Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) (3 page)

Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried after her. He couldn’t let her escape now. But she wasn’t trying to get away. She stood outside his coach waiting for him, an old cloak around her shoulders, back straight and an expectant air on her face. Despite her stillness, her nose twitched. Opening her mouth, Agatha inhaled, and coughed, spluttering and clutching at her cloak.

Henry stopped, his foot coming down hard in a muddy puddle. Despite the stains that covered her attire it was like a scene from the past, his mother laughing herself into a coughing fit by the coach, tapping her feet, whilst his father fiddled around in the hall.

He pulled at his cuffs. “Bags?” he said tersely.

Agatha clutched at her cloak and gasped before letting out a large huff. “The staff took everything. Including my clothes.”

Henry nodded to the tiger, who opened the door for her. The lithe man showed no emotion, although his eyes flicked between Agatha and Henry. Henry shook his head as the tiger jumped back onto the carriage, holding on to the wig that Henry had given him that morning. The waiting maid who had been sitting in the middle of the seat in the carriage shifted to the other side. Agatha seemed to hesitate for an instant, and then, putting a decisive hand out, gathered up her cape and climbed in.

Drawing in a breath, Henry pulled himself in after her and slammed the door shut. The horses leapt into motion even before the door was closed. He studied Agatha as they left her home. She stared resolutely forward at the velvet seats of the coach, neither watching the house through the window nor giving him a second glance. 

Henry drew in a sharp breath. He hated Devon too.

Settling back into the corner, he rested his head against the cushioned side of the carriage and reviewed the scene from the cold bedroom in his mind’s eye. She had nearly killed him, the first person to come close in years. If the pot that she had thrust so forcefully down on his head had been made out of stone instead of soft copper she’d have broken his skull.

He rubbed at his nose. “How did you know I was there?”

Agatha stopped staring at the upholstery and met Henry’s gaze slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

“How did you know I was in the house?”

“The third step on the stairs squeaked and then the sixth step,” she said as she stared back at him. “Why didn’t you knock at the front door?”

Henry frowned. She was far too forward. Ton misses usually waited to be spoken to and certainly did not speak in such assertive tones.

“It was open,” he said shortly. “And it looked as if thieves had broken in. I did not want to disturb them.” Once again she had him on the back foot. “You knew which steps I was on?”

“Hmm yes. Quite an interesting principle really. Water absorbed into a piece of wood will cause it to expand in proportion to the amount poured on it. That will in turn affect how much it rubs against the joists.” Agatha made a tipping motion with her hands. Fumbling under her skirts, she withdrew a small notebook and the stub of a pencil.

Henry nodded. “And hence the different pitch of the wood. I assume you were the one to pour the water on the floorboards?” Good god.

“Exactly. Potato juice actually. Took a very long time.” Agatha frowned and opened the notebook, pencil poised in the air. “If you thought thieves had broken in, how did you know I was there?”

She was
still
asking questions. And what was she expecting to write in her book? An involuntary smile spread slowly across his face. “Oh I knew you were there. I always know where people are. You’ll find that out soon enough when we reach London.”

Agatha closed the notebook with a snap. “Bloody hell,” she said again.

CHAPTER 3

Goodness.
Agatha sighed and counted the hairs on the upholstery for the sixth time that day. It seemed she was never to be rid of overbearing males with high opinions of themselves.

“And one last thing, Miss Beauregard. I would ask you kindly not to use cant phrases in front of my sister. She is easily led and it will not do her any favors.” Henry took a bite of the apple that he held in a large hand and stared at her.

Hmm.  Surely he should have said ‘one first thing.’ After all this was the first time she could remember Henry speaking to her directly in the last three days.

Agatha looked out of the window and sat a little straighter. Each night the coach had stopped at a different inn and they were shown to the grandest rooms. She had bounced, laughing, on the feather beds. It was obvious the maid had never seen such behavior before. It seemed she was lucky the maid hadn’t told tales to Horrible Henry.  

She sniffed and covered her nose as the odor of rotting cabbages and smoke filled the carriage. London was very different to the bleak and salty Hope Sands. She had never seen so many people in one place. The smells even carried a different kind of pungent quality. The houses crowded around narrow streets that were thronged with people. Parks surrounded by iron railings sat cheek to cheek with enormous mansions. As they passed through one particularly green square, Agatha sat forward and gazed round-eyed at the sight of a gaily striped tent with jugglers outside. Hope Sands had certainly never been visited by anything so cheerful looking as that.

Henry coughed beside her. With a sigh, she sat back in her chair. Putting out a furtive hand, she felt at the solid mass of golden sovereigns trapped below her skirts. The servants might have taken everything, but they had missed the coins that she had hidden beneath the floorboards.

Agatha took a deep breath and rubbed at her eye. “Smokey isn’t it?”

Henry grunted but passed no comment. Clenching her hands in her lap, she counted the jolts of the carriage over the cobbles. If the average cobble was three inches wide and there were twenty jolts each second that meant that the coach was travelling at around hmmm, sixteen miles an hour,
gosh
, that really was fast—

The coach stopped throwing her forward. An enormous villa with stuccoed pillars and large steps up to the front door loomed outside, yet despite its height, the mansion was dwarfed by the leaves of an enormous hornbeam tree that shed its leaves across the roof.

“My house,” Henry said, leaning over and pushing open the coach door.

Agatha inhaled, staring upwards as the large black door to the house opened and an army of smartly dressed staff poured out. Henry drew back and gave her a level look; he smelled of soap and spicy smoke. As the intoxicating mix filtered through her senses, a small ball of tension lodged itself in her chest. She clenched her hands;
self-interest,
remember
—she was here to be a companion to his sister. He was not looking after her
.
No one was. And that was the way she wanted it. No interference, no constrictions.

Pushing past her, Henry leapt out of the carriage and, without looking at her, held out a hand for her to hold. Agatha shivered and stayed where she was.

She watched as a smartly dressed man hurried down the steps and greeted Henry.

“Your letter arrived by mail coach, sir,” the butler said, taking up a prominent position on the pavement as the footmen bustled around him. He was a large paunchy man with a watchful face. “Everything has been made ready.” He looked pointedly at Henry’s hand. “Can we help you with anything else, my lord?”

Agatha sighed. It couldn’t be any worse than Hope Sands. Ignoring Henry’s hand, she stepped lightly to the pavement, intrigued. She lifted her chin as Henry made a growling noise in his throat beside her.

“Henry! Henry, you’re back.” A dainty young lady tripped lightly down the front steps and reached up to kiss Henry on the cheek. “Is this her?”

Agatha bristled slightly as she took in the peaches and cream complexion and blonde hair.

“I am she,” she said in a clipped manner.

The blonde angel laughed delightedly. “Henry, isn’t she wonderful?”

Henry nodded, dropping his hand to his side. Agatha raised her eyebrows.

“I’m Victoria, Henry’s sister. He has told you of me, hasn’t he?” Victoria looked worried. Agatha softened and nodded. She did not need to recount what Henry had said.

“Good! Madame Dupont comes tomorrow to measure us up, Monsieur Bertrand starts his first dance lesson the day after—”

“Stop prattling, Victoria, and take Miss Beauregard inside.” Henry signaled to one of the footmen to take the last case.

“Ooh yes, come and have tea and cake and we’ll get to know each other.” Victoria’s eyes travelled over Agatha’s black dress. “You might want to change first.”

Agatha gulped, her skin tingling where the garment touched her skin. She had tried hard to make the black dress last for the three days of the journey. Each night she had shut the maid out of the room as she had contorted herself to shed the tight garment. Having sponged herself down with cold water, she had slept in the bed naked so as to preserve the dress and her undergarments.

Unwillingly she threw a pleadingly look at Henry. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at her.

“Agatha was robbed before I could reach her. She has no clothes with her.”

Bloody
man
.

Victoria gasped. “Henry! You didn’t make her wear the same clothes for the entire journey? Why didn’t you stop in Salisbury?”

For the first time in the four days that Agatha had known him, Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. With delight she watched as he turned away to stamp non-existent mud off his pristine boots. “Well, I…”

Victoria threw Agatha a determined look. “I have more than enough clothes. We will find some of mine for now until tomorrow when Madame Dupont comes.” She slid an arm through Agatha’s. “I like
your
boots,” she whispered, pulling Agatha up the steps and into the house. Looking down at her own dainty slippers, Victoria sighed. “These silly things never keep out the water. I always have wet feet.”

Agatha glanced down at her feet where the rough leather poked out from underneath her dress. Carefully, she examined Victoria’s face. There was no trace of sarcasm in the beautiful eyes that looked back at her, nor a twist of a sneer to her rosy lips. Unresisting, she allowed herself to be led into the hall. The ball of tension that had sat tightly bound by the corset in her rib cage unfurled a little with every step.

Henry stopped stamping behind them and pulled his coat around him. “I will see you later. I have a meeting at Hartley Place.”

Agatha waited as Victoria paused on the top step. “Government secrets,” she whispered softly in Agatha’s ears. Pulling back, she stared at Agatha. “What are you interested in?”

Agatha took a deep breath. “The natural world.” That could cover a multitude of things. She held in the air as Victoria frowned.

“Science? That is good news.” Victoria’s frown cleared. “Henry gave me a rather interesting new book for my birthday. I can’t make head or tail of it. You can help me.”

“But I didn’t say…”

“Oh… did you mean plants and flowers?” Victoria’s face fell. “I get rather too many of those to be enamored of them anymore. I suppose…”

Swallowing, Agatha laid her hand gently on Victoria’s arm. “No… it is science I’m interested in.” She paused. Nothing bad happened, no thunderbolt from the sky, or the chink of a belt buckle falling to the floor.

“Good.” Turning, Victoria waved to her brother, and then led Agatha further into the house.

Agatha couldn’t resist a last glance backwards. Henry stood staring after them, an enigmatic twist to his lips, the sunlight bouncing off his hair. Quickly she whipped her head back round and, with a half step, caught up with Victoria, pressing a hand to her chest. She had been wrong, the ball of tension that had dogged her hadn’t disappeared at all.

CHAPTER 4

Henry watched as Victoria and Agatha disappeared. Already Victoria’s face had brightened, and they seemed to have found something that they liked in each other. He sighed. If only he had thought of a companion for his sister earlier. Although Agatha was very
unlike
her brother.

His thoughts flickered to his friend Peter Beauregard. They had been in the same buildings at Oxford. Something had drawn them together for that short time too. Perhaps it had been the shared lack of parental guidance. He had been almost jealous when Peter had met his wife Claire. Peter had been a terrible correspondent until he heard of his grandfather’s death and requested Henry rescue his Agatha. He’d assured Henry that she would be grateful. He mentioned nothing about her rather fiery nature and
novel
tendencies. The stair boards… and the very strange contraption he’d found behind the Hope Sands farm house. Henry had recognized it at once as a rather clever water clock.

Running an impatient hand through his hair, he winced as it touched at the slowly healing wound underneath.

“Hartley Place,” he ordered through gritted teeth. As the coachman jerked on the waiting horses’ reins, he grasped the immaculately polished brass handles of his carriage and pulled himself back in with one lithe motion.

The horses had more than enough energy left in them to take him smoothly to Hartley Place. They were a prime piece of horseflesh he had bought from his customary dealer as well as his one and only race horse Darkangel. He didn’t really know that much about horses, but Darkangel seemed to be doing rather well at Newmarket. Lightly he leaned back against the carriage side and rubbed at his stained coat as the horses pulled them through the center of Mayfair, but the blood was well mixed with the soft material. Sighing, he looked out of the window at the familiar landmarks as they passed; he had travelled the same path many times since graduating from Oxford.

Lord Granwich waited for him in the library at Hartley Place. As Henry was shown in through the door, Granwich turned from examining the gilt-decorated bookcases that glinted back the flames of the roaring fire and gave Henry a long look.

“Drink, Henry?” Granwich moved to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy, his hand hovering over a second glass.