all the years you’ve served this house, you must sometimes think it a nuisance to have to discuss all these daily details with me.”

“No, my lady. I know my place. Not that I won’t admit that things would sometimes run smoother if it were not necessary to describe—before and after the fact, as it were—every fold of a sheet and every sliver of larding in a fowl.”

“But if I did not keep my hand in,” Sybilla said with a broader smile, “I should become dreadfully lazy, you know, and then the day will come when it will become obvious to one and all that I have begun shirking my duties.” It would not be tactful, she knew, to point out that if she did not have the details of running the house firmly fixed in her head, when crises arose she would not be able to handle them efficiently. “But here I am gossiping while poor Mr. Beak awaits my pleasure. I wonder what he can want. I do hope Papa has not outrun the constable.”

Mrs. Hammersmyth looked shocked—as well she might, Sybilla thought, hiding a smile. Rising and shaking out the skirts of her light-blue morning frock, she left the office and hurried up the service stair, pausing before the pier glass on the landing only long enough to smooth her hair before walking at a more ladylike pace along to the library, where Mr. Beak awaited her.

The library was her favorite room. Its windows, overlooking the street, were draped in velvet the color of ripe peaches. The walls, which were trimmed with painted white molding, were a shade lighter and the Axminster carpet several shades darker. Mr. Beak stood in the center of the carpet, regarding the magnificent Chippendale mahogany bureau bookcase that filled the greater portion of the wall opposite the carved white marble fireplace.

He proved to be a small man with wisps of brown hair clinging to his balding pate, and a double chin rising above his stiffly starched neckcloth. His dark coat and cream-colored breeches fitted him so snugly that they looked more like sausage casings than a proper suit of clothes, and his tall neckcloth made it necessary for him to hold his head higher than was natural as he turned and hurried forward to greet her.

“Lady Ramsbury, I am sorry to have disturbed you. “His voice was high and his manner fussy, and he went on without giving her an opportunity to reply, “I made it perfectly plain to your footman that my business is with Sir Mortimer, so I cannot think what he was about to insist upon sending for you.”

Realizing at once that she would deal better with Mr. Beak from a position he would recognize as one of authority, Sybilla moved to the desk, saying nothing until she had seated herself. Then, gesturing toward one of the straight-backed chairs, she said with gentle dignity, “Do be seated, Mr. Beak. Surely, Mr. Haviland must have told you that my father does not see people.”

“Mr. Haviland has been ill,” he said, taking his seat with finicky care, “and his doctors insist that he remain away from the bank until he is fully recovered.”

“I see. Is there some trouble with my father’s account?”

“Trouble?” He blinked at her. “Certainly not, ma’am. Haviland’s Bank never has trouble with its customers’ accounts.”

“Then …”

“Please, Lady Ramsbury, I cannot discuss your father’s business with you. To do so would be most improper. You will not tell me, I hope, that Mr. Haviland ever did so.

“No,” Sybilla admitted. “Mr. Haviland wrote letters to my father, and my father replied by the same means.”

“Well, I cannot see my way clear to entrusting the post with the sort of things I wish to discuss with him,” Mr. Beak said in his fussiest manner. “One’s finances are private matters, after all, and although I am frequently assured that the post is entirely to be trusted, I simply cannot do so. As soon as I do, the letter will fall into the wrong hands or be lost altogether.”

“Surely not a letter traveling no farther than across the city of Bath,” Sybilla said, amused.

“Perhaps not. But a precedent once set, you know, leads to other things. First across Bath, then across England, then no doubt, across the world. Although, of course, one cannot travel across the world merely to ask or answer a question or two.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. Nonetheless, I suggest that you write to my father. Surely, one letter …”

“I cannot undertake so great a responsibility, ma’am. I fear I must insist upon seeing Sir Mortimer and receiving his instructions in person. There is a matter of grave importance at stake, you see.”

“No, I don’t, but I suppose if you won’t explain, you won’t.” Sybilla paused hopefully, but he only stared at her, so she sighed and said, “Very well, Mr. Beak, I will see if I can arrange for him to see you. What day will be convenient?”

“Day? Why today, ma’am. I am here.”

“So you are. But I am very nearly certain he will not agree to see you today. He will require time to get used to the idea.”

“Used to the idea!” Mr. Beak’s pale blue eyes threatened to pop from his head. “Used to the idea? Why there are eighty thou—” He broke off, swallowing, then yanked a white handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his face, saying through his teeth, “Madam, I must insist that you tell Sir Mortimer I am here. The matter is one that must not await his pleasure. I am not to be put off, I tell you.”

“So you do.” Sybilla regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment, but he was able now to return her gaze steadily. Deciding that short of having him ejected from the house there was nothing she could do but attempt to comply with his wishes, she stood and moved to pull the bell.

Her footman entered some few minutes later. “M’lady?”

“Find Borland, Robert, and tell him I wish to speak with him at once. Borland,” she added for the banker’s benefit, “is my father’s manservant.”

“Borland has gone for the day, m’lady. Said Sir Mortimer told him to”—Robert flicked a glance at Mr. Beak, who had got to his feet when Sybilla stood, and visibly altered what he had been about to say—“to take a brief holiday. Said he’d earned one and meant to stay away a full day and let the old—” Breaking off hastily, Robert looked apologetic.

“Yes, I see.” Sybilla bit her lip. “Very well, Robert, since he is not here to attend to the matter, you may take Mr. Beak up to Sir Mortimer, if you please.”

Robert stared at her, his mouth agape. When he found his voice, he swallowed and said firmly, “If it please your ladyship, I’d rather not do any such thing.”

“You did hear me quite clearly, did you not, Robert?” Sybilla spoke sternly.

“Yes, m’lady, I heard you well enough, but I’d as lief not have a boot or a book, or even a poker, thrown at my head, or lose my place, which is what happened to the last footman who dared to intrude on the master, if you will but recall.”

“Very true,” Sybilla said. “It was thoughtless of me to have forgotten that, Robert. I should be very much displeased if you were to lose your position here.”

“Thank you, m’lady.”

“I shall take Mr. Beak up myself.”

“My lady!”

“Come along, Mr. Beak. I hope you do not mind climbing a few more stairs. My father’s apartments are on the top floor of the house. He will not come down to you.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, it is no trouble,” he said, moving swiftly to follow her out the door, leaving Robert to stare after them. “How very odd,” Beak panted a few moments later, for the stairs to the top floor were steeper than those leading from the ground floor and Sybilla moved up them at her customary, rapid pace. “I should have expected to find only servants’ rooms at the top of these houses.”

“Oh, no, the servants’ rooms are mostly in the basement near the kitchen. Father had this floor rearranged to suit his own requirements.” Sybilla’s heart was beating quickly now, and she told herself it was because she had mounted the stairs too rapidly, but she knew it had more to do with the forthcoming confrontation. She rarely saw her father, and when she did, the meetings were not pleasant. She approached the door to his study now with grim determination. “I hope you are prepared to be offended, Mr. Beak.”

He smiled at her. “I daresay he will not be displeased to see me, my lady. I do not bring bad news, you know.”

“That will not signify.” She tapped on the door and opened it before the occupant had time to deny her, saying hastily, “Father, I have brought Mr. Beak from Haviland’s Bank to see you on a matter of importance.”

Sir Mortimer, a stoop-shouldered gray-haired man with steel-rimmed spectacles perched upon his large, bony nose, looked up from the papers on his huge desk the moment the door opened, the expression on his pale, craggy face one of pop-eyed outrage. His eyes, startling blue, blazed with fury, and when he saw who it was, he flung down his quill and cried out in thundering tones, “What are you doing here, girl? It is expressly forbidden. Get out or I’ll have Borland throw you out!”

“Borland has gone out,” Sybilla reminded him gently.

“Well, he’s no business to be going out! Now, go away!”

Mr. Beak stepped past her and said ingratiatingly, “If it please you, Sir Mortimer, I require instructions from you in a matter of great importance.”

“Wench said Haviland’s Bank, so where’s Haviland?” demanded Sir Mortimer in great agitation. “What do you want here, man? What can you want with me?”

“Sir,” said Mr. Beak, moving even closer to the desk, “I thought it proper to wait upon you, as we now have a very large balance of yours in hand—eighty thousand pounds, in fact—and we wish to have your orders respecting it.”

“If it is any trouble to you,” Sir Mortimer snarled, “I will take it out of your hands. Did not Haviland tell you never to come here to plague me? Who the devil are you, anyway?”

“I am Stanford Beak, at your service, sir, and I tell you at once, your money is not the least trouble to us, not the least. But we thought perhaps you would like some of the more recent unexpended income to be invested.”

“Well, well, what do you want to do with it?”

“Perhaps you would like forty thousand pounds invested,” Mr. Beak said, standing his ground. “Keeping forty thousand in available funds ought to suffice for the moment, I should think. I must tell you I have looked over your records of expenditure for the past several years, and I cannot find any cause for keeping a greater amount on hand than that. Even that, by most people, would be considered—”

“I do not care a jot about most people,” Sir Mortimer snapped, “nor do I wish to hear your bleating. Is that all?”

“Well, p-perhaps—”

“No more perhapses, man. You are not welcome here. Tell that idiot Haviland—”

“Mr. Haviland has b-been ill—”

“More fool, he. You remind him that I don’t see people, and you take yourself off now and do whatever you like about the forty thousand. But if you come here again to trouble me about it, I shall remove it. At once! Do you understand me, you insignificant little nib-scuffer?”

“Indeed, sir, thank you, sir.” Bobbing, Mr. Beak turned, crimson of face, handkerchief in hand, already wiping his dripping brow as he stumbled toward Sybilla, who held the door open for him.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said quietly as she followed the banker. A rumbling growl was the only response.

With the door safely shut, Mr. Beak regarded her limply. “I had no idea,” he said.

“Oh, you did very well, sir. You still seem to have most of your wits about you, in any case, but you will confess now that I did not lead you amiss. ’Tis fortunate for us both that he was in such excellent spirits today.”

“Excellent?” Mr. Beak’s voice was weak with disbelief.

Sybilla grinned at him. “I assure you. He would otherwise have had you ejected from the house without speaking so much as a syllable to you.”

Mr. Beak said not another word, and out of consideration for his confusion, Sybilla walked all the way downstairs with him rather than returning to the drawing room or library and ringing for her footman to show him out. She was rewarded for this extraordinary courtesy by the dubious pleasure of encountering Lady Lucretia Calverton and the Earl of Ramsbury on the point of entering the downstairs hall.