Page 59 of Appointment in Bath

He’d gone no more than a short distance, approaching the crossroads to the village, when a grand, black lacquered carriage rolled through the intersection. It stopped in the middle of the path, blocking Ivo’s way. The Earl of Allendale’s golden crest glimmered on the door.

Ivo hauled Snap to an abrupt halt. The stallion stamped his hooves in protest.

The carriage window lowered and James Beresford, Viscount St. Clare looked out with a glacial stare. “Ivo.”

Ivo’s stomach fell to his boots. “James.”

A young groom hopped down from the backboard to take hold of Snap’s bridle. It was Andrew Cole. He cast Ivo an apologetic glance as he gripped the reins, preventing Ivo from riding off.

“Dismount,” James said to Ivo. “And get in. Andrew can take your stallion back to Beasley.”

“Like hell,” Ivo retorted. “I’m in no mood to talk with you.”

“I’m going to talk,” James said. “You’re going to listen.”

Chapter Sixteen

Ivo sank down across from his brother onto the velvet-upholstered seat of their parents’ carriage. James had always been high-handed and officious, but this was something else. Indeed, his face was as coldly implacable as their father’s sometimes was when he was obliged to deal harshly with someone.

Ivo didn’t like it one bit. James may be older, but he wasn’t that much older. He was only five and twenty, for God’s sake. Ivo glared at him. “Were you following me?”

“Don’t insult me,” James said. He was dressed in a dark suit and an immaculately tied black cravat. It stood in stark contrast to Ivo’s own ensemble of rumpled greatcoat, horse-hair-covered breeches, and muddy top-boots.

During all the years Ivo had known his brother, he’d rarely seen him out of countenance. James wore his clothes—and his familial dignity—like a suit of armor. On returning from his grand tour, Ivo had hoped to find his brother had changed. And James had changed. For the worse, it seemed. He was, if possible, even more frozen in ice than he’d been when Ivo had left England two years ago.

James rapped once at the ceiling, signaling the coachman to drive on. “I had no need to follow you,” he said. “I already knew where you were headed.”

A bolt of surprise rattled Ivo’s composure. He quickly recovered himself. “Ballocks.”

“You and Miss Burton-Smythe have been meeting each other all month, I take it.”

This time, Ivo could think of nothing to say. He stared at his brother in blank astonishment.

“Partridge informed me,” James said.

Had Ivo received a blow, it couldn’t have hurt as deeply. His own valet had betrayed him? Bloody hell. “He would never. He’s too loyal.”

“He is loyal,” James said. “To father.”

“Then why didn’t he go to father?”

“Because he’s not heartless.”

“I’d rather he’d told father than you,” Ivo said sourly.

“No,” James said. “Mother and father aren’t going to hear of this. We’re going to sort it right now.”

The statement sounded very much like a threat.

Ivo might once have been intimidated by it. In boyhood, his brother had been a dominant force in his life. But Ivo wasn’t the same lad who had left home two years ago. He’d seen something of the world. He had thoughts and opinions of his own. Who he consorted with—who he cared about—was none of James’s affair.

“There’s nothing to be sorted,” he said.

“Have you made her any promises?” James asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Because if you have…I must tell you that you risk being sued for breach of promise.”