Mayhem in Bath (3 page)

Dominic sighed unhappily. So fixed was Georgiana upon her ambition, that she’d actually suggested he seek a wife elsewhere. This was hurtful enough, but how much worse it had been when she’d gone so far as to suggest it would be better if he removed to Bath to commence his search for a bride, leaving her to make certain of her duke-to-be. With complete disregard for anyone but herself, she’d written to her second brother, Lord Benjamin Beddem, requesting him to accommodate her unwanted lover in his house in Royal Crescent! She could not have made her wishes more clear, and so Dominic had done as she wanted. What point would there have been in standing his ground? She’d made it abundantly clear that she would never marry him, so he had to get on with his life without her. Besides, he was thirty now, and it was probably time he took a wife. Any wife.

His thoughts were suddenly and very rudely interrupted by a cacophony of squawks, squeals, and grunts. What in God’s own name—? The carriage jolted to a standstill, and he leaned out of the window again. To his horror he saw a walled farmyard even muddier than the lane. At least, he hoped it was mud. A dozen or so enormous fat pigs milled around, and chickens flapped in all directions. The smell was atrocious, and he had to put a handkerchief to his nose.

Grinning broadly. Wrecker Johnson emerged from the farmhouse in his smock, breeches, and stout boots. He was a burly red-faced man, and was barely able to prevent himself from rubbing his hands together in glee as he surveyed Dominic’s fine vehicle and elegant London clothes. “And ‘oo might you be, zur?” he asked.

“Sir Dominic Fortune.”

A title, eh? Oh, this got better by the second. Wrecker beamed at his victim. “You’ll ‘ave to ‘elp me, zur, for ‘twill take both of us to keep the pigs back while your dandy coachman turns your smart ‘quipage.”

Dominic shuddered. Help this yokel with his filthy fat pigs? Dear God above.

Wrecker strode through the quagmire and opened the carriage door. “Down you come, zur, for I can’t do it on my own, not when they’m in such a panic.”

Dominic knew the man was enjoying the situation, but could do little except bow to his wishes. With a resigned sigh, he alighted gingerly, closing his eyes for a moment as his gleaming top boots sank into the mud.

The farmer grinned. “That’s right, zur. Don’t worry now, your pretty footwear won’t be sucked off when you walks. Leastways, I don’t reckon so,” he added doubtfully, as Dominic tried to take a step, then almost lost his balance because the mud gripped so well.

Jeffries did not dare to turn his head. His dismissal loomed ever larger, and he was pondering where he might find a new position as good as this one. Dominic glanced darkly up at him. “I’ll make garters of your intestines for this, Jeffries.”

“Yes, sir,” the coachman replied resignedly.

Dominic returned the handkerchief to his nose as he addressed the farmer. “What do I have to do?” he asked, keeping an eye on the pigs, which seemed more like ferocious wild boars than domestic porkers.

“Most of ‘em seem to have settled for this corner by me, so if you just round up old April and May over there, and bring ‘em over, your flunky will be able to start turning your grand ‘quipage.”

“And what, pray, will
your
contribution be to the proceedings?” Dominic inquired. Playing the appreciative audience, no doubt, he thought.

“Me? Why, I’ll be keeping the rest of my grand bacon calendar quiet,” the fanner replied. “Or mayhap
you ‘d
like to take care of these ten, while I looks after April and May?” he offered then.

When it came to choice between ten or two pigs, the decision was easy. “You stay where you are.”

Wrecker grinned. “A wise decision, zur.”

With the handkerchief keeping only some of the stench at bay, Dominic squelched around the rear of the carriage toward April and May, who were two of the most monumental sows he had ever seen. If ever a man regretted giving in to the impulse to see Cheddar Gorge . . .

The following minutes were some of the most hilarious and entertaining of Wrecker’s waylaying career. He roared with laughter at the sight of a London swell plowing through mud in pursuit of the two recalcitrant pigs. Even Jeffries was hard put not to grin, but Dominic didn’t think it in the least funny. After falling twice and covering himself in mud—as well as ingredients less salubrious— he eventually managed to drive April and May to join their companions. Jeffries immediately began the laborious task of coaxing the nervous team into action again, and in five minutes had the carriage facing the way it had come.

Wrecker managed to control his laughter. “Don’t worry now, zur, for when the mud and sh—” He cleared his throat. “Well, you know what I mean. When it dries, it’ll come off easy enough. Leastways, it
should.”
Dominic gave him a look that would have stopped lesser men in their tracks, but a thin skin wasn’t one of Wrecker’s qualities. “Right then, zur, that’ll be sixpence,” he declared brazenly.

“I
beg
your pardon?” Dominic replied, thinking he must have misheard.

“That’ll be sixpence for the use of my yard and my services,” the farmer repeated.

“If you think I’m going to—”

“Satan? Satan! Come out ‘ere!” shouted Wrecker, and a very large, very black dog immediately emerged from the farmhouse.

As it bared its teeth and growled ominously, Dominic hastily took the necessary money from his pocket and thrust it into the man’s hand. “With such a keen sense of business, you should go far, sir,” he muttered, then clambered back into the carriage. Jeffries urged the horses forward, and the carriage jolted out of the yard back into the lane. Dominic sat on the spotless upholstery, smearing mud and mire everywhere. He stank like the proverbial dung heap, and he doubted if his own mother would recognize him. Damn all farmers, damn Somerset, damn everything!

It seemed an age before the carriage was on firm going again, allowing Jeffries to bring the bedraggled team up to a reasonable trot. As it drove through Horditall, Dominic’s attention was drawn once more to the house where the young woman in blue had been tending the garden. To his relief she was no longer there, and so would not witness the ruination of his splendor. He leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. What an unutterably appalling day this had turned out to be.

If he had continued to look out at Horditall House, he would have seen a bundle of belongings and a large pumpkin on a pole bobbing at the double down the garden path, with Polly in anxious pursuit. On reaching the wall on the road, the bundle and pumpkin were flung amid the luggage at the rear of the carriage, and then there was a thud as something invisible jumped on as well. Dominic’s eyes opened momentarily, as he heard the sound, and Jeffries turned his head, but there was so much luggage that he saw nothing.

The carriage bowled on, and Bodkin made himself as comfortable as he could. Clutching the pumpkin on his lap, for fear it would roll onto the road and be lost, he glowered back at the hamlet as it faded behind. He wrinkled his nose at the farmyard smell pervading the entire vehicle. But what did a foul smell matter? He was going to rescue Nutmeg, and in the process he intended to make the lives of Hordwell Horditall and Lord Benjamin Beddem a misery. He patted the pumpkin. “You’re going to be the best jack-o’-lantern that ever was,” he muttered, envisaging the diabolical face he would carve into it.

Polly gazed unhappily after the carriage, then turned to walk thoughtfully back to the house. Unless Bodkin could somehow be prevailed upon, in his present fury he was capable of causing a great deal of trouble, not only for her uncle and Lord Benjamin, but for anyone else who got in the way. Bath might never be the same again! This last prospect made her halt in horror. Now that she had seen a boggart for the first time, she knew how awful a creature it was. Bodkin had to be stopped. But how? It was clear she had to follow him in her uncle’s second carriage, but she held out no hope of catching up with the arrogant gentleman’s vehicle, which had been moving at a very smart pace when last seen. Uncle Hordwell was too mean to pay for blood horses, so his team would stand no chance of overhauling the four grays, even supposing she was ready to leave immediately. It would be Bath itself before she could prevail upon the boggart-brownie, or indeed upon Uncle Hordwell, who had to mend the situation regarding Nutmeg.

She didn’t relish going to Lord Benjamin’s residence in Royal Crescent, but since it was bound to be Bodkin’s destination, she had no choice. It was out of the question that she should stay there, however, so no matter what her uncle might say, she would lodge at a suitable inn or hotel. She hoped the whole business would be resolved in a short time, and soon she would be back here again.

She hurried inside to issue instructions. It was twenty-five miles to Bath, but she reckoned to be there before nightfall.

Chapter 4

The Bath road descended very gradually from the heights of Horditall. It passed through rich farmland, where cattle and sheep grazed, the fields were plowed for winter, and the orchards were mellow with fruit. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys or hung above gardens where autumn leaves were being burned. The swallows had gone now, and the hedgerows were heavy with rose hips and hawthorn berries, as well as sloes and the ubiquitous wild clematis—known as old man’s beard—that rambled so thick and dusty white at this time of year. It was all very beautiful and tranquil, but Polly was too anxious to draw any enjoyment from the passing scene. There were still twelve miles to go, and the light was already copper and hazy as the sun began to sink.

Sitting impatiently in the slow-moving carriage, she willed the final miles away. She was dressed in an ivory woolen gown, with a three-quarter-length lilac velvet pelisse over it, and her hair was pinned up beneath a lilac velvet jockey bonnet. A long filmy white scarf fell from the back of the bonnet, and her hands were encased in gray kid gloves. Her reticule lay on the seat beside her, together with her volume of
The Castle of Otranto,
intended to make the time pass, but now discarded. She stared out of the window, wondering how far ahead the other carriage was. Almost in Bath, she judged, listening to the slow trot of her team as they negotiated a slight hill.
Oh, hurry, hurry, for I want this to be over with.

Dominic’s carriage was indeed coming toward journey’s end. The sun was setting fast as his carriage bowled down into the Avon valley, and then joined the Bristol turnpike on the outskirts of Bath. The fashionable spa tumbled down the valley sides to the river’s edge, where the tower of the abbey rose in medieval splendor. Row upon row of handsome golden stone houses graced the steep slopes, and as the carriage rattled into the elegant cobbled streets, the oil lamps were already being lit.

Huddled amid the luggage. Bodkin was still in a boggart rage. He was wedged between a trunk and a portmanteau, and was very glad of his thick fur because the autumn evening had grown cold. All the way from Horditall, he had dwelt hard and long about how to exact revenge upon Hordwell and Lord Benjamin; indeed those gentlemen’s ears should have ignited as he imagined all kinds of dire punishment. Oh, they were going to rue the day they took his beloved Nutmeg away!

It should have been a simple matter to drive up to Royal Crescent from the edge of the town, past Marlborough Buildings, but that route was closed because of work on the road, so Jeffries had to continue into the center in order to approach the crescent from the other side. Dominic’s hapless coachman was in better spirits now, for at the fateful signpost east of Horditall, he had been able to point out to Dominic that it had indeed been tampered with. There was no need to wonder who might do such a thing, for a certain farmer’s eagerly outstretched palm was all the evidence required.

Dominic observed Bath’s fine streets and squares, and noticed the preponderance of sedan chairs and bath chairs, as well as gathering groups of torchbearers—universally known as linkboys— whose task it was to light the way through the darkness. Next he became aware of a great number of uniforms. Foremost among these he recognized those of his former hussar regiment, the Duke of York’s Own Light Dragoons, which he’d quit on his father’s sudden death two years ago. What was afoot? he wondered. A review of some sort? A stir of interest crept over him as he hoped the entire regiment was in the vicinity, because if so, he’d be able to call on many of his old friends.

As the carriage progressed through Bath, he had to concede that in spite of his great reluctance to be here at all, the resort was very handsome indeed. But, oh, how much better he would feel if he were in London now, with Georgiana in his arms, his ring on her finger. No woman would ever compare with her. Still, when it came to his marriage bed, he could always
imagine
it was Georgiana he had between the sheets.

His fingers drummed on the window ledge as the carriage swung around Queen Square, where an obelisk graced the railed central garden. Please let his sojourn here be brief, he thought, his fingers pausing a moment as Jeffries maneuvered the team north out of the square toward the Circus. Passing the junction with George Street, he noticed the premises of the renowned pastry cook, Wilhelm Zuder. The illuminated windows displayed a magnificent selection of pastries, cakes, fudge, bonbons, jellies, preserves, honey, and all manner of other sweet delicacies. A queue of ladies, gentlemen, maids, and footmen was waiting at the oak counter, and the portion of the premises that had been turned into a teashop was so crowded that not a single seat was to be had. Bodkin had also seen the pastry cook’s. He feasted boggart eyes upon the treasure hoard of sweet temptation, and his conscience became nonexistent as he resolved to pay Zuder’s a clandestine visit later that night. It was his birthday, and he was going to sample everything on the premises without paying a penny!

The shop fell away behind as the carriage climbed up to the Circus, a fine ring of town houses intersected by three streets, one of which. Brock Street, led directly to the eastern end of Royal Crescent. At last the matchless sweep of Bath’s most desirable address came into view. It was a truly superb sight in the final moments of daylight, a masterpiece of thirty town houses situated above sloping common land with an uninterrupted view across the Avon valley.