12 Months Later
A prickling sensation spread across the back of Alethea’s neck, which had nothing to do with the brisk air of Bath in the winter.
She looked up from the cabbage she was considering and glanced around the busy marketplace. People shifted in and out of her vision, none looking at her. She twisted to look in the other direction, but again no one paid her any attention.
So why had she felt as if she were being watched?
The farmer, John, looked at her with brow wrinkled. “Something worrying you, miss?”
Alethea had never corrected him. By now, she was used to being called “miss” as opposed to “my lady.” After all, who would believe an earl’s daughter was out in the market buying potatoes and parsnips? But today it took her a moment to realize he was speaking to her. “What? Oh, I beg your pardon, John. Yes, I’ll take the cabbage.”
The prickling feeling returned. Alethea casually turned to the side as if considering some leeks and quickly glanced up.
She caught a man staring at her.
He looked away as if her gaze burned him. Alethea continued to watch him, studying his grey thinning hair, dirty leathery skin, cadaverous build. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, perhaps something silly like an indication he’d been watching her, but then he entered into a conversation with a man selling knives, apparently bargaining for something.
Had he been watching her or did he just happen to look in her direction? She would have been a terrible spy.
She slipped the cabbage into her market basket, then paid and thanked John before leaving. She was being ridiculous. Who in the world would care enough to want to follow her? She had no money of her own that she controlled, and no social connections since her one season in London had been so uneventful. Besides which, she was a tall, plain, eight and twenty-year-old and not some pretty, dewy-eyed young miss just out of the schoolroom.
She turned up Milsom Street, which bustled mostly with maids, manservants, and merchants this early in the morning. The more fashionable set would emerge in several hours, but for now she was relieved that, as usual, no one would recognize her. It was the reason she’d flown against convention and volunteered to do the cook’s marketing—the opportunity to stroll the streets of Bath, breathe in the crisp air, and walk for an hour or two with no young ladies to titter at her strong stride, no old biddies to disparage her rosy cheeks from the exercise.
A year ago she had arrived in Bath with the hopes it would have a more diverse, broad-minded set of people. Instead, Bath contained a fashionable set who professed to be liberal and intelligent, but who all seemed to disdain Alethea’s passions as ungenteel. Their wit could cut as sharp as the people in London, and for some of them, politeness was merely a veneer.
She could not avoid them at the evening parties, but she could shake their influence loose from her mind during early mornings like these, when she could disappear into the servants of Bath. She strolled through a cluster of shopkeepers, completely unnoticed.
Almost.
A coach-and-four barreled down the street, much too fast for the narrow way. Several people leapt out of the way of the horses with cries of alarm, but the crowds forced the coachman to finally slow his headlong dash, right where Alethea stood pressed against a shop wall.
“Why are we slowing?” a deep male voice demanded from the depths of the coach.
Alethea had been breathless on account of being forced to the side, but now the air stopped in her throat.
It couldn’t be him. Not here, in Bath.
She glanced up just as a man from within the coach looked out—and met her eyes.
Dark eyes, shadowed, solitary. He had always reminded her of a hawk, its power and beauty, its lonely existence. But she now noticed that there was a dark pain, something that had aged him beyond the eleven years since she’d seen him last.
His eyes flickered, and she tensed. Surely he wouldn’t recognize her. She had been one woman in a crowd of hundreds at his concert in London who had danced at the same balls, attended the same operas. Fallen half in love with dashing Mr. Terralton, son and heir to Baron Dommick.
No, he was Lord Dommick now—she had read that his father died last year, three months after Mr. Terralton returned to England, injured from fighting Napoleon on the continent.
But his gaze didn’t leave hers for a few heartbeats, as if trying to place her.
Then he turned away as the man sitting next to him said, “Bay, I’m sure it would hamper your rescue attempts if you were arrested for killing a bystander with your coach.”
Alethea recognized him as Lord Ian Wynnman, and sitting across from them was the Marquess of Ravenhurst.
Her heartbeat galloped. Three of the Quartet, here? She would have expected them to be wintering at their country estates, not mouldering in Bath with invalids taking the waters.
“Bay, your stepfather is a fool. A delay of a few minutes will not mean your sister’s ruin,” Lord Ravenhurst said.
Alethea recalled an announcement in the papers about Lord Dommick’s mother remarrying, although she couldn’t remember to whom.
“He may be a fool, but I know nothing of his nephew,” Lord Dommick replied as the coach pulled away from Alethea. “I intend to allow him no time for any malicious scheming . . .”
Alethea stared at the back of the coach as it continued down the street, her heartbeat returning to normal. For a moment, she’d thought the Quartet was in Bath to give one of their famous concerts, but that was a silly notion. After Lord Dommick and Mr. David Enlow had gone off to join the fighting on the continent, the Quartet had not played together in seven years. She had not heard anything about Mr. Enlow but supposed he must still be in the army.
The Quartet’s concerts had been glorious, but the pain of the memory of her first meeting Lord Dommick made her insides twist like a kitchen rag being wrung of water.
She straightened her shoulders. She was a fool to allow old memories to hurt her. She continued up Milsom Street, although her steps resembled a march more than a stroll.
If those three bachelors were to remain in Bath, she would more than likely see them at the social entertainments of the winter months. One or all of them would be trapped by some well-meaning older woman into being introduced to Alethea, and she would need to admit they had already been introduced years ago in London.
But perhaps they were simply here for a day or two before travelling on to London or their estates. She might be worrying for nothing.
Alethea walked toward her aunt’s home in Queen Square. It had been a new, expensive development during the time Aunt Ebena’s husband had bought it, but in more recent years it had begun to fall out of favour, inhabited by a more dowdy set than the fashionable residents of the Crescent and Laura Place, and now the homes in Queen Square reminded Alethea of aging baronesses attempting to hide the ravages of time and neglect.
She was near her aunt’s home when she heard from behind her, “Pardon me, milady. Might I have a word?”
She froze, partly because of “milady,” and partly because the male voice was unfamiliar to her, uncultured, with a slick overtone that reminded her of cold congealed beef.
She should have simply walked on. After all, it could be nothing but trouble for a lady to be so rudely accosted on the street by a stranger. But because he’d startled her by knowing she was no ordinary miss, it gave him the opportunity to hurry around her stiff figure to stand before her.
She had anticipated the sticklike grey man from the marketplace, but she was almost relieved to find this man was different. He had a round belly that strained his bright yellow-and-green striped waistcoat and spindly legs encased in puce breeches. The puce at least matched the amethyst stickpin in his starched cravat, and the yellow stripes almost matched his blond hair.
Something tight coiled in Alethea’s stomach at his audacity and the fact they were alone on this remote street. The general stamp of her neighbors were unlikely to bestir themselves to chivalry and rescue her.
“Mr. Golding at your service, milady. I wish only a moment of your time.” The man’s mouth curved in a strange V shape that tilted his eyes up at the corners and made his face seem to leer at her.
How did he know her rank? Was it a guess? Nothing in her plain straw bonnet, dark blue dress, and wool cloak indicated she was anything more than an upper servant. “Pray excuse me.” She attempted to sidestep him, but he blocked her way.
“I have a lucrative proposition for you.”
“Let me pass,” she said.
“Perhaps you have in your possession a violin?”
Of all things he could have said, that was the last she expected.
“My employer is willing to pay a substantial sum, if you were in the mind to sell it,” Mr. Golding said.
“Who is your employer?” she demanded.
“My employer wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Of course he would,” she said dryly, then realized the man hadn’t identified his employer as a man or woman.
“You may name your price,” he said. “Enough to buy another violin. Enough to afford better lodgings for yourself and your aunt.”
The cold of the season suddenly made itself known to Alethea through her woolen cloak. How did he know about her aunt? Perhaps the same way he knew about her violin and her rank. The words had been amiable, but the man delivered them like a faint threat.
No, she was being silly. This was exactly like the time the new butcher in the village had tried to insist that the rotting meat he had delivered was the same quality as always. As lady of the manor at Trittonstone Park, she had put him in his place when she had the cook prepare a piece and demanded the butcher take the first bite.
She drew herself up. “I refuse to have any interactions with someone of whom I know nothing.”
Mr. Golding’s brown eyes narrowed, and his V smile flattened.
“However, should your employer wish to call with a note of introduction, I would be pleased to receive him. Good day.”
She stepped around him and continued down the street as quickly as she dared. She half expected him to follow her, but instead she heard the heavy stamp of his footsteps moving away. She peeked around and saw his broad back, encased in purple superfine, as he headed away from her. He had turned the corner and was out of sight by the time she reached Aunt Ebena’s door.
She was surprised by a post chaise stopped in front of her aunt’s home. The coachman who stood holding the horses’ heads gave her an insolent grin, which she froze with a cold glance. Raised voices sounded from behind the front door, causing Alethea to quickly enter the house.
The narrow front foyer was chaos. A trunk took up most of the space, while the rest was filled with a woman twice as broad as Alethea, shouting at Aunt Ebena, who stood firmly at the foot of the staircase.
“ ’Tis your responsibility now. I wash my hands of her!” The woman shook her meaty paws at Aunt Ebena.
Alethea’s aunt was a good stone lighter but taller than the woman, and her gimlet stare could have set a small fire. “I was present at the funeral. The solicitor clearly stated that the girl was the responsibility of her blood relatives. Of which I am not.”
A light voice piped up at Alethea’s elbow. “You might as well sit down. They’ve been at it for at least fifteen minutes.”
Alethea started. A small girl sat in one of the hallway chairs shoved against the wall. She had been partially screened by the door when Alethea entered the house, and she hadn’t noticed her.
The girl calmly sat as though awaiting an audience with the queen. She could be no more than eleven or twelve years old, with light brown hair in rather wild curls. Her dress was too short for her, exposing tanned forearms and dirty shoes and stockings. She also had a dark smudge of something across her nose, and another streak across her chin.
Alethea had rarely interacted with children. She had not been close friends with the women in the neighborhood of Trittonstone Park since they did not understand her love of music and considered her something of an oddity, so exposing their children to Alethea’s unconventional notions had been the last wish of their hearts. At a loss, Alethea blurted out, “You have something on your face.”
“Oh?” The girl scrubbed at her cheeks with a sleeve, which caused a grey mark to appear.
“I think it’s from your dress.”
The girl peered at her sleeve. “That must have been from the dog at the inn. He was quite dirty.”
The woman in the hallway bellowed, “You are expected to undertake your husband’s responsibilities.”
“Expected by whom? The blood relatives who should be taking a more active interest in this matter?” Aunt Ebena shot back.
“What is happening?” Alethea asked the girl, feeling foolish doing so.
“They’re arguing.” The girl’s tone implied Alethea was a bit of a simpleton not to have deduced that already.
Alethea’s gaze narrowed. “That much is obvious. What are they arguing about?”
“Me, of course.”
“What about you?”
“Why, if I shall come here to live.”
Alethea had a coughing spell for a few moments. “Here? With Aunt Ebena?”
The girl’s eyes brightened. “She’s my aunt as well. That means we are cousins.”
“Who are you?” Alethea asked belatedly.
“Margaret Garen.”
Garen. The name of Aunt Ebena’s husband. Alethea realized Margaret was looking at her expectantly. “I am Alethea Sutherton.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Margaret said as if they had been introduced over tea.
“Why would you stay here? Wouldn’t you rather be with your mother?” Alethea glanced at the strange woman, still arguing. The sounds echoed off the walls of the foyer.
“She’s not my mother. She’s my Aunt Nancy. My parents are dead.” Margaret said the words with unconcern, but Alethea noticed the tightening of the small mouth, the clenching of her hands in her lap.
“When did they die?” Alethea asked gently.
“Eight months ago. I have lived with Aunt Nancy since then, but she is terribly stuffy.”
Something about the way Margaret said the word made Alethea remember her own childhood, ruled over by nursemaids and governesses. Alethea had grown old enough to rather pity those poor women. “Does your definition of stuffy mean intolerant of frogs in the drawing room seat cushions or something of that sort?”
Margaret grinned. Her blue eyes lit up, and twin dimples peeked out from her round cheeks. “I knew there was something about you I liked.”
Alethea realized with a powerful sense of dread that perhaps she was being punished for all the mice in shoes and charcoal drawings on bed sheets that she had inflicted upon her childhood servants.
“Try and stop me!” roared Margaret’s Aunt Nancy. She whirled around.
Alethea jumped aside before the large woman crashed into her and then was nearly clocked in the forehead by the front door being yanked open. She stumbled backward and ended up sitting in Margaret’s lap. The girl gave a great, “Umph!”
A swirl of chill wind, then the deafening slam of the door. Alethea was left staring at the suddenly quiet hallway, broken only by the sound of Aunt Ebena’s angry gasps. “How—! How dare she—!”
Alethea felt squirming beneath her.
“Could you get off me? You’re terribly heavy.” Margaret pushed at Alethea’s back.
Alethea regained her feet and stood. She caught sight of the butler, the housekeeper, and the cook peeking from around the corner of the stairwell, round-eyed and pale. The other servants were probably peeking from the top of the stairs.
Aunt Ebena pressed a bony hand against her chest, which showed up white against the black silk and lace of her gown. Her wide grey eyes took in Alethea, standing awkwardly next to the trunk, then Margaret’s small form in the hallway chair. Aunt Ebena took a breath as she straightened to her full height, pressing her thin lips closed and looking down her beaky nose at Margaret. “Hill, send for Mr. Garen’s solicitor,” she ordered the housekeeper. “We shall get to the bottom of this.”
Aunt Ebena turned and made her way back up the stairwell. A scuffling from the floor above indicated the other servants were scattering before being caught by their mistress. “I don’t know what she was thinking. I have no use for a child,” Aunt Ebena muttered.
Earlier, Margaret had borne the argument with an almost quirky sense of humor. Even now, she kept her chin raised and her back straight, but Aunt Ebena’s words made her eyes flicker downward. It was not there on her face, but Alethea could see the bruise formed on her soul. How often had Alethea heard her own father say, “What use is a girl to me?”
The sight of Margaret’s face caused a burning in Alethea’s chest. It had been the same as when the village women told her she should not play with Lucy. It was the sense of an injustice she had the ability to right, or to ease. Others had disregarded her existence, but she would ensure she did not do the same to anyone else.
“Did you ever try spitting crickets?” Alethea asked conversationally.
Margaret blinked at her. “Crickets?”
“They feel quite odd moving about on your tongue, and their flavor is distinctly earthy, but spitting is highly accurate for proper placement of said cricket into, for example, a governess’s teacup.” Alethea couldn’t quite believe she managed to speak with a straight face. “Or at least the vicinity of the tea tray.”
In addition to her dimples, Margaret’s wide smile showed a slight overbite that made her look like a darling fairy child. “That is quite a good idea.”
Alethea wondered if she was welcoming chaos upon her aunt’s home, but Margaret reminded her of how she had felt, abandoned to Trittonstone Park year after year by a father who despised her and a brother who only sought to use her. Alethea had been unwanted and unappreciated by any except her half sister, Lucy, and her widowed neighbor, Lady Arkright. She would not let this child feel as she had.
“Let’s get your trunk upstairs.”
Margaret looked distastefully at the battered trunk. “Don’t you have servants to do that for you?”
“Our aunts have chased the servants away, so I would need to send someone to collect them, and there is only the butler, who’s got sore knees, and the cook, who’s making breakfast. So, would you rather haul your own things or not eat?”
Margaret hopped to her feet. “Where is my room?”
Responds well to threats of starvation. She recalled being the same at that age. If Margaret was here to stay, it may not be too bad. Really, how difficult would it be to care for a young girl?
Bayard Terralton, Baron Dommick, leaned against the squabs of his coach as it continued down Milsom Street. That young woman had looked at him as if horrified.
“You’ve lost no time, Bay,” Ian remarked with a sly smile. “She seemed taken by you.”
“Who?” Ravenhurst demanded.
“That pretty young maid on the street.”
“She looked at me as if I were a corpse come back to life,” muttered Bayard.
“Did she recognize you as the Mad Baron?” Ian asked flippantly.
Bayard’s mouth tightened at the nickname his former betrothed had given to him during the season in London when she was spreading rumours about his sanity.
Raven’s foot shot out and kicked Ian’s boot where it rested atop his knee, knocking it down. Ian straightened more in surprise than anger.
Raven said nothing, simply gave Ian an ice-cold stare.
Ian grimaced, shrugged, and looked away.
Ravenhurst turned to Bayard. “We are here in Bath to rectify that situation.”
Bayard was not so certain, after the damage done by Miss Church-Pratton, the woman he had almost married. But he had to succeed for the sake of his sister and his mother. He would not cause them pain again. “Can’t this coach go any faster?” Bayard pounded his head against the leather squabs.
Raven wisely ignored his whining and addressed the root of his concern. “You’re certain Mr. Morrish is here in Bath?”
“My sister’s letter said he arrived the morning she wrote to me.”
“Your mother’s chaperonage in the house isn’t enough to guarantee your sister’s safety against Mr. Morrish?” Ian waggled his dark gold eyebrows.
Raven snorted. “Please. You know Bay’s mother as well as I.”
Bayard wasn’t offended. He knew that Raven, Ian, and David—his close friends since Eton—loved his mother as if she were their own. But Bayard’s mother, while kind and generous, preferred to be pampered rather than responsible for others.
“I didn’t tell you about this summer.” Bayard’s sister, Clare, would kill Bayard for revealing this, but he depended upon his friends to help protect her.
“Do tell.” Ian grinned, his dimples peeking out from cheeks showing a golden-brown shadow.
“The squire’s younger son—a nasty piece of work, the kind to pull legs off of frogs for a spot of fun—tried to force himself upon Clare in an empty stable.”
Ravenhurst’s icy-blue eyes glittered. “Did he, now?”
“The idiot also confessed he wanted to ruin her so she’d be forced to marry him.” Bayard’s knuckles ached and he looked down, realizing he’d clenched his hands into fists.
“Please tell me your resourceful sister did not stand for such treatment,” Ian said.
“She remembered what David taught her and hit the boy in the throat with her closed fist. She then ran out.”
“That’s my girl.” Ian grinned.
Raven sighed. “I will never again complain about David teaching your sister those fighting tricks.”
“It was so she could hold her own against the village bullies. I was surprised she remembered after all these years.”
“Bullies, suitors. Same class of chaps, don’t you think?” A lock of straight blond-streaked brown hair had fallen over Ian’s eyes, and he swiped it away impatiently. He happened to catch the eye of a shopgirl as they rode past her on the street, and he flashed her a smile.
Bayard was used to his friend’s easy way with the opposite sex, but after the disastrous end to his betrothal last year, the gesture now caused a pang in his chest. He did not have Ian’s charm, Raven’s title, or David Enlow’s powerful presence. He was simply . . . Bay.
“I will never understand how women flock to you even while you need a haircut and a shave.” Raven tugged at his immaculate cravat. “You look positively uncouth.”
“Artful disarray,” Ian corrected him. “And women prefer it to starchy.”
“Enough,” Bayard said before the insults escalated.
Ian’s grin widened. Raven’s white-blond eyebrow angled upward, but a smile hovered around his stern mouth.
“We need David around to keep us in line,” Ian said. “It’s boring for Bay to have to do it.”
But the fourth of their group, Captain David Enlow, was fighting with Wellesley somewhere on the Iberian Peninsula. Last year David had returned to the war three months after saving Bayard’s life in Corunna.
The squeal of horses, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the screams of men dying . . .
Bayard drew breath and forced his mind from the memories before they overwhelmed him. Again. He needed to have more command over himself. Lord God, help me learn to control myself.
“Bay?” Raven’s voice was cautious.
“I’m fine,” Bayard said.
“We’re here.” Ian opened the carriage door.
The front door to the house opened, and Bayard’s sister hurried down the steps to throw herself at him. He staggered backward even as he wrapped his arms around her. His injured shoulder twinged, but he did not loosen his embrace.
“Bay, thank goodness you’re here.” Clare was usually as correct as Ravenhurst, and the fact she embraced him so exuberantly showed her relief at seeing her brother.
“My welcome is distinctly lacking.” Ian gave Clare his most devastating smile, but it only provoked a frown from her that could have come from the strictest of governesses.
Raven interrupted her glare at his friend with his courteous bow. “Miss Terralton.”
She released Bayard to curtsey to Raven and then, grudgingly, to Ian. “Ravenhurst. Ian.” Clare turned to Bayard and shook his coat lapels, creasing them. “It took you long enough to get here.”
He frowned down at her. “I left within an hour of receiving your letter.”
“Mr. Morrish has been here every afternoon, and Mama has given him permission to escort me to Lady Woolton’s ball next week.” Panic flared around the edges of her dark eyes.
He tucked aside a lock of fine dark hair where it had fallen across her nose. “I will be escorting you to the ball. And for good measure, one of the three of us will be within sight of you always.”
She was so relieved that she kissed his cheek, even with the servants watching from the house’s open doorway. “I knew I could depend on you, Bay.”
“Come inside, come inside,” called a jovial voice. Sir Hermes Morrish, Bayard’s stepfather, waved to them from the front step as he leaned upon a cane. “It’s too cold to stand about, and your mother is anxious to see you.”
“Has Sir Hermes pressured you in any way?” Bayard whispered to Clare as they headed inside.
“No. But he doesn’t prevent his nephew from pressing his suit.
He seems to think it a lark.” Clare sniffed in indignation, then sobered. “Bay, I don’t like how Mr. Morrish looks at me.” She shuddered. “The way we used to look at the Christmas pudding.”
Bayard’s hand tightened over hers. “You will have no need to fear. I have a plan.” He nodded to his stepfather as they approached the front door. “Sir Hermes.”
“Good to see you, m’boy.” Sir Hermes gave a boyish grin that made him look decades younger. His curly brown-grey hair had been disheveled by the breeze, but he did not seem to notice. He ushered them into the house he had procured for the winter.
It was a fine house, not too far from the Roman Baths where Sir Hermes’s doctor had ordered him every day for his gout. The golden Cotswold stone looked warm even in the fitful sunlight, and the inside was richly furnished with classically inspired furniture boasting more gilt than the ancient Greeks had ever seen. In the drawing room, Bayard’s mother reclined on a chaise lounge, but she sat up as he entered the room with Clare on his arm.
She held round, white arms out to him. “Bayard, how good of you to come.”
He stepped forward to take her hands, entering into the thick cloud of her perfume. He kissed her cheek. “Mama, how are you?”
“Bath is lovely.” Her soft, high voice, usually languid, was alight with excitement. “I have become reacquainted with several old school friends whom I have not seen in ever so long.”
“Your mother is well able to entertain herself while I take the waters.” Sir Hermes beamed at his wife as he sank into a nearby chair. He grimaced only slightly from his gouty foot and rested his cane against the chair arm.
Lady Morrish greeted Raven and Ian like additional sons, and they both kissed her cheek in turn before seating themselves.
“Will you be staying in Bath?” Lady Morrish asked Bayard. “Clare said she has asked you.”
“Yes, and I have even better news.” He nodded to his stepfather. “Sir, this house you have let is very fine, but Ravenhurst has offered us the use of his house and servants here in Bath.”
Lady Morrish’s mouth opened in an O of surprise and delight. She turned to Raven with a rapturous smile. “But what of your mother?”
“Right now she is with my sister at their estate in Devonshire,” Ravenhurst said.
“Ah yes, she wrote to me of your sister’s new baby boy.”
He nodded. “Mother has extended an invitation to you, madam, to stay with her at our home on the Crescent, provided you and your family do not mind rattling around her house alone until she returns to Bath in a few weeks.”
“We should be delighted.” Lady Morrish clapped her hands. “It will be wonderful to see your mother again, and her home is so much larger than this one.”
“But, my dear,” Sir Hermes said, “what of my nephew?”
Clare stiffened.
“What of Mr. Morrish?” Bayard’s tone was harsh.
“Just this morning Sir Hermes suggested we invite him to stay with us,” Lady Morrish said. “His rented rooms are small. But I am afraid we cannot invite him if we will be accepting Lady Ravenhurst’s generous offer.”
“Yes, Mr. Morrish is a stranger to her,” Bayard replied.
Sir Hermes frowned at this change of plans, but then his amiable nature reasserted itself. “Whatever makes you happiest, dear.”
Bayard had to admit that in the three months of his mother’s marriage to Sir Hermes, the fine lines of stress that used to radiate from her doe-brown eyes had disappeared in the light of his stepfather’s more easygoing nature. Bayard’s father’s stern nature had heightened his mother’s nervous temperament, but that nervousness had faded, and he owed his thanks to Sir Hermes’s influence.
At that moment, there was a rap at the front door, and moments later the butler entered the drawing room and announced, “Mr. Morrish.”
Clare shot to her feet, her hands clenched together. Bayard rose also and reached out to fold her hands in his. She gave him a grateful look and relaxed slightly.
Bayard studied Mr. Morrish as Sir Hermes performed introductions. The ginger-haired man looked only slightly like his uncle in his rosy cheeks and curly hair, but where Sir Hermes had an open artifice and bright, dark eyes, Mr. Morrish’s half-lidded gaze shifted slyly from side to side. His smile toward them all, and especially Clare, was wide and ingratiating, but never reached his eyes. The man was not handsome—he had protruding front teeth and a weak chin that made him slightly horselike in appearance—but he carried himself with an easy confidence that made one feel he ought to be handsome.
“Lord Dommick,” Mr. Morrish simpered when they had all reseated themselves. “I had no idea you were coming to Bath. Were you not at Lord Ravenhurst’s estate for the past year?”
Bayard stiffened. While it was no secret he had been at Ravenhurst Castle since last winter, the sneering way Mr. Morrish mentioned it seemed to indicate he knew the truth about why Bayard had been buried in the country for the past twelvemonth. The specter of the ugly rumours threatened to overshadow Bayard, and he tightened his jaw.
“I had always intended to support my sister for her come out,” Bayard replied coldly. “When I heard she would be spending the winter in Bath, I naturally came to escort her about in society.”
“We all came,” Ravenhurst added. His icy demeanor seemed to make Mr. Morrish’s civility falter.
A flash of something ugly passed across Mr. Morrish’s pale face, then it was gone.
“Miss Terralton is like a sister to us,” Ian drawled, although Bayard caught the edge to his words. “It’s as if she has three older brothers.”
A twinkle shone in Clare’s eyes as she glanced at Ian.
To his credit, Mr. Morrish recovered quickly. “Why, that is how I feel about Miss Terralton myself. It is a relief to know she has other such friends as I.”
A wordless sound escaped Clare’s lips as she had difficulty containing her outrage.
“She has a great many friends,” Ravenhurst said. “My mother has offered to Miss Terralton and her family the use of our house here in Bath.”
Mr. Morrish started in surprise, then turned to Lady Morrish. “My dear lady, how fortuitous for you. Surely the Marchioness of Ravenhurst’s home is one of the most elegant in Bath.”
“We shall be very comfortable,” Lady Morrish said.
Mr. Morrish’s smile seemed to indicate he thought nothing more delightful than her removal to the Ravenhursts’ home, but Bayard noticed the man’s hand clenched in his lap.
The rest of Mr. Morrish’s visit passed with gentle gossip that delighted Bayard’s mother. Mr. Morrish had a rapier wit that sometimes bordered on cruel, and his manner of conveying a story seemed to indicate how he despised the characters he spoke of. He appeared to be watching Raven and Ian to see how long they would stay, but Ian brought up at least five or six times how they considered themselves family to Clare and her mother and seemed entrenched in the chair he lounged in. At last, despite the fact Sir Hermes was his uncle, propriety forced Mr. Morrish to depart.
Bayard made a point of walking Mr. Morrish to the door, accompanied by Raven and Ian.
Mr. Morrish had an assurance that was faintly like a challenge as he donned his beaver hat. “I bid you good day, gentlemen. I expect we shall see much of each other this winter.”
Raven stiffened, but Ian said, “Good day,” and all but ushered Mr. Morrish out the front door.
“I should like to darken his lights,” Raven said in a chilly voice.
“What did you think of him?” Bayard asked Ian. Of the four of them, Ian’s ability to assess a person’s character surpassed them all. Perhaps it had to do with his successful interactions with the fairer sex.
“Completely mercenary,” Ian said. “Although there is something refreshing about a man so transparent about it.”
“Refreshing is not the word I would use to describe him.” Raven frowned at Ian.
“He should never be allowed an opportunity to speak privately to Clare, for he seems the sort of man who might press his advantage to force a marriage out of the situation.”
“That much is obvious,” Raven said.
“Pity you can’t forbid him to dance with her,” Ian said. “Although, Bay, if you allow him to guide her outside a ballroom for a moonlit stroll in the garden, I should have to shoot you myself.”
“If Bay did that, I would suspect someone had slipped some tonic into his tea to make him stupid,” Raven said.
“I had forgotten how jovial and complimentary your company was,” Bayard replied.
Before they reentered the drawing room, however, Ian said in a low voice, “Be very careful, not only of your sister, but of your reputation as well. He is the sort of man to exploit any weakness he can ferret out.”
“I shall be careful.” Bayard could make no mistakes for the next year. His sister’s season, and his mother’s sensitive heart, depended upon him.