Page 13 of Appointment in Bath

Mr. Colfax stubbed out the remains of his cigar in the small metal ashtray beside him. “You’re well on your way, then.”

“Not quite. I’m hoping you can point me in the direction of other influential members of Maidenbridge. It’s been a long while since I’ve been home. I’m not as familiar with the townspeople as I was as a boy.”

“If you’ve reached out to Mr. Horsley and Mr. Standish, you’ve already done your utmost. Outside of your parents and Sir Frederick, they’re the wealthiest figures in local society, possessed of the largest properties.”

“What of the rest of the town?” Ivo asked. “Wealth doesn’t always equate to influence. You yourself have as much impact as Horsley or Standish. People listen to you.”

It’s why Ivo had called on Mr. Colfax today. The vicar was well-placed to reassure those who might cringe from the prospect of a railway out of fear or ignorance. If Ivo could persuade him to get behind the venture, others would follow.

“Yes, I see.” Mr. Colfax’s brow wrinkled. “You might speak with Mr. Pinnock, the owner of the Emporium on Mead Lane. He moved down from London two years ago with his wife and five sons. Mind you, he’s not a learned man, but he’s full of opinions and possessed of a loud voice. People listen to him.”

There was a soft tap at the door of the bookroom. A young lady in a plain wool dress stuck her head in. “Excuse me for interrupting you, father. Mrs. Quint is here to discuss the arrangements for the funeral. You told her to come at eleven, if you recall.”

Ivo and the vicar stood. Ivo hadn’t met the vicar’s daughter yet. She’d been out when he had arrived, much to his disappointment. He owned to a certain curiosity about the girl—an emotion sparked entirely by Miss Burton-Smythe’s reaction to the mention of Miss Colfax’s name.

“Come in Rose,” Mr. Colfax said. “My oldest daughter, Mr. Beresford. Rose, this is Mr. Beresford, Lord Allendale’s son, newly returned from Italy.”

Miss Colfax curtsied. She was, as Miss Burton-Smythe had attested, a very pretty girl. One of the dark-haired, fair-skinned varieties with liquid brown eyes, plump cheeks, and a swan-like grace to her figure.

“Mr. Beresford,” she said. “How do you do?”

He bowed to her. “Miss Colfax. A pleasure.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you. I was calling on one of our parishioners. Her baby has been ill.”

“You are a credit to me, my dear,” Mr. Colfax said. He looked from his daughter to Ivo, with a spark of inspiration. “I say, perhaps you might dine with us on Friday? I’d be happy to invite Mr. Pinnock by way of an introduction.”

Ivo exhaled a grateful sigh. He’d been about to suggest something similar. “That would be splendid, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Mr. Pinnock is a self-proclaimed matchmaker. You’ll likely regret the acquaintance once he begins meddling in your affairs.” Mr. Colfax addressed his daughter. “Tell Mrs. Quint I’ll be with her directly. I shall see Mr. Beresford out.” He took Ivo’s arm as Miss Colfax departed. “A good girl. The gentleman who wins her hand will be a very fortunate fellow.”

Ivo’s mouth quirked. It seemed that Mr. Pinnock wasn’t the only villager with an interest in matchmaking. “Undoubtedly.”

The vicar’s housekeeper appeared with Ivo’s greatcoat, hat, and gloves. “Here you are, sir.”

She opened the front door of the vicarage as Ivo put on his things. A faint drizzle of rain had started. The gusting wind blew a few stray droplets into the hall.

“I shall send a note round when I’ve fixed a date with Mr. Pinnock,” the vicar said. “In the meantime, perhaps you might consider making overtures to the Burton-Smythes?”

“Indeed,” Ivo said, settling his hat on his head. “I fully intend to.”

* * *

Meg was sitting alone in the drafty, high-ceilinged dining room at Letchford Hall when a commotion sounded at the doors. The noise wasn’t the footman bringing her dinner. Not only the footman, anyway. A crash of plates falling to the floor and a shouted curse at one of the servants announced the unexpected arrival of her father.

“Out of my way, blast you,” Sir Frederick bellowed, entering the room.

Meg shot up from her chair. Her napkin tumbled from her lap.

Her father was in his dressing gown, his weight leaning heavily on his thick ebony cane. Sweat glistened on his brow and in his wild, gray-streaked red hair as he limped to his seat at the head of the table. He was obviously in pain.

She moved to go to his side, wishing to offer her assistance, only to falter after the first step. He’d never desired her help in the past and she had no wish to receive a share of the abuse he was presently heaping on the servants.

They scrambled about him, pulling out his chair and setting his place, bowing and scraping as though he were Henry VIII, possessed of the power to send them to the chopping block for the smallest mistake.

“Get me my port,” he shouted to one of the footmen. “And tell Stapleton I’ll have none of that pap she’s been feeding me. Spragg doesn’t run this house, I do. I want a steak—rare.”

Meg’s fingers curled nervously around the back of her carved Jacobean chair.