Page 5 of Appointment in Bath

Mrs. Kirby remained at the bottom of the steps. “I’ve put the Italian gentleman in the rose bedroom.” Her lips pursed with evident disapproval. “He’s been…ill.”

Ivo paused in his ascent, suppressing a grimace. No doubt it was the same illness that had plagued the estimable signore since Ivo and his friends had hired him in Rome. The man loved to drink. He’d rarely spent a day sober since they’d crossed the alps.

“I trust he hasn’t been troubling you?”

“He’s kept to his room,” Mrs. Kirby said. “Mr. Partridge has been looking after him.”

God bless Partridge.

The indispensable valet had once served Lord Allendale himself and had traveled with Ivo on the earl’s insistence. Ivo suspected his father had originally intended Partridge to be some sort of a watchdog. Lord only knew how well Partridge had fulfilled that office. It was possible he’d written reports to Ivo’s father throughout the whole of their time away, detailing every one of Ivo’s missteps and misdemeanors.

But Ivo didn’t think so.

He trusted the man implicitly.

“I won’t be down for luncheon,” he said, continuing up the stairs. “I’ve letters to write. But you may tell Cook to expect me at dinner.”

“Yes, Master Ivo. Shall I send a tray to your room?”

“A splendid idea. Send one up for Signor Ruggiero too.” If the fellow hadn’t eaten yet, Ivo would see that he did. It was the only way to counterbalance the man’s perpetual drunkenness.

With luck, Ivo would have him sober enough by the time his parents, brothers, and sister converged on Beasley Park for Christmas.

As it was, most of the house was shut up. When not in residence, his parents retained only a skeleton staff at Beasley, comprised of Mrs. Kirby, the cook, and a handful of footmen, maids, and grooms. Ivo was glad for the privacy, however temporary.

Entering his bedroom, he found it just as he’d left it on his last visit home from Oxford. The same mahogany four poster stood at its center, draped in its familiar brocaded curtains, and the same blue and gold Aubusson carpets covered the floor. A few remaining leather cases from his travels were stacked on the bench at the end of the bed, the only sign that he’d ever left home.

Ivo shut the door behind him with an audible click. There was a fire awaiting him in the hearth. He came to stand before it, raising his hands to the blaze.

A rustling sound emitted from the bowels of the attached dressing room. Partridge stuck his head out soon after. “Ah. It’s you, sir.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Ivo replied. “We both know you calculated my arrival time down to the minute.”

Partridge emerged from the dressing room with a smile. He was a short, brawny man of fifty, with sandy hair liberally peppered with gray. A jagged scar intersected his brow, the remnant of a mysterious encounter he never spoke of.

Whatever had happened, Ivo would wager that Partridge’s opponent had come out the worse in the affair. Despite his advancing years, the valet was a man to be reckoned with.

“I confess, you’re later than I anticipated.” Partridge assisted Ivo off with his coat. “Didn’t run into any trouble, did you?”

“Not the kind you mean.” Ivo loosened his cravat. “I stopped to render aid to a lady in distress.”

“Aye, did you?” Partridge inspected Ivo’s coat for wear and tear before draping it over the back of a nearby chair. “Not many ladies in these parts as I recall. Excepting your mother and sister, there’s naught but village girls hereabouts.”

“You’re wrong,” Ivo answered before he could stop himself.

Partridge arched his brows. “Sir?”

“Miss Burton-Smythe is a lady.”

Partridge went still.

Ivo returned his attention to the crackling flames of the fire, anticipating the valet’s censure. “She’s the daughter of a baronet, anyway.”

“She’s the daughter of Sir Frederick Burton-Smythe,” Partridge said.

“Through no fault of her own.”

“As that may be; the Burton-Smythes are no friends to the Beresfords. Never have been. A dangerous lot, they are.”