Traveling was hard work, although fortunately her stomach had turned out to be a better sailor than rail and carriage passenger. Now, after more than two weeks of travel, Regina was ready for a long rest. It hadn't been so much the journey, although she'd found the long sea voyage a trifle boring, despite that there had been little time to sit quietly and relax. Minerva and Pamela were exhausting companions. Neither had the knack of amusing herself, and so Regina's ingenuity had been taxed, despite the many social opportunities aboard the Britannic.
Of course, the fact that every single--and some who weren't--man on board had flocked to the girls like ants to a sugarbowl had only added to her worries. Neither girl was the slightest bit aware of the dangers. Or perhaps they were sublimely uncaring. Was there a young woman alive who wouldn't glory in being the center of masculine attention?
More than once she had wished for eyes in the back of her head.
Her hopes of a rest were dashed when she opened the note from Mr. Tomlinson that was delivered the morning after their arrival.
I've made arrangements for a guided tour. The concierge has all the information. You'll leave on Monday the 28th, and return to London on July 7th with two days for the girls to shop before you leave for Paris on the 10th. Your tickets will be delivered to your hotel a day or two before you go. I've reserved a suite at the HÔtel de Ville (the girls will enjoy that) in Amiens. Be sure and show them the cathedral. Mrs. T. was quite taken with it. You'll have a suite at HÔtel de Vendome in Paris. I've made arrangements for you to move to a single room on the 15th, when we will arrive. Watch your purse. Mrs. T's had hers snatched twice.--A.J. Tomlinson
For once the girls were prompt about their toilettes, and shortly after breakfast they were on their way to the Tower of London. By the end of the day Regina wasn't sure she could have recounted their subsequent travels.
The next day they shopped, because of course neither Pamela nor Minerva had brought the proper clothing. Regina purchased an umbrella. Having lived in a dry climate all her life, except for her college years, she'd forgotten about summer showers. While the girls were exclaiming over which expensive gewgaws their friends should be sent, she chose a dozen picture postcards.
I am being crabby. But shopping isn't my idea of how to see a new place.
Everywhere they'd gone, the girls, with their youthful beauty and their friendly manners, had garnered attention, particularly from young men. One fellow, a Scot from his slight burr, was a little older than most. He had shown up in their entourage of admirers twice. Coincidence, or was he smitten?
She decided he was simply another tourist, when he didn't seem particularly interested in doing more than admiring from afar.
The guided tour group was small, only twelve people, and mostly older. Regina wondered if Mr. Tomlinson had given any thought to what his daughter would enjoy, or if he'd simply talked to a travel agent and chosen the most expensive tour. To give Minerva and Pamela credit, they did their best to enjoy themselves. Their fellow travelers seemed to like them, all but one stuffy gentleman who seemed intent on depressing their high spirits.
Being part of a tour group was, she found, far easier than shepherding the girls alone. The guide had an uncanny ability to keep track of everyone in the group and to keep them moving along. She relaxed her vigilance and began enjoying herself. On her own she would have foregone many of the places they visited, but she admitted that they were indeed impressive.
Was he following them? The snub-nosed fellow with the derby? After Oxford, she'd started watching for him. He didn't appear at Salisbury, but at Bath she saw him in the streets outside of the baths. She was sure he'd been at Donnington Castle, too, but Regina admitted to herself that she could have been mistaken. You're shying at shadows. Why on earth would anyone follow you?
They separated from the tour at Coventry, taking a train to Lincoln while the rest of the group went on to Nottingham. To Regina's surprise, Mr. Tomlinson had made special arrangements for them to visit the home of the Earl of Hetherington.
"Heatherwood is not one of the great houses of England," the tour guide said as he saw them off, "but it does have a certain charm. We will rendezvous with you in Lincoln in two days. It is a pity you will miss Buxton, but one cannot fit every attraction into a fortnight's tour."
"Why do you suppose Fa arranged for us to go to Heatherwood?" Minerva had made no bones about being bored silly with historical places and grand vistas. The only time she showed much interest was when they had had a half-day in Bath to shop. Otherwise she languished gracefully, her expression one of complete ennui. Pamela had shown more enthusiasm, but even she was showing symptoms of a surfeit of English history.
"I imagine it's because the Earl is my godmother's godfather." How Mr. T had discovered that fact was a small mystery. Unless... No, Pa would never have said anything.
"Your godfather? An earl?" Minerva sat upright. "And you never told us?"
"Not my godfather. My godmother's. He is no relation to me, even in a spiritual sense."
"Oh, but still, Miss Lachlan, there is a connection." Minerva was practically bouncing on her seat. "Is your godmother English?"
"No, she's--" Regina bit off the sentence. Given the Tomlinsons' sense of self-worth, revealing the exact relationship between the Lachlans and Flower King would be...inappropriate. "She is my mother's best friend, and she is an American by birth."
"An earl! Imagine. Will I have to curtsey to him?"
"It would be polite, but I doubt it's required. You may not even meet him. I understand his health is not good. It's more likely that his son, the Viscount Bidens, will act our host." She hadn't been able to resist mentioning Jonathon Hetherington's courtesy title. The girls were so obviously impressed by the prospect of meeting some real live British noblemen.
They chattered like a couple of little magpies, until she felt battered by their constant questions. By the time they pulled up to the entrance to Heatherwood, she was ready to banish them both to their rooms until morning.
The man standing on wide marble steps outside carved double doors was tall and slim, with thinning fair hair and a narrow face. As their carriage slowed to a stop, he descended to the driveway, smiling widely. He was there, holding out his hand, as soon as an elegantly unformed footman had opened the carriage door and let down the steps. "Miss Lachlan? Regina? How wonderful to meet you at last."
She let him assist her to the ground. "Lord Bidens?"
"Jonathon, please. We're all but family. "He turned to look into the carriage. "Miss Tomlinson? Miss Witherspoon? Please consider this your home away from home. We will do our best to make you comfortable here."
The girls all but tumbled forth. Pamela dropped into an immediate curtsey, and as if reminded, Minerva aped her.
Jonathon's bow was graceful and elegant. The girls looked as if they were going to swoon, but before they could thus embarrass her, he said, "My housekeeper will show you to your rooms, ladies. Please forgive me if I steal Miss Lachlan for a few moments. I have messages for her from her family."
The girls were unusually silent as they followed the housekeeper into the house. "You have awed them," Regina said. "In fact, I confess to a certain awe myself. It's a grand house."
"It's a great barn of a place, but it's home." Jonathon guided her into a small reception room to the left of the front door. "I do have messages for you, but that wasn't why I wanted to speak to you alone. I wanted to warn you."
"Warn me?"
"Your brother has managed to insult a very powerful man in Batavia. One with a very long reach. He wants you to be guarded as long as you are in England. Just in case."
"Buffalo? Batavia? But that's--"
"On the other side of the earth? Very close. But Ramshad is known for his vindictiveness. Sigrid and the children are in hiding and Buffalo is taking precautions, until we can deal with the matter." He waved her to a chair. "It is probably not something you need concern yourself with, but Buffalo wanted to make sure. I've had you watched ever since you arrived in England."
She couldn't help but smile. "Tall, with a snub nose and a shock of untamable hair? Sometimes wearing a derby?"
Jonathon chuckled. "Exactly. So you twigged to him. I'll have a word with Alastair."
Regina sipped at the brandy he'd handed her. Smooth and rich, with a faint, fruity aftertaste. "When I saw him again at Ely, I knew he had to be watching us. That he turned up everywhere we went was just too much of a coincidence. Don't hold it against him, though. Remember who I grew up with. We used to play hide and seek, and one of the rules was that one had to hide in plain sight."
Jonathon grinned widely. "Aha! Clandestine activity is in the blood then."
Before she could deny having any inclination to be a spy, there was a tap on the door. They both turned toward it.
"Come," Jonathon called.
A tall, dark, handsome man entered, walking with a slight limp. He wore an elaborate military uniform, with golden epaulets on a fitted, royal blue coat. A line of showy medals marched across his left chest. A fringed sash emphasized the lithe slimness of his waist and skin-tight, dove gray trousers showed off long, well-muscled legs. A narrow moustache drew the eye to his full, sensuous mouth.
Jonathon said, "Miss Lachlan, may I introduce another guest of mine, Maggiore Emilio Masuccio."
The man bowed. His accent was strong when he said, "It is my honor to meet such a charming young lady, signorina."
"Ga--" she saw the tiny shake of his head, the chop of Jonathon's hand, and changed the word into a cough. "I beg your pardon." A pause while she pretended to clear her throat. "How do you do, sir? It is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
For a small eternity the three of them spoke inanities, while servants traversed the hallway outside the half-open door, carrying luggage to bedrooms. Regina was on the edge of a scream or a descent into babbling hysteria--she couldn't decide which would feel best--when an elegant gray-haired man stepped inside.
"Madam's bedchamber is prepared, my lord," he announced in a tone that gave his ordinary words great consequence.
"Splendid," Jonathon said. "Emilio, you will excuse us? Come, Regina. I'll show you to your room."
The stairway to what she'd learned was called the first floor was wide, curving marble. That to the second floor was polished oak, but no less impressive, with its ornately carved balusters and finials. "And I thought our house in Boise was fancy," she said, not exactly awed, but certainly impressed.
Jonathon chuckled. "I had nothing to do with this. The house is very little changed since my grandfather's time. Father insists he was much more comfortable in the cabin he and Buffalo Jones shared." He led her down a long corridor and opened a door halfway down. "I've had them put you well distant from your young charges. You must be ready for a respite from their youthful enthusiasm."
"Not that I'll admit," she said with a laugh. "Oh, how lovely!" The room was decorated in soft peach and pale green. The canopied bed and a satin chaise longue offered comfort and rest, and a wide window seat gave a view of the gardens to the rear of the great house. "If the bed is as comfortable as the room is attractive, I may never leave."
"I would really rather you did not." Jonathon's reply was far more serious and more enthusiastic than her comment warranted.
She looked at him and saw that he was not joking. He really would rather she stay here.
* * * *
Dinner was interesting. Gabe played his role to the hilt, acting the arrogant Italian major, speaking heavily accented English with frequent mispronunciations and misunderstandings. The young American ladies were delighted with him.
Regina was not amused.
He knew her well enough to recognize the fulminating temper she was concealing behind a façade of icy politeness.
The politeness was aimed only at him. She was flirting shamelessly with Jonathon. He wanted to ask her if she was aware that their host was betrothed, about to be married. Instead he praised Miss Witherspoon's wit, Miss Tomlinson's beauty.
The gentlemen retired to the drawing room with the ladies, foregoing port and cigars. Miss Tomlinson played the piano with all the lively spirit of a marionette. Miss Witherspoon recited a poem with heartfelt emotion, but little understanding of its symbolism. Regina declined to entertain.
Conversation languished, until Jonathon suggested a game of Whist. Gabe relinquished his place to Regina and retired to a chair by the fire to watch them play.
She had lost weight since he'd last seen her. Her cheekbones were more prominent, giving her a look of her father, and her waist was even smaller. If it weren't for her generous breasts, she would appear willowy.
His palms tingled at the tactile memory of that abundance, clasped within his long fingers, turgid nipples boring into the center of his palms.
He crossed his legs and stared into the fire.
He was insane to have come here. Their meeting in London had been necessary, but now he should be on his way to Paris, not lingering in England. But Gina was here.
He must have dozed, for the noise of chairs sliding across the polished floor startled him. The game was over. The tea tray had been bought in.
"But I thought teatime was in the afternoon," Miss Tomlinson said.
Jonathon said, "You arrived just too late for it. That is why I had refreshments sent to your room."
"Aunt Flower told us how your father always had his tea before bedtime. She still serves it then, sometimes," Regina said. She moved to the sofa behind the tea tray.
"And she taught you the tradition?"
"She did." She smiled at their host. "We always had before-bed tea when we visited the Kings. She had a Spode tea set--I believe your father sent it to her, Jonathon--and she would bring it out on special occasions."
Gabe accepted the cup she prepared him, amused that she had not asked him, as she had Jonathon, how he took it. Her hoped she could read what was in his eyes. "Grazie, signorina. This is a most pleasant custom. Of course, in Italia..."
"You'd be swilling down a rough red," Jonathon said with a wide grin.
"Not at all. Never, when ladies are present. You must remember that our meals are eaten later, and served with wine. Afterward there is perhaps a liqueur, comfits, even a bit of cheese and fruit. But never something so...so stimulating as tea."
"Are your dinners like ours, Magg...Major?" Little Miss Witherspoon seemed more intelligent than the other girl. At least she wasn't so fond of herself.
"They are not so grand, except, perhaps, in the great houses. In my home we might have antipasti, insalata, a pasta dish, meat and bread. Ahhh, you have not eaten until you have tasted good Italian bread, baked in an oven made of clay and tile. And as I said, afterward, something light, so that one does not retire with a full belly."
The girls both giggled, and he smiled. "I misspoke, did I not. Should I have said, stomach?"
"You should have said nothing at all," Jonathon said. "One does not refer to body parts in polite conversation." He sent Gabe a wink on the side away from the girls.
"Somehow I fail to imagine a man such as yourself being content with a bit of cheese and fruit after your meal. It seems almost..." Gina shrugged, and her mouth twisted in that little moue that always told him she was getting ready to cut him off at the knees. "Effeminate isn't quite the word I was seeking, but I'm sure you understand what I'm trying to say."
The glare he sent her should have scorched her skin. "Indeed. How familiar you seem with our customs." He rose. "I find I am fatigued Please excuse me, ladies. Shall I see you at breakfast?"
His departure reminded them of the time, and as he left the salon he heard Regina herding the girls toward their beds.
I'll give her an hour. And then...
He and Miss Lachlan had some talking to do.