Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (5 page)

Wilhelmina watched her closely. ‘I hope, miss, that you are not one to gobble your food in an unbecoming manner.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘And are you content with cook’s suggestions?’

Araminta stared at the cook’s inelegant scrawl covering the pages. ‘They look quite ordinary.’

‘Ordinary they may be but I consider them excessive. It would be no bad thing if the dishes were fewer and somewhat lighter.’ She lifted the pencil. ‘We will reduce them to a more modest quota.’ The pencil scored through almost half of each day’s offerings.

‘Now,’ she said, laying the pencil down. ‘I found a pale green spencer among your things. I have a gown of light blue dimity. Not completely new but we are almost of a height so it will serve for now. I have had your maid press them so they look acceptable.’

Araminta drew a quick breath in. Not only had the woman had been sorting through her things – again – she was expecting her to wear one of her hand-me-downs. Fury bubble inside her. It showed in a flash of her eyes. Her father would have reached for his storm coat.

Wilhelmina ignored the tense jaw and sparkling eyes. ‘If you change into them I will summon the barouche. We will take the afternoon air in the Park.’

Araminta hammered down the resentment expanding inside her. A drive would be marvellous. There would be new sights to see. Better still, it would spare her another moment shut in this house with her tormentor. Marching heavy-footed up the stairs, she decided there was not a single thing they had in common. Especially not blue dimity gowns.

Several minutes later she was looking at her father’s shiny barouche with a smile on her face. The sun was warm, the skies were blue and Rotten Row was waiting. The very things to please her spirits. Not even the repressive company or hateful pale clothes could change that.

‘It is a shame,’ Miss Orksville said. ‘That the carriage is so obviously new. Never mind.’ She examined the pair of matched bays. ‘The horses should attract attention away from it. Your Papa did well to find them.’

‘Oh,’ Araminta stared, amazed at such a comment from one so concerned with boring clothes and books on heads.

Wilhelmina continued. ‘It is not usual for a lady to consider horseflesh but I see no reason why it should be so. Horses are a major part of life and knowledge of them can only be an advantage. Not . . .’ she continued, opening her parasol, ‘that one would ever dream of expressing views contrary to a gentleman’s. They all like to consider themselves experts. Especially if they are not.’

‘Oh,’ Araminta repeated. She turned from examining the thin face to look at the creatures harnessed before her. They were magnificent specimens. The sun burnished their coats to gleaming chestnut. There was no denying her father had an eye for horseflesh. ‘I hope Pa – papa is as good with the one he’s promised me.’

Back rigid, Wilhelmina approached the barouche. The coachman, a sturdy man sat on the box. The reins lay loosely in hands like dinner plates but were surprisingly long fingered. A dark-haired footman sat beside him, arms folded.

‘What is your name?’ Wilhelmina ignored the footman.

‘Pilton, ma’am.’ He knuckled his forehead. ‘You’ll be safe with me, ma’am. Been driving nigh on twenty years.’

‘Very well, Pilton. We will go to the Row. Take the north exit from the Square. On no account shall we venture into St James’s Street.’

‘Why ever not?’ Araminta asked. ‘I’ve heard there are some elegant shops there.’

‘There are but there are also a large number of establishments you would not wish to enter.’

‘Papa is opening an establishment. In Bond Street.’

‘And well he might but it will not be the sort that’s frequented by gentlemen in St James Street. Most unsavoury.’

Wilhelmina settled herself in the barouche. She directed her attention to Araminta arranging the blue dimity skirts beside her. ‘We shall pass some examples of the most excellent architecture. You must learn to appreciate such things.’ She angled her parasol until it shaded her face. ‘Be sure to keep your eyes to the front. Do not look about you at all unless I am indicating a point of interest. And once we reach the park, keep your parasol tilted to the side so your face is hidden. At least from that direction. I shall point mine to the opposite side.’

Araminta opened her mouth to protest but Pilton flicked the reins and the barouche lurched on its springs. Caught with her parasol half extended one of its spokes trapped itself in the silk roses on her bonnet. Muttering under her breath, she extracted the tip and raised it and its fellows clear of her head.

The carriage moved off to the north. ‘Oh look.’ She pointed to a house on the corner. Several people were entering or leaving. ‘Whoever lives there must be popular.’

‘That is Mr Wedgewood’s showroom. His china is really quite elegant.’

Araminta squinted through the windows. ‘I must take Pa – Papa there. He likes to see the competition.’

Wilhelmina sniffed. ‘It would be as well to avoid mention of Mr Neave’s profession if at all possible. Not, of course, that you should deny it. Or think it unworthy but there is a certain . . . disapproval of Trade in the upper echelons.’

‘I don’t see why.’ Araminta’s colour heightened. ‘It’s the
upper
echelons
who buy Pa’s things.’ She stared ahead in angry silence as Pilton drove them along Duke of York Street and across Jermyn Street.

Her mood broke when they turned left into Piccadilly. The street looked chaotic. Mail coaches arrived and left. Carriages of all shapes and sizes swerved and braked. Wheels clattered. Horses whinnied. Drivers called or cursed. Street hawkers sang out their wares. Pedestrians of all degrees jostled on the pavements. Many spilled into the danger of the street.

Araminta watched amazed. ‘This is almost as bad as India.’

Pilton guided the barouche carefully through the tumult. It soon reached Hatchard’s bookshop. Araminta craned her neck to see over the crowd’s heads. ‘Books. Excellent. And so close. I’ll visit there for certain. And there.’ She pointed at Fortnum and Mason’s windows. ‘I’m sure Papa knows it well.’

Such was the noise, Wilhelmina barely caught her words. She was obliged to raise her voice. ‘Indeed, but pray look at Burlington House.’ She pointed to a much-decorated building on the right hand side ‘It has a certain elegance but I find it over-elaborate. I prefer Devonshire House which we will pass later. A far superior example of Palladian elegance.’ The barouche rolled on. Wilhelmina pointed ahead. ‘There, look.’

Araminta looked with minimal interest. The mayhem outside the Old White Horse Cellar where the West Country coaches arrived or departed was far more entertaining.

Beyond Devonshire House, the buildings on the left came to a halt.

‘Queen’s Walk.’ Wilhelmina indicated a promenade at the beginning of lush sward. ‘And this is Green Park.’

Small groups of cows ambled across the grass followed by herdsmen and milkmaids. A flushed-looking girl, her shoulders slung with a wooden yoke from which swung two full pails, took careful steps out of the park. She paused to watch the barouche pass. Araminta coloured and looked away. Pangs of sympathy struck her heart. Her good fortune was as hard to bear here as it had been in India. Like there, there was very little she could change.

She looked along the road. Her compassion lifted and her breathing quickened. She had heard of Rotten Row – who had not? – but had never seen it. When her phaeton was ready she could realise her ambition to drive herself along it. Thank goodness Pa had seen her taught to drive in India.

Pilton tensed the right rein. They were drawing closer.

The horses turned past Aspley House.

Araminta’s twisted to see round Pilton’s substantial figure. Her parasol tilted backwards.

Hyde Park lay directly ahead.

‘Now that,’ said Wilhelmina Orksville, ‘is the house that Sir Arthur’s brother, Marquess Wellesley, purchased last year.’

‘What?’ Araminta had her eyes firmly on the Park’s entrance.

‘The Marquess Wellesley. The former Governor-General of India. Until three years ago.’ She scowled. ‘Mr Neave will no doubt of heard of him. I’m sure he mentioned to me that Sir Arthur had said how grateful they were for Mr Neave’s reliability in shipping the army’s supplies.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Araminta barely answered. The carriage drew to the brink of the Park. She held her breath.

Casting a dissatisfied eye over her charge, Wilhelmina Orksville whispered, ‘Remember what I said.’

‘What? Oh, of course.’ The wavering parasol slanted to the side. She clasped it tightly with both hands and strained to see the length of the promenade. The entrance was scarcely less busy than Piccadilly. The carriage ahead of them crunched forward onto the mixture of gravel and tan covering the ground. The space cleared. Pilton flicked the reins.

Araminta entered Rotten Row.

She sighed and sat back.

The drive was wide. Some seventy to eighty feet. Several carriages and horses could easily pass at once. Just as well, since most of the
ton
still present in Town seemed intent on enjoying an unexpectedly balmy afternoon.

Pilton guided the barouche through the fray. Occasionally a rider pressed so close to the barouche he almost brushed Araminta’s concealing parasol. Puzzled frowns appeared faces. The whole reason for visiting the Row was to be seen, to be recognised, to be appreciated. Even those who were not of the
ton
and who therefore crowded along the pathways separated from the Row by wooden rails, muttered and tried to guess who it was in the shiny barouche.

By the time they had gained the far end, puzzlement was widespread. Who was the young woman who seemed determined to remain incognita? Who was the woman beside her? Those who recognised Wilhelmina Orksville were even more intrigued. They mentally trawled through her family members trying to identify the titan-headed girl who kept her face modestly averted. Whoever she was, her identity would be well worth knowing. More than one of them resolved to discover it. Particularly a dark man lounging in an oncoming carriage and paying scant attention to the chatter of the overblown lady sitting opposite.

Chapter Five

T
he same time that Araminta was exciting speculation in the curious in Rotten Row, her father was arriving at Tattersalls hallowed portals.

Alighting from the hackney he returned the loose coins left over from paying the jarvey into a coin purse. The driver looked after him with regret. His appearance and destination had suggested a decent tip but he had only received the agreed fare. He shrugged his shoulders at the two shabby men lounging by the entrance, flicked the reins along the back of his tired nag and drove off.

The two men directed their attention towards Archibald.

‘Nah,’ one of them said. ‘Too tight for us.’

Archibald tugged his waistcoat down and went inside to the large cobbled courtyard. The noise and smell were impressive. Men of all degrees thronged the square arena. Some stood in groups in the shade of the colonnade that ran around it. One pair sat on the steps of the small, central cupola. In the far corner the auctioneer stood on a box, all the better to see the bidders.

It was easy to tell the buyers from those who were merely spectators. Buyers eyed each horse as it was trotted in by the grooms. They examined its hooves, teeth and fetlocks and ran a hand over its shoulders and flanks. Those who were not buying glanced, pointed perhaps, and then resumed their gossiping.

The current interest was a pretty chestnut mare with a fine neck and flowing tail. Her groom walked her round to show off her movement. A pair of small dogs ran from their owner and snapped at her legs. She reared, hooves flying. The groom hung onto her bridle with both hands until the wild-eyed creature settled under his soothing words. The nearest dog yelped when a surreptitious kick landed on its ribs. A laugh or two broke from the general chatter.

Archibald strolled into the shade of the colonnade and waited. The mare was soon sold. So were the sorrel and a couple of chestnut hunters that followed it. None of them tempted him to part with his money. His interest quickened when a fully black stallion was led in. He moved from behind a group of four gossiping men in frock coats and tall hats to have a better view. The horse, though exceptional of shoulder and limb, was disappointing of head. He let it pass.

Almost the last entrance of the day brought a light to his eyes. The creature was practically pure white. He watched it walk round. The hindquarters were powerful, too powerful for the average lady’s mount but it would cause Araminta no trouble. Its legs were straight and a good neck supported a spectacular head proudly held. Archibald walked forward. He paused at the horse’s head. A pair of ears pricked and two bright eyes stared down at him. Warm breath whiffled across his face.

‘How old?’ he asked the groom.

‘Just past its second year, your worship.’

‘Do you know its dam and sire?’

‘No sir, that I do not, but it’s lately come from Lord Perlethorpe’s stables. He had an eye for a horse but none for the cards though I shouldn’a say so.’

‘Excuse me.’ A brown-haired young man reached past Archibald and wrapped a hand round the velvet muzzle. With the other he parted the smooth lips and examined the teeth. ‘Hmm,’ he said.

‘It be a fine beast, sir,’ the groom assured him.

‘Walk him round again, if you please,’ the young man said.

He and Archibald watched. A tall man, lately arrived and now lounging against a pillar watched them. His dark eyes switched from the younger to the older man. He folded his arms and waited.

The horse trotted after the running groom with an easy motion. Archibald made up his mind. That was the one for Araminta whatever the cost.

The auctioneer called it forward. The sale began. A grey-haired man of bristly appearance offered the first price. The young man who had examined the animal with Archibald called a higher one. Bidding progressed swiftly back and forth between them, the guineas mounting up. After very few moments the grey-haired man began to falter. Watching him closely, Archibald waited. When the man shook his head and turned away with sadness printed on his face, Archibald raised his hand.

‘New bidder,’ the auctioneer called. Heads swivelled in Archibald’s direction, the brown-haired young man’s among them.

He and Archibald continued to bid until each new offer brought gasps from the crowd. At last the young man shook his head, his faced flushed. He executed a small bow to Archibald. The auctioneer’s gravel descended. The white horse was Araminta’s.

Archibald waded through the crowd to give his name and direction to the auctioneer. ‘I’ll take him now to show my daughter but I assume you’ll stable him for me until I can make arrangements?’

‘With pleasure, sir,’ the auctioneer replied, the extent of his commission on the record bid well in mind.

Archibald handed over his card from his waistcoat pocket and turned for a final inspection of the horse. He patted its flank.

‘Congratulations, sir,’ said a voice behind him. ‘A magnificent animal.’ The young man bowed. ‘Frederick Danver, sir. My address.’ He held out a small square of card. ‘Permit me to say if ever you wish to dispose of him I beg you will grant me the favour of the first consultation.’

Archibald absently tucked the card into his pocket without troubling to read it. ‘I thank you, sir, but I bought him for my daughter. I doubt she will ever wish to part with such a beautiful creature.’

‘Then the young lady is most fortunate, sir, in both her mount and her sire.’ With another bow he prepared to leave.

A touch on his arm prevented him. The dark man who had observed Archibald throughout the proceedings smiled. ‘Won’t you present me to your new friend, Frederick?’

A restrained expression covered the young man’s face. He simmered at the unwonted familiarity with his name but he bowed nevertheless. ‘I have not the pleasure of the gentleman’s acquaintance but if you will permit me, sir,’ he said to Archibald, ‘this is Lucius Renford, fifth Viscount Trelowen.’

The dark man bowed, his face formed into a pleasant smile. ‘Delighted, sir.’

‘Similar, I’m sure.’ Archibald Neave replied, preoccupied with his purchase and ignoring the opportunity to divulge his name to a lord. ‘If you’ll excuse me I must see to the stabling.’ He scurried off.

Viscount Trelowen’s smile faded. ‘Perhaps you will excuse me too, Frederick. No doubt we’ll meet up later.’

He wandered through the departing crowd, seemingly without haste, to the two shabby men still lounging at the entrance. Gazing at nothing in particular and apparently paying no attention to the pair but simply pausing to adjust his cuff, Trelowen said, ‘Short, fat, hideous yellow waistcoat. Tell me where he lives.’ His cuff rearranged, he moved on.

The stabling approved and paid for, Archibald Neave stood by the street, watching for a hackney. A mounted groom, hired for the purpose, waited behind him, holding firmly onto the white horse’s reins. The stallion stood quietly until it took exception to the red dress of a woman in a passing carriage and reared. The groom dragged on the reins, muttering fiercely not quite under his breath.

An empty cab hove into view from among the multitude of carriages coming and going at the Corner’s turnpike. The thin covering of paint barely hid previous owner’s coat of arms on the door panel. Archibald pushed forward and raised his pudgy arm. The jarvey hauled on his reins. The curse he hurled at a phaeton driven far too sharply around him was lost in the general hubbub. The conveyance drew to a halt.

Archibald pulled the door open. ‘Drive on,’ he called, one foot on the step. ‘You,’ he indicated the groom. ‘Be sure to keep up.’

The jarvey took Archibald at his word and pulled smartly away. Taken by surprise, Archibald toppled onto the cracked leather seat.

‘Damn and blast ’im,’ the heavier of the shabby men watching grumbled. ‘Get after ’im, Webb. Quick.’ He encouraged his companion with a sharp shove at his side. He nudged his companion with a sharp elbow. ‘See where ’e goes. I’ll catch you later, at Bella’s.’

The slighter man ran four steps after the cab. The thronging traffic impeded its progress for which he was grateful. Running was not his pleasure. His gratitude died when the traffic eased and he hackney drew quickly away. Too quickly for him to follow with ease. Hurrying after it past several buildings alongside Green Park, he eventually stopped, one hand pressed against his heaving ribs. His panting breath allowed him only a gasping curse.

‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘That’s a sixpence lost.’ Chest still heaving, he chewed a thumbnail. ‘I’ll be cussed if I’m gonna face Trelowen.’ He shuddered. The Viscount had a turn of phrase, despite the invariably soft tone of its delivery, that did not appeal to him at all. ‘Griggsie can do it. I’m not having him venting his spite on me again.’

Griggs muttered balefully about Webb’s desertion in the face of the enemy for the rest of the day. He was still muttering well into the night while he plodded through the darker streets of London towards the gambling hell that Trelowen favoured. A thought lightened his gloom. Webb’s absence would let him to place the failure firmly on Webb’s scrawny shoulders. He hovered in the gloomy shadows outside the hell that evening, practising his excuses.

As the first shafts of dawn brushed the rooftops, the Viscount emerged in company with a young man of flushed appearance and nervous hands.

‘So sorry about your run of luck,’ Trelowen said, steadying his companion as he stumbled up the step of a hackney. ‘Bound to change soon. Try again tomorrow.’

The young man’s face blanched. He shook his head and collapsed onto the seat.

Trelowen shut the door with a narrow smile and watched the cab pull away. Without turning he said, ‘So? Who is he?’

Griggs emerged from the shadow. ‘Dunno, sur. Webb couldn’t keep up. He lost ’im halfway down Piccadilly.’

His lordship allowed his gaze to swim round to the figure shuffling from foot to foot. ‘That is not what I ordered.’

‘No, sur. Sorry, sur.’ Griggs tried to find a positive aspect of the failure. ‘But I don’t reckon as you’d get much there. Not like that young ‘un.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the disappearing hackney. ‘The fat one didn’t look too downy to me. Very sharp with his cash, ‘e was. Kept ‘is change from the jarvey.’

Trelowen’s eyes raked the shabby figure from tangled hair to worn boots. ‘Should I find myself in need of your opinion, I will doubtless let you know.’

His eyes made Griggs shiver. ‘Yes, sur. Sorry, sur.’

Trelowen dismissed him with the wave of a pale hand. Griggs tugged at his forelock and backed away, heading for his favourite drinking house and a mug of ale. And the opportunity to tell Webb just how pleased their sometime-employer had not been.