Amanda Scott (13 page)

“Yes, miss.”

Mag hurried in a few minutes later, carrying a bright green garment over her arm. Pushing the door shut behind her, she held up the garment, saying, “This will keep you warm after your bath, miss. Much better than that silk thing. Lawks-a-mussy, but this wool is as soft as can be.”

“But where are my clothes?”

“This be another of her ladyship’s robes, miss, which that Lucy said you was to wear after your bath. I’ll just put it here on the dressing chair. Lawks-a-mussy, but this be a well-run house, miss. Servants everywhere! Now, I’ll just move this screen out, so’s we can put it round the tub when it comes. Then I’ll stir up yon fire.”

Noting that Mag was talking faster than ever before and seemed reluctant to meet her gaze, Melissa said, “Mag, what’s amiss? Where is his lordship?”

Mag looked surprised. “Why, he’s gone a-looking for Mr. Oliver, miss. That be his brother, down from Oxford, and a rare limb of Satan by what’s said of him in the hall. Seems his lordship done told Mr. Figmore—that be the porter, miss—that Mr. Oliver wasn’t to leave the house afore he spoke to him. But Mr. Oliver said as how he didn’t have nothing to say to his lordship, and so—”

“I see,” Melissa said, cutting off the flow. She was not surprised to discover that Mag had learned so much in her short time at Barrington House, for she was well aware that the servants in any great house knew as much as the family, if not more. But she knew she ought not to quiz Mag about Vexford’s family. Her gaze fell upon the green wool dressing gown on the dressing chair, and she said, “But surely, in such a well-run house, my dress and other things ought to have been cleaned by now.”

Again Mag avoided her gaze, saying, “Well, that they ought, miss, but looks as if they ain’t now, don’t it?”

“Mag, look at me.”

Mag bit her lip, then looked remarkably relieved when a rap sounded on the door, and a male voice said, “Your tub and bath water, miss.”

“Miss, quick, behind the screen. You ain’t wearing nearly enough to be seen by no menservants.”

Melissa obeyed but waited only until the tub was in place and the men had gone before stepping out and saying sternly, “Now, Mag, without more roundaboutation, where are my clothes?”

Mag looked as if she might prevaricate, but then she said with a sigh, “Well, I knew I ought to tell you, but he said to keep it mum if we could, so I tried, but lawks-a-mussy, miss, they’s your clothes when all is said and done.”

“Perfectly correct. Where are they?”

“I don’t rightly know. His lordship told that Lucy girl she wasn’t to give them to you till he gets back from wherever it is that he’s gone to. Said you wasn’t accustomed to town ways and might try to go out and about on your own without proper protection. Said it would be as well to let you stay in your bedchamber for the time, and so you’re to have your supper served to you here as soon as you’ve had your bath.”

“Oh, am I?” Melissa resisted a nearly overwhelming urge to tell Mag exactly what she thought of his lordship’s tactics.

Mag did not seem to think Melissa’s comment required a response, for she busied herself stirring crushed lavender into the warm water. Melissa could smell it, and the scent calmed her outrage. “Where did that come from?”

“Lucy said his lordship give it to her, miss.”

“Oh, did he?” He had chosen well, for it was her favorite scent, but she wondered how he happened to have some at hand. Mag took the flowery silk robe, and Melissa got into the tub and slipped down in it, relaxing, enjoying the sensation of warmth spreading through her body. Taking the bar of French milled soap Mag handed her, she lathered herself, letting her thoughts take their course. By the time Mag had washed her hair and wrapped it in a cotton towel, Melissa had decided she had nothing to fear from a man who thought of details like lavender bath water and French milled soap. By the time she stood to let Mag pour rinse water over her, she had made up her mind not to let the arrogant Vexford believe for a moment longer than necessary that she would submit quietly to his dictation.

“Tell me, Mag,” she said, as she stepped out of the tub, “do you happen to know where his lordship’s room is to be found?”

“Aye, miss, for Lucy showed me about. She’s kind, is that Lucy. I want to be as good as her, and maybe work in a great house one day. She said she come from an orphanage, she did, and begun as under-housemaid down at Owlcastle, which is the earl’s big house in the country.”

Only half-listening to her, Melissa said, “Where is it?”

“In Hampshire, I think she said.”

“Not Owlcastle,” Melissa said, keeping her patience. “His lordship’s room.”

“Oh, the big corner one’s his bedchamber, miss,” Lucy said. His dressing room and Mr. Lisset’s room be the next ones after the turning, and the earl and his lady be in the southwest wing. Mr. Oliver—”

“Then his lordship’s rooms overlook that courtyard out there,” Melissa said, with satisfaction.

“Aye, miss.”

“And Mr. Lisset? I suppose he must be in the servants’ hall, having his dinner.”

“Oh, no, miss. That is, he wouldn’t be, because Lucy said Mr. Lisset takes his meals in the housekeeper’s room with Mr. and Mrs. Preston—them’s Lord Ulcombe’s butler and housekeeper—and Mrs. Gretton, which is her ladyship’s dresser, and Mr. Plenmeller, which is Lord Ulcombe’s ditto. But Mr. Lisset has gone out, Lucy said, on account of his lordship said he wouldn’t be home most likely till long after midnight, and wouldn’t need Mr. Lisset when he did get home.” Mag looked at her curiously, as if something in Melissa’s tone had given her thoughts away.

Melissa smiled innocently back and said, “We must dry my hair quickly, Mag. Time is flying by, and my supper will be ready soon.”

“Aye, miss.”

Melissa thought about confiding her intentions but decided not to, fearing that Vexford might punish Mag—if the girl would even agree to help her. She could not be sure Mag would, for she seemed to have come to the belief, ill founded though it was, that Vexford was some sort of god who had whisked her to London and was going to whisk her back to the north again, doubtless with her pockets generously filled.

Mag was still brushing Melissa’s hair dry before the fire when Lucy entered and began setting a table for supper. The meal arrived soon afterward, and Melissa insisted that Mag run off with Lucy to enjoy her own dinner.

“I shall do very well alone,” she said. “I see books on the table by the door, so after my supper, I shall take one to read by the fire. I shan’t even need you to put me to bed, for there is practically nothing left to be done.”

Lucy said, “Just you ring when you want someone to collect them dishes, miss.”

The moment they had gone, however, Melissa put down her fork, pushed the table away, and hurried to the door. Peeping both ways down the corridor, she was delighted to find it unoccupied. She was even more pleased, a few moments later, to find both his lordship’s bedchamber and his dressing room in a like condition.

Nick was not in a pleasant mood by ten o’clock, when he entered the main subscription room at the Billingsgate Club. Having discovered that the ladies residing in St. Merryn House had gone out before four and were not expected back until the small hours, he had left a message saying he would call at eleven the next morning, and had gone looking for his brother. So far his search had been unsuccessful.

He had already visited Mr. Crockford’s establishment in Bolton Row, where he had dined with a friend. Then he had gone on to various and sundry other places that enjoyed a popular reputation similar to Crockford’s. He had not gone to White’s Club or Brooks’s, for although he knew his brother could gain entrance at either of those esteemed gentleman’s clubs, he did not think either would attract him. For that same reason, he had not sought him at the Billingsgate until he had looked into every hell he could think of, for he knew from his own brief acquaintance with the place that the play was high and the atmosphere generally more dignified than Crockford’s. One visit, in his opinion, should have warned his brother that the stakes were too rich for his pocket.

Most of the houses he visited had proved thin of company, since most of the sporting men were still in Newmarket. Thanks to carrier pigeons taken to Newmarket for the express purpose of returning with such news, he knew that Florrie had lost his race to Wilson’s colt, just as Drax had predicted. That disappointment, coupled with increasing displeasure toward his brother, must have shown in his expression, for when he encountered an acquaintance just inside the subscription room, the man exclaimed, “Good Lord, Nick, I hope I’m not the one who’s stirred that damned temper of yours.”

Nick blinked, then smiled ruefully and held out his hand. “Evening, Mereworth. Do I look like thunder?”

“Worse than that. Who’s put you out of temper?”

“My own ill luck,” Nick said with another smile. “I had to come back to town, so I missed today’s heats. Had one running, and just learned he didn’t place. Got another one running in the King’s Plate on Friday though. You haven’t seen Oliver about, have you?”

Mereworth nodded toward the far side of the room. “Young fool’s yonder, at the hazard table. Hope you don’t object to me calling him a fool.”

“Not in the least. Playing deep?”

“Like the son of a nabob. Not that Ulcombe can’t stand the nonsense, but if he were my son …” Tactfully, he added, “Not my affair, of course.”

Nick made no reply to that, merely thanking him and turning to make his way across the room. He went slowly, not wanting to be obvious about looking for Oliver. Pausing twice to speak with acquaintances, he came at last to the table his brother graced and observed the play for a time without drawing Oliver’s notice.

The younger man’s attention was riveted on the dice. He was not as tall or broad-shouldered as Nick, nor was his hair as dark, but his eyes were as deeply blue. Their expression was generally merry rather than serious or stern, like Nick’s, but he was not smiling now. And, although he generally favored high fashion and a natty appearance, his neckcloth was crumpled and he looked a little worn around the edges.

Nick soon saw that Oliver was losing. His losses did not appear to be enormous, but they were significant, and when he recklessly pushed a pile of notes out onto the table, crying, “I’ll cover that if it breaks me,” Nick muttered an epithet to himself.

When the caster threw out, Oliver turned to the man next to him and said, “I say, Freddy, will you frank me for the next cast? It’s bound to be a winner. Dash it all, they can’t come up crabs again, now can they?”

“Oliver,” Nick said gently, “can you spare me a moment just now?”

Oliver jumped, and turned so sharply that he must have disarranged his neckcloth altogether, for he reached up to tug at it. His face was pale, but he said with forced cheerfulness, “That you, Nick? Thought you were in Newmarket.”

“Did you, indeed?” Nick nodded to the other five gentlemen at the table.

The groom-porter said, “Will you cover the stake, my lord?”

“No, thank you,” Nick said. “Oliver?”

Oliver opened his mouth as if to disclaim any intention of leaving the table, but when Nick caught his gaze and held it, the younger man said, “Oh, very well, if you wish it, but your timing is dashed inconvenient. Just look at that stake!”

“Yes, but I have not seen you in some time, you know. Humor me.”

He had kept his voice calm, but he could tell that his brother was not deceived. As they left the subscription room, Nick urged him toward the stairway to the entrance hall, but Oliver dug in his heels. He said brusquely, “I suppose you are out of sorts because I didn’t hang around at home to talk with you but came out for a lark instead.”

“I am out of sorts, my dear fellow, because my horse lost its race today and I have searched this town high and low for you. You ought to have had the courtesy at least to leave word where I might find you. Avoiding me, Ollie?”

Oliver looked at him from under his eyebrows and said gruffly, “I don’t need a nursemaid. I know you think you’re top of the trees, Nick, and that I ought to cling to your coattails until I’m up to snuff, but I’ve friends of my own, and I want to go my own way.”

“Certainly.” Nick grasped his elbow and drew him into an alcove where they might be assured of some moments of privacy. Then in an undertone, he said sternly, “You’ll go your way, my lad, straight out of this place.”

“Well, it may not be Brooks’s,” Oliver began defensively, “but—”

“You can’t afford Brooks’s, either,” Nick snapped, “but this isn’t even Crockford’s, although I hear you enjoy playing hazard there, too.”

“Rigger says Crockford’s and the Billingsgate know how to treat a chap, and by Jove, I’ve seen that for myself. If I were to go into Brooks’s or White’s, Father’s friends, or yours, would be looking over my shoulder, advising me and warning me at every turn, worrying about how much I’m wagering. Well, Rigger told me—”

“Who the devil is this Rigger?”

“A friend from school. He’s—”

“He’s giving you damned bad advice, Ollie. Now come away from here at once, and go home where you belong, or—”

“Or what, Nick? You’ll tell my father? By Jove, I almost wish you would. He’d give you what for. He told me himself he was glad I’d be getting a bit of town bronze this Season, and dashed if I don’t mean to do just that.”

“As I recall, he has also told you he is tired of paying for your excesses. He certainly does not mean for you to lose a fortune at the tables.”

“Oh, I don’t lose all the time. I’m much more fortunate with cards than with the ivories. I just thought I’d have a go at the Billingsgate hazard bank because Rigger said I’d enjoy myself, and I did. I won quite a lot at first, too, and so—”

“Of course you did. That’s how they entice you to stay, and to wager more and more until you’ve lost all you’ve got. Now, you listen to me, Ollie. …” For the next several minutes Nick spoke to some purpose, his words bringing deep color to his brother’s face and a sulky look to his mouth, but Oliver did not make the mistake of attempting to interrupt him.

When he finished, Oliver glared at him, then said, “You needn’t think you can order me about, Nick, for you can’t. I know your temper scares everyone else to death, but I don’t dance to your piping. It won’t do the least good to look like you want to murder me, either, for I know you won’t. Of course, if you are thinking you can knock me down, well, I know you can, but I doubt if you want to drag my limp body back to Barrington House. Even if you do, I’ll just come back again tomorrow. I’m not a child anymore, and I’m dashed well old enough to set my own course.”