Page 6 of Appointment in Bath

“For pity’s sake, Partridge.” Ivo shot the valet a dark look. “You know how I feel about this tendency to cling to the past.”

“Yes, sir, but the Burton-Smythes—”

“It’s why we’re in this muddle. All this emphasis on traditions at the expense of progress. One is supposed to keep doing something just because it’s what’s always been done before. It’s mindlessness. What this country needs is to be moving forward, not forever looking back.”

“The country, mayhap. Not your father. You’ll find he keeps a keen eye on the past. When he was a boy—”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Ivo interrupted brusquely. “The Beresfords take grudge-keeping to the extreme. It doesn’t follow that I must leave a lady to perish on the side of the road simply because her father once slighted my own.”

“Perish?” Partridge echoed. “Was the lass hurt serious-like?”

Ivo sank into the velvet wingchair by the fire. “No,” he admitted. “It was a turned ankle, merely. But you take my meaning.”

“Aye, sir.” Partridge crouched in front of Ivo to assist him in removing his damp boots. He ably pulled off the first one and set it by the fire. “If you don’t mind my saying so…”

Ivo leaned back with a weary groan. In any other servant, it would have been outright impertinence. But Partridge had earned the right to speak his mind. “Oh, go on if you must.”

“It weren’t a slight, Master Ivo. What Sir Fred did to your father, and to your mother besides…” Partridge removed the second boot. “It were more than that.”

A frown compressed Ivo’s mouth. “I know.”

At least, he thought he did.

As children, Ivo’s mother and Sir Frederick had been intended for each other. It had been their parents’ fervent desire to see them wed, thereby joining up the neighboring estates of Beasley Park and Letchford Hall into one formidable property. On Squire Honeywell’s death, Sir Frederick had even been made Ivo’s mother’s guardian for a time. He’d attempted to use the position as leverage to force her into marriage.

Naturally, Ivo’s mother hadn’t succumbed.

She’d roundly rejected Sir Frederick in favor of Ivo’s father. Sir Frederick hadn’t taken it at all well. Not only had John Beresford been his childhood nemesis, he was also a man long rumored to be illegitimate. For Sir Frederick, who considered his own pedigree something sacred, the insult had been impossible to forgive. There were whispers of a duel. Of devious dealings, brutal bouts of fisticuffs, and false accusations of despicable crimes.

Ivo suspected his parents had never shared the whole of it.

The point was, they hadn’t forgotten. Nor had Sir Frederick. It’s why he’d christened his only daughter after Ivo’s mother. Meg Burton-Smythe was named Margaret for no other reason than pure, unadulterated spite. Sir Frederick had wanted to deliver a final insult to Ivo’s father. Even at the expense of his own daughter.

Ivo pitied Miss Burton-Smythe the more for it.

“In any event, it was long before I was born,” he said. “I don’t plan on shunning the girl. If she and I ever cross paths again, I shall treat her with as much kindliness as I’d treat any other gently bred young lady.” He raked a hand through his hair, exhausted by the topic. “Now…what’s all this with the signore?”

Partridge flashed Ivo a speaking glance. “Indisposed again, sir.”

“When is he not? Have you poured coffee down his throat like we did in Venice?”

“He won’t have it. Claims it upsets his digestion.”

“Does he, by God. Well, if coffee won’t suffice, he can bloody well eat something. Mrs. Kirby is bringing up a tray. See that you’re the one to take it into him. I don’t want her troubled by any unfortunate remarks.”

Ruggiero’s compliments toward the ladies became somewhat over-effusive when he’d been drinking. It was another of the man’s failings. Ivo couldn’t think why he put up with him.

“Very good.” Partridge straightened. “Shall I draw you a bath?”

“Deal with the signore first. I have letters to write on business that can’t be delayed.”

“To your parents, sir?”

“To what constitutes the leadership in this part of the country. I have a proposition to put to them.” Ivo stood. “Like I told you, Partridge, I’m looking to the future.”

Chapter Three

Perspiration beaded Meg’s brow as her father’s aged groom, Timothy, carried her into the cavernous kitchen at Letchford Hall. Her ankle was throbbing. It had been all she could do to make it home on her mare.