Chapter 2

 

“No woman of understanding can marry without

infinite apprehension at taking such a monstrous step into the unknown. “—Lady Ratchett

 

The elegant Charnwood carriage was only one of many vehicles that arrived in Bath this day, as could be attested by the small pageboy stationed at the city’s outskirts to sound an alert when the ducal conveyance hove into view. The hour was much advanced when that event at last took place, and the duke had acquainted his bride with all manner of details about Bath, from Prince Bladud’s leprous pigs to the earlier rumors that the city was about to be invaded by French troops, a matter which need not overly concern her now that Bony’s attentions were directed elsewhere; and she had not further disgraced herself, although the bouncing of the carriage, the rumble of wheels and thud of hooves had given her a blinding headache, and caused her butterflies to turn somersaults, and she had barely managed to withstand further disaster by means of counting the milestones spaced regularly along the road. Still, Elizabeth enjoyed her first sight of the city, an elegant sprawl of terraces and squares and crescents built in the native cream-color freestone, set in a valley with the River Avon running through it. The surrounding hills were crisscrossed with paved streets, interspersed with circular arrangements of buildings and spaces for promenades, placed with such mathematical precision that the town might have been cast from a mold.

Now, at twilight, lights shone in countless windows, and wreaths of faint mist rose in the cool evening air. “It’s beautiful!” she breathed.

 “Despite your mama’s misgivings,” said Justin, “you may find it pleasant here. The city offers amusements of all sorts. Shops as fine as London. Assemblies and soirées. The Pump Room and the Baths.” How young she looked, peering out the window. Were it not so unladylike, his bride would probably have her nose pressed to the glass.  “You might enjoy a walk to Beechen Cliffs, or a visit to the Abbey. Or perhaps you might like to inspect the superbly modeled bronze head from the Temple of Sul Minerva that was found under the cobbles of Stall Street some seventy years ago.”

What Elizabeth would have liked was to set her feet on solid ground. The stays of her corset dug into her flesh, and her posterior had gone numb several miles back.

The carriage rattled through the cobbled streets that led to the Royal Crescent, halted on the pavement before a great curving sweep of tall white-pillared houses standing shoulder to shoulder behind a stately array of Ionic columns, with angular Roman volutes. “There are one hundred and fourteen columns. I counted them one day,” Justin explained, in response to his bride’s bemused expression. He descended from the carriage then, impatient with his bride’s reluctance, grasped her by the waist and swung her to the pavement. Elizabeth clutched her reticule and her bonnet and hoped she might not vomit all over the duke’s gleaming boots.

Busy issuing instructions to his coachman, Lord Charnwood did not observe his bride’s discomfort. At length, he turned back to her. “Our luggage will have arrived before us. All should be in readiness for our arrival. Come and I will introduce you to the staff.”

Elizabeth brushed at her wrinkled skirts, adjusted her bonnet, and placed her hand on her husband’s arm. His servants would judge her, of course, and whisper about her when they thought her out of earshot, like Maman’s servants had done.

The Palladian facades of the thirty stately town houses blended together to give the impression of a single great mansion with separate entrances approached by dignified arrangements of steps guarded by exquisite railings and lamp standards. In the doorway of the central townhouse hovered a middle-aged man with thinning hair and pinched lips and, in this moment at least, a nervous tic.

He hurried toward them. “Welcome, Your Grace. If I might have a word—”

 The duke escorted his duchess up the steps. “Restrain yourself, Thornaby. Elizabeth, this is my valet. He is so eager to greet you that he has met us at the door.”

“Your Grace.” The valet bowed to her, straightened, belatedly noticed his master’s bruised nose. “Milord, you have been damaged! His Grace will require a cold compass, Mrs. Papplewick. At once!”

Elizabeth stepped into the vestibule. The walls were painted pale peach, the floor was marble, and the cornice carved. A circular stone staircase led to the upper floors. Lined up in the hallway were an astonishing number of servants, all staring—though they tried not to—at their master’s blood-spattered person and damaged nose. Liveried footmen in white cloth jackets with turned-up cuffs and pocket flaps of red plush that matched their knee breeches. Housemaids wearing pristine white aprons over dark stuff gowns, and starched caps on their heads. A superior individual with bushy white eyebrows that matched the color of his hair—the butler, Chislett by name. Mrs. Papplewick, the housekeeper, a sharp-faced woman wearing a ring of keys at her waist and a brisk capable air.

One housemaid scurried off to fetch a cold compress. Another was sent flying in search of a fresh cravat. Thornaby pushed his slipping spectacles back into place. “Your Grace, it is urgent—”

“With Thornaby, you will find that it is always urgent,” Justin informed Elizabeth. “Stop hovering, man! I have it on good authority that no one has yet died of a bloody nose.”

The duke’s servants bustled efficiently about him, removing his hat and gloves and brushing off his coat. With exquisite politeness, the duchess was relieved of her bonnet and cloak.

A slender woman stepped into the hallway. Lord Charnwood noticed her, and scowled. His valet murmured, “Lady Augusta arrived several hours ago, Your Grace.”

The woman might as well have worn mourning black as that blue muslin, thought Elizabeth, who had met St. Clair’s cousin during their brief courtship. Lady Augusta shared the duke’s chestnut locks, drawn back in long ringlets, and gray eyes beneath sharply defined brows. There the resemblance ended, for her elegant features were marred by discontent.

Lady Augusta was accustomed to acting as her cousin’s hostess. Apparently she wasn’t prepared to give up her position, despite the circumstance that he had acquired a wife.

With a brusque gesture, Justin dismissed his servants. Only Thornaby remained behind, and the liveried footman at the front door; the little housemaid who skittered into the hallway carrying a cold compress on a silver tray; and another who arrived bearing a pristine neck cloth which she presented to the valet.

The duke removed the compress from the tray and applied it to his nose. “What catastrophe has brought you to Bath, Augusta? The house burned down around your ears? Or have your servants decamped with the silver plate?” The housemaids exchanged a glance, curtsied and withdrew.

The footman looked like he wanted to go with them. Elizabeth sympathized. There was a sense of imminent explosion in the air.

The duke’s irritation made no noticeable impression on Lady Augusta, who continued walking toward him until they stood nose to nose. Or more exactly, nose to chest, because she was shorter than he. “How typically selfish of you, Justin, to think of no one but yourself. You might show some consideration for your bride. Bad enough you married her in such a clandestine manner! People will assume the worst. There is a notable disparity in your stations, no matter how handsome a dowry she brought.”

Elizabeth uttered a soft exclamation. Justin glanced at her. She couldn’t have said what he thought she’d said. No gently bred young lady should know such a vulgar word.

Unfortunately, there was some truth in his cousin’s spiteful statements. Justin had been so impatient to have this marriage business settled that he had given scant consideration to how the world would view his haste.

How to remedy his carelessness? “The world will think what I tell them to think. You will inform anyone who asks that mine was a grand romance, and that I wed quickly not out of expedience but desire.”

Two pairs of eyes fixed skeptically on him, one gray, one gold-flecked brown. “I conclude your nose was bloodied in a fit of passion,” remarked Lady Augusta. “How unfashionable, to be in amours with your wife.”

Justin had already embarrassed his bride by marrying her so quickly. He would not shame her further by explaining the circumstances of his damaged nose. “Cousin, you cross the line.”

Looking not the least bit apologetic, Lady Augusta shrugged. “Whether or not you wish it, your marriage will be a matter for conjecture. However, someone must support you in this folly. As well as show the girl how to go on.”

He would do his bride a further disservice if he saddled her with his angry cousin. Justin opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it as Elizabeth stepped forward, her chin thrust out in a challenging manner, her cheeks pink instead of green.

Not for nothing had Elizabeth spent eighteen years under her mother’s roof. She drew herself up to her full height and looked down her long nose. “Which one of us would the world say is behaving badly at the moment, Lady Augusta? I assure you, I know perfectly well how I am to go on. Unless there is something I might teach you—polite behavior springs to mind—you needn’t tarry here on my account.”

So his bride had a temper? Justin almost smiled to see Augusta gasping like a landed fish. “We will speak more of this later,” he informed his cousin sternly, and so they would, because her conduct was outrageous, and he was curious as to what had prompted her to interrupt his honeymoon.

“Later,” replied Augusta, with no little spite, “you will have other matters with which to contend. At which time you may recall what you said to me about catastrophes.”

Before Justin could respond to this curious statement, Thornaby shifted nervously and cleared his throat. “Your Grace—”

“Thank God I’ve caught you, Saint!” Through the front door strolled a slender, elegant man with guinea gold hair styled à la Brutus and sideburns extending downward toward his chin, carrying the largest birdcage Elizabeth had ever seen. He wore highly polished Hessian boots, kerseymere Unmentionables, a horizontally striped Marcella waistcoat, a startling violet coat, and a cravat tied in the intricate Mathematical style. So glorious was his person that he might have been a celestial being, save for the angularity of his features, and the twinkle in his eyes. “Hallo, Gus,” he added. “I didn’t know you was invited on the honeymoon.” Lady Augusta muttered something beneath her breath and marched out of the hall.

The gentleman smiled at Elizabeth. “Gus don’t like me much. I can’t imagine why. You must be Saint’s bride.”

Justin looked at the gentleman, and the birdcage, and the high-perch phaeton waiting outside in the street. “Elizabeth, this is Nigel Slyte. He will try to tell you that he is my oldest friend. Why the deuce are you hovering with that neck cloth, Thornaby?”

Mr. Slyte set down the birdcage and made Elizabeth a sweeping bow. “I am St. Clair’s oldest friend. You will say I am the most charitable of fellows to have put up with him for so many years. I make allowances because I knew him before he gained such a grand opinion of himself.” He winked. “In other words, you’ve married a curst cold fish. I wish you joy of him.”

This amiable stranger was not puffed up with consequence. Nor was he offering to tell her how to go on. The duke currently distracted by his valet, who was determined to replace his soiled cravat, Elizabeth retorted, “You, sir, are trying it on too rare and thick.”

 “Trying it on?” echoed Nigel. “Why, so I am, you clever girl. Now I understand why Saint wanted a private ceremony. He didn’t tell me he was to wed a Nonpareil.”

Elizabeth suspected the duke’s desire for a small wedding had been inspired by a well-founded dread of what Maman might do with a larger one. “That would be because he hasn’t married one. Do you make it a habit of trying to provoke your oldest friends?”

Nigel winked at her. “A leveler, I vow! Was it you that drew Justin’s cork?”

Elizabeth winced. “It was an accident.”

“We all have our little lapses,” Nigel assured her. “They don’t signify. A pattern-card of propriety, ain’t you? Paragon of all the virtues? Well brought-up young woman, quiet demeanor, lack of artifice? A Nonpareil, in other words.”

Elizabeth doubted Nonpareils went about casting up their accounts all along the Bath Road. “How dull you make me sound.”

“Bloodied Saint’s nose, didn’t you?” Nigel said comfortably. “It’s early days yet. Briggs, my man, bring in that chest.” A servant staggered through the doorway carrying a heavy wooden box.

An irritated mutter came from beneath the birdcage cover. Elizabeth’s attention was caught. “Oh! Is it a parrot?”

“Shush! Never use that phrase in her hearing, lest you see her sulk for days. Yanks out her feathers, and flings them all about. Dreadful mess. You should also refrain from mentioning that she is very old.” Nigel pulled back the cage’s cover. “Say hello to Birdie. That is, I call her Birdie. Her real name is something unpronounceable. Birdie don’t admit it, but she’s a macaw. She’s been on the Grand Tour, rubbed elbows with royalty, and had her portrait done. The dratted painting hangs in my aunt’s house. Would that Birdie hung there also, but my aunt can’t abide her. Nor can she get rid of the creature, because it belonged to one of her husbands, and is mentioned specifically in his will. Therefore Birdie lives with me. Spends the majority of her time dozing on her perch and biting anyone who comes within range. You wonder why I don’t arrange a fatal accident? I admit I’ve considered it, but Aunt Syb would fly into the boughs. I’m obliged to keep on Aunt Syb’s good side. A matter of financial practicality, you see.”

Elizabeth saw that the duke’s oldest friend was an incurable humbugger. She stared at the big scarlet macaw. Yellow feathers on its upper wings blended into blue. Its tail was a deep blue mixed with red, its cheeks a pinkish white. The bird clicked its great curved beak at her and stretched out one long wing. “How pretty she is.”

“That’s the ticket!” approved Nigel. “Empty the butter dish over her head and maybe she won’t bite you just yet. It won’t do you any good to try and ignore me, Saint. I hate to do anything to disoblige you, old fellow, but Aunt Syb requires my presence and I dare not leave that damned feather duster with my servants for fear they’ll toss her into the soup pot.”

Lord Charnwood turned away from his valet, who was trying to discreetly impart disjointed tidings that seemed to concern baggage arrived unexpectedly from France. “Lady Ysabella is ill?”

“Doubtful,” said Nigel. “The last time she threatened to turn up her toes it was result of the sawbones saying she was to eat meat and plain boiled rice, and forbidding her all wine. I expect she’ll threaten to cut me out of her will as usual, and feed me on boiled beef and cabbage until I am ready to turn up my toes, at which point her health will improve immeasurably. Do say you’ll board Birdie. You know she’s monstrous fond of you.”

The duke eyed the birdcage. “I know nothing of the sort. The last time you left her here she abused every member of the staff from Thornaby to the laundry maid. Have you ever been shaved by a valet with a bandaged hand? I’m lucky he didn’t slit my throat.”

“Too late,” Nigel murmured. “Birdie already has taken a liking to your bride.”

Justin glanced over his shoulder. Elizabeth had knelt by the cage. Head tilted to one side, Birdie was studying her through one and then the other gold-rimmed eye. “What you mean is that my bride is too green to know chalk from cheese,” he said softly. “That bird is incapable of liking anyone.”

Elizabeth glanced up at him. “She is so pretty. May we keep her, Your Grace? Maman does not approve of birds. She says they are dirty and make too much noise. I have always longed to know a bird.”

Nigel beamed. “And here’s your opportunity. I am heaven-sent.” Then his eyes widened and his smile faded. “Mouse!”

This pronouncement caused a remarkable reaction. The footman blanched, the duke swore under his breath, and Thornaby so far forgot himself as to clutch his master’s sleeve.

Nigel strode swiftly toward the front door. “I’d love to stay, truly I would, but Aunt Syb awaits! Anything you’ll need for Birdie’s comfort may be found in that chest, Saint. I shan’t forget I’m in your debt.”

What a fuss to make over a wee mouse! Not that Elizabeth had ever met a mouse, or any other rodent, due to Maman’s fiercely held dislike. But shouldn’t people be jumping about and flapping things, instead of standing as if transformed to stone? She winced at she raised from her crouch. And then she stood shock still herself.

No rodent occupied the staircase, but a voluptuous female some thirty years of age, a stunning creature with a porcelain complexion, short curly black hair, and heavy-lidded emerald eyes. Her Empire gown of floss-trimmed gauze left not an inch of her lush person to the imagination. Her hands were clasped to her bosom. Around her slender neck hung a cameo. Pale green slippers adorned her dainty feet.

Dramatically the woman paused, as if savoring the moment. Then she flung open her arms. “Eh bien, my Saint! Your Magda has come home.”