Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 17

The next day brought three invitations to parties from ladies Bree had met at the Dowager’s ball, a note from Georgy asking if she was going to Lady Court’s soirée, because, if so, could they go together because Lord Lucas would not be at home to escort his wife, and a slim package.

‘Goodness, look at these.’ Bree pushed the invitations across the breakfast table to Rosa. ‘We need more gowns, don’t you think? I haven’t got anything suitable for full-dress occasions.’

‘And I certainly have not. Do you intend to accept them all?’

‘I think so. I expect we will get weary of frivolity soon, but it is fun at the moment. So long as you are not finding it too much to go out in the evenings on top of working at the Mermaid.’

‘I enjoy it.’ Rosa spread honey on her roll and took a bite. ‘I am finding it very stimulating, and it is interesting to be working with adults. I do have a list of questions, though, if we could go through them before I go to the office. Unless you need me this morning?’

‘No, although we should go shopping, but I do not mind—morning or afternoon are both fine for me.’ Bree picked up the package and reached for her bread knife to slit the seals.

‘I’ll go this morning, then. Did I tell you I have solved the mystery of the fodder bill? Someone had put all the use of oats into the corn column and the … Goodness, what lovely gloves.’

‘They are, are they not?’ Bree stared at the fine calfskin gloves, perfect for a lady to drive in, with delicate punch work on the backs and dashing cuffs. They were strong, but as soft as butter when she stroked them.

‘Did you order them?’

‘No. I think they must be a present.’ Bree drew on the right one, flexing her fingers. ‘They are silk lined, what luxury.’

‘Who from? Oh, look, there is a card.’ Rosa caught it up and passed it to Bree.

Max! ‘Oh. They are from Mr Latymer.’

‘My dear, you cannot possibly accept them. Not from a gentleman.’ Rosa ran one finger down the back of the left glove and sighed regretfully.

‘Why ever not? I could accept a fan or handkerchiefs, could I not?’

Her companion coloured up. ‘Gloves are more … intimate.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Bree pulled on the other glove and smiled appreciatively as she turned her wrist to admire the effect. ‘They are hardly underwear!’

‘Oh, dear, how can I put this?’ Rosa glanced round and checked that the maid was not in the room. ‘There is a certain symbolism about gloves. And shoes. You have to insert part of your body into a tight fitting …’ She came to a halt, unable to explain further. ‘Cinderella,’ she added, rather wildly.

Light dawned. ‘You mean, like sex? Good heavens, I had no idea.’ No wonder Mr Latymer was getting hot and bothered and Max had been so frosty when he saw Mr Latymer slowly stripping off her gloves in Green Park. ‘How am I supposed to know that?’

‘You aren’t. I’m supposed, as a good chaperon, to warn you.’

‘I’ll have to send them back, won’t I?’

‘I’m afraid so. With a polite note saying you appreciate the gesture, but you are unable to accept articles of apparel.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Bree sighed and folded the gloves back into their wrapping paper before any butter got on them. The door banged open and Piers bounced in. ‘Good morning, Piers.’

‘Morning. Good morning, Rosa. Bree, I’ve finished all my Latin. I got up early. Now, say I can go down to the Mermaid with Rosa this morning?’

‘If you can bounce about like that, and you’ve finished all the tasks set you, then you ought to be going back to school,’ Bree said, feigning severity.

‘I’m tired, really.’ Piers drooped unconvincingly into a chair next to Rosa. ‘I’m just being brave. What’s for breakfast?’

‘What you see! If you want anything else, then ring for it. Oh, and there’s a letter for you.’

‘Who from?’ Piers forked up the last of the bacon and stuck it inelegantly between two slices of toast.

‘Uncle George, I think.’ Bree squinted at the handwriting as she passed it over. ‘Not his usual tidy hand.’

Piers put down his toast and slit the seal. ‘Yes, Uncle George it is.’ He read steadily, taking occasional bites of bacon, then stopped eating, his hand still in mid air.

‘Piers, for goodness’ sake, if you can’t mind your manners for me, do think of poor Rosa with your breakfast waving about under her nose,’ Bree chided.

‘What? Sorry, Rosa. Look, Bree, this is da—I mean, very odd. The old boy doesn’t sound himself at all. He rambles on about the farm, not saying anything of any purpose. Then he asks if we are all right and the business is doing well. And then he says what a good thing it is that I am growing up and can manage my half of the company, and that’s a great weight off his mind. And then there’s something scrawled, which I can’t make head nor tail of.’ He passed the sheet back and Bree peered at it.

‘Neither can I. He’s crossed the sheet to save paper.’

Rosa got to her feet. ‘I will go down to the Mermaid—you will want to discuss this in private.’

‘No, please don’t. You are one of the family.’ Bree flashed her a worried frown. ‘I don’t understand this at all. Rosa, can you read this? You might be more used to bad handwriting.’

‘It looks like, never forgive myself. Excuse me, but is Mr Mallory an elderly gentleman? Could he be becoming confused? It does happen.’

‘He is only sixty-five,’ Bree protested. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps I had better go down and see him.’

‘Me too.’ Piers perked up.

‘Either you are well enough to go back to Harrow or you are still convalescent and must stay here and help Rosa with the business. I can take the Aylesbury stage—Mr Hearn’s Despatch goes daily from the King’s Arms.’ Bree frowned and looked at the clock over the mantel. ‘It goes at two o’clock, I think. It’s only at Snow’s Hill at the end of High Holborn,’ she explained to Rosa. ‘I can go up tomorrow, spend the night and get the morning coach back if it is just a false alarm.’

They all sat looking at the folded letter as though expecting it to speak and solve the riddle of Uncle George’s odd ramblings. Rosa gave herself a little shake. ‘If we can just go through my list of queries? Then I’ll get off to the inn. Do you still want to go shopping this afternoon?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Bree said with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I’m sure it’s just a storm in a teacup and I can come back directly. If there are any problems, I’ll write at once and stay down there.’

They worked through a list of queries about the intricacies of the ticketing system, whether it was worth trying a different printer for waybills, how livestock was priced and why turkeys were not carried—’Unless dead’, as Piers helpfully added—and what to do about the unsatisfactory behaviour of one of the ostlers. Then the others departed, Piers quizzing Rosa about the mystery of the fodder bill.

Bree wandered into the drawing room, sank down on the sofa and regarded the empty fireplace blankly, worrying about her uncle. Should she go down today? No, she decided. He might just have been down in the dumps and there’ll be a letter tomorrow saying so. And he’ll be mortified if I go haring off down there because of that. I’ll give him twenty-four hours.

But it would be good to have someone to talk to about it. She felt Piers was too young, and she could hardly burden Rosa with family worries, but what if there was something seriously wrong with him? He was unmarried, a reserved, independent type who would hate it if they had to start interfering in his life, however good their motives and however tactful they were.

If only Max were here. She could talk to him and he would be sensible and sympathetic and help her see it in perspective. No, perhaps not so sympathetic now, not since that stilted visit and the embarrassing encounter in Green Park.

The sound of the knocker sent her to the window. There was a phaeton at the kerb, but she did not recognise the horses. Perhaps it was Max.

‘Mr Latymer, Miss Mallory.’ Peters stood waiting. ‘Are you at home?’

‘Oh. Yes, yes, I am. Peters, show him in and ask Lucy to come down, please. He can wait in here. I just need to get something from the breakfast room.’ After the incident with the gloves she had better be on her best behaviour, and that included chaperonage. Bree slipped out of the connecting door and went to collect the gloves from the table. When she got back Lucy was perched on a hard chair in the corner and Brice Latymer was studying the landscape over the fireplace.

‘Miss Mallory, good morning. I see you have received my little gift.’

‘Please, sit down, Mr Latymer. Yes, it arrived safely. The gloves are delightful, but I am afraid I cannot accept them.’ She held out the package, but he made no move to take it.

‘But the merest trifle, Miss Mallory, please, relent.’ The black eyes held a trace of the heat she recalled from the day before.

‘I must insist, sir. I cannot accept articles of apparel.’ She continued to hold out the gloves until he had no choice but to get up and take them.

Bree knew she was blushing. Knew, too, that he could see that and that he knew that she knew the significance of the gift. It made her feel decidedly hot and bothered. ‘My chaperon is adamant, I am afraid,’ she added.

‘A pity.’ He folded them away into his pocket with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I can persuade you to come for a drive anyway?’

Bree shook her head regretfully. ‘I am sorry, but I would be poor company today.’

‘My dear Miss Mallory, are you in some distress? What can I do to assist you?’ His black eyes were sharp and interested.

‘A family matter, sir. A relative who seems … unwell. There is nothing you can do, but thank you for your concern.’

‘I can listen,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes that helps. Is it a close relative?’

‘Yes, my uncle. My late father’s brother who lives near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.’

‘Mmm?’ He nodded encouragingly.

‘He is the co-owner with my brother of the stagecoach company, and breeds our horses.’

‘And Mr Mallory senior is unwell?’ Latymer prompted, leaning forwards with his forearms on his knees, sleek and elegant. It all seemed so easy, just to confide in him.

‘We had an odd letter from him today. He sounded—I suppose distracted is the word.’

‘How disconcerting. His family is looking after him, I suppose?’

‘No, he is unmarried. I intend to go down to visit him tomorrow. It is probably nothing, but I want to set my mind at rest.’

‘Of course, I can quite see that you would want to do that. Perhaps the burden of the business is too much for him?’

‘I do not think it is that. I … I mean, Piers runs the business, although Uncle George owns half.’

‘You are obviously concerned and a visitor cannot fail to be a distraction from your thoughts.’ He got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Miss Mallory, I will remove myself and hope to persuade you to a drive when you return to town. Good day, and I trust you find your uncle in the best of health.’

Bree said all that was expected and sat down onto her sofa as he left. She really ought to think about what to take tomorrow, and there was Cook to speak to about menus for two days.

‘That’s what I call a proper gentleman,’ Lucy observed, getting up and making her way to the door. ‘Ever so good-looking and nice manners with it.’

‘Mmm,’ Bree agreed absently.

‘Shall I pack a bag for tomorrow, Miss Bree? And do you want me to come too?’

‘No, I will be fine on the stage, Lucy. If you can pack an overnight bag, please, that would be helpful.’ Feeling as though her feet were lead, Bree stood up and went to interview Cook. Pleasant as Mr Latymer was, he was not the gentleman she was yearning to talk to, and the realisation that she had so little control over her emotions was as depressing as anything.

‘Miss Mallory!’

Bree looked around, half-expecting to see an ostler from the Mermaid running after her up the crowded pavements of High Holborn. Then she glanced towards the road and saw Max pushing the reins of his curricle into the hands of a groom and jumping down into the traffic.

‘My lord, do take a care!’ she scolded as he arrived at her side. ‘I am sure jumping about like that is not good for your shoulder.’ But the sight of him was good for her spirits, however ambivalent her feelings towards him were. Bree felt her heartbeat quicken and she had to struggle to keep the smile off her lips.

‘Thanks to the exceptional care I received, my shoulder is almost healed,’ he assured her. The memory of his smooth, hot, hard-muscled skin under her palms flashed through Bree’s thoughts and she made herself smile politely.

‘Excellent.’

‘Where are you off to with that bag, all by yourself?’ Max demanded, seeing the portmanteau in her hand for the first time.

‘Just to the King’s Head in Snow Hill to take the Aylesbury stage, my lord. Will you excuse me? It leaves at two and I must hurry.’

‘What are you doing, trying out the opposition?’ He took the bag from her hand and began to stride along beside her.

‘No, just visiting my uncle in Aylesbury.’

‘By yourself? On the common stage?’ She shot him a look and he tipped his head to one side in rueful acknowledgment that, to her, travel by stage was no particular adventure. ‘Let me drive you.’

‘In what, my lord?’ Bree kept walking briskly as she talked. She had booked her ticket and had not thought it necessary to allow much time to walk the short distance between the two inns. ‘Your curricle will take perhaps six hours, almost as long as the stage, and both that, or a chaise, would be equally shocking for me to be seen in.’

‘Of course. I was forgetting that you are the respectable Miss Mallory now, not my stagecoach-driving Bree.’

‘You made me become respectable,’ Bree pointed out, trying not to analyse his words too carefully.

‘So I did,’ Max agreed. ‘So the least I can do is to give you my escort.’

‘On the stage? I am in no need of escort, I assure you.’ Bree turned into the yard of the King’s Head, her eyes automatically assessing the state of the place, comparing and learning. Max was still firmly by her side. ‘You will not get an inside ticket, my lord.’

‘I will travel in the basket if necessary,’ he vowed, turning aside to the ticket office while Bree handed her bag to the guard.

It seemed things were not that bad, for Max emerged with a ticket for the roof. ‘But what about your carriage? And your plans? It takes seven hours to Aylesbury—we arrive at nine at night. You must stay over and leave at seven in the morning to get back.’ She regarded him helplessly. ‘My lord, there is absolutely no need for this.’

‘All aboard the Despatch for Aylesbury!’ The guard began to chivvy the passengers.

‘My groom will sort things out—my people are quite used to me taking off with no notice. I fancy another stagecoach adventure. Let me help you inside.’

Bree gave up, let herself be handed in, and wedged herself into a corner seat along with the other five passengers who made for a full inside complement. She just hoped that Max was not too uncomfortable on the roof and that the Despatch was not carrying its maximum of twelve outside passengers. It really was no place for a man with an injured shoulder, whatever he said about how well it was healing.

She fretted about him for a while, then came to the conclusion that she could not worry about a grown man as she could about her brother, and let herself enjoy the warm glow of knowing that he was concerned about her.

The disconcerting pang of physical attraction she felt for him had not diminished, she realised, then smiled faintly. She could hardly be more chaperoned than she was now, rattling along, jammed in with five strangers while Max was stuck on the roof. They might exchange a few words at the stops along the way, then she’d be off in a hired chaise to the farm and he would be left to find lodgings in Aylesbury. Tomorrow morning the whole exercise was be repeated.

What did he think he was protecting her against? Highwaymen? It was hardly likely that a full stage, in daylight and with a guard up, would attract an attack.

‘Do we stop at Stanmore?’ the stout woman opposite her demanded.

‘Yes. The second stop,’ Bree answered automatically, earning herself affronted looks from the four men in the coach who all obviously thought they were better fitted than a woman to respond. ‘The Bell. Then we stop at Watford, Hemel Hempstead, Berkhamsted and Tring. This is a slow coach,’ she added.

‘I consider it perfectly acceptable,’ a thin man Bree decided was a clerk huffed.

‘At under six miles an hour?’ she retorted.

By the time they pulled into the Blue Anchor in Edgware, Bree felt it politic to step down for a few minutes. She had won a comprehensive argument about speeds, distances and change-times and was well aware that the male occupants of the coach were regarding her with disfavour for her unfeminine assertiveness.

Max swung down beside her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, yes. I just wanted the air. How are you? Have you persuaded the driver to give you the ribbons yet?’

‘No. He is deaf to my pleas. Shall I offer to kiss him? That worked with the last stagecoach driver I encountered.’

‘It did not!’ she retorted. ‘You did not kiss me until—oh! Stop it, people will hear.’ She scrambled back into the coach with a singular lack of dignity and stayed put firmly until Berkhamsted, when need drove her into the King’s Arms in search of the privy. Max was standing at the taproom door, a tankard in one hand, when she emerged. Bree marched past with her nose in the air and was mortified by his chuckle.

What with the undercurrent of anxiety about Uncle George, Max’s behaviour and her own irritation with herself for caring what he did or thought, Bree was unable to doze and arrived in Aylesbury yawning, stiff and in no mood to deal with importunate gentlemen.

Then she saw Max climbing down from the roof of the coach. He seemed awkward somehow, and when he got down she saw him sway and put out one hand to steady himself. He closed his eyes for a moment and straightened up with an obvious effort. When he saw her watching him, he smiled. ‘I’m amazed I can stand up straight after seven hours on that roof.’

‘I told you,’ she scolded, hastening to his side. ‘Honestly, you are as thoughtless as Piers, travelling all that way in discomfort with a bad shoulder, just on a whim.’ She glanced round. It was dark, it was becoming chilly, there was a hint of wet in the air and, if he could not secure a room here at the busy Eagle and Child, he would be left scouring the town for lodgings.

‘You had better come with me,’ she said resignedly, picking up her portmanteau and walking towards the office to secure a chaise for the short drive out to the farm. ‘Uncle George has plenty of spare room.’

‘Miss Mallory, I assure you I am perfectly all right.’ He made to take the bag from her and she wrestled it back, noticing the sudden tightening of his mouth as her action jerked his arm.

‘Humour me, my lord. Shall we say I feel the need for some protection for the last leg of the journey?’ Honestly, men! They are so transparent. His shoulder is obviously paining him, but he thinks I haven’t noticed. But how am I ever going to persuade him?