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k calmly. ‘You are too pale and with that dark brown hair and eyes you need more colour in your cheeks. I expect a year in mourning has not helped matters. I have no children,’ she added with an abrupt change of subject. ‘My poor dear Cary always felt that very much, but he never reproached me. You, my dear, are as welcome here as my own daughter would have been.’
‘I am? But, Aunt...Phoebe, I do not know what to say. Except, if you are certain, thank you. I hardly know—’ It was impossibly good news. Welcome, a new home where, it seemed, she could be free to be herself. Whoever that was.
‘There is no need to thank me,’ Phoebe said with her sweet smile. ‘I am being a perfectly selfish creature about this. I have no expectation of keeping you long, whatever you say—there are too many men in Bath with eyes in their heads and good taste for that!—but I will very much enjoy your company until the right one comes along and finds you.’
* * *
‘Our best suite, my lord.’ The proprietor of the Christopher Hotel bowed Giles Redmond, Earl of Revesby, into a pleasant sitting room overlooking the High Street. A glance to the right through the wide sash windows revealed the Abbey, basking golden in the early evening light. To the left the bustle of the High Street was beginning to calm down.
‘Thank you. This will do very well. Have bathwater sent up directly, if you please.’
‘Certainly, my lord. Your lordship is without a valet? I can send a man to assist with unpacking. Your heavy luggage came with the carrier this morning and has been brought up.’
‘My man will be arriving shortly.’ Dryden was with Bridge, his groom, bringing the curricle and team on in easy stages from Marlborough where they had all spent the previous night.
The man bowed himself out leaving Giles to contemplate the unfamiliar English street scene below. The family had always stayed at the Royal York Hotel, higher in the city on George Street, but now that felt too much like coming to Bath as a child. Then he had been with his father on their visits to Grandmama on her annual pilgrimage to take the waters.
He would not have found his father at the Royal York on this occasion in any case. Giles’s letter informing the Marquess that he was returning to England had been countered by a reply from his sire telling him that he was in Bath in a greatly decayed state of health. It was not quite a summons to a deathbed, but was not far short of that in tone. The Marquess was residing at exclusive lodgings where invalids of the highest rank could be accommodated, so presumably he genuinely was unwell, but from the vigour of the handwriting and the forceful slash of the signature it seemed highly unlikely that his demanding parent was being measured for his coffin yet.
It would be childish to ignore the summons and continue with his plans for establishing himself in London before returning to Thorne Hall, Giles had thought.
Nine years ago he had left home and shaken the dust of England off his boots with the impetus of a monumental row at his back. Since then he had managed to live his life to his own quiet satisfaction and greatly to his father’s displeasure. Gradually the anger had melted into grudging acceptance and, now Giles was ready to come back to England, a strong hint of welcome.
Life as a civilian during the Peninsular War had been stimulating, especially when he had found himself involved in intelligence gathering, but peacetime Portugal was less appealing, especially in the final few months after he had encountered the very lovely Beatriz do Cardosa, daughter of Dom Frederico do Cardosa, high-placed diplomat and distant relative of the royal family. Beatriz, spoilt, indulged, sheltered and innocent, had been betrothed to a minor princeling from the age of five.
Not that he had known this until he had made the mistake of smiling at her, charmed by her beauty, mesmerised by eyes the colour of dark chocolate. Beatriz had smiled back across the dinner table and from then on he had found himself encountering her everywhere he went.
She was rather young, he discovered, and not the most intellectual of young ladies. In fact, a lovely little peahen. But she was pretty and she was enjoying trying out her powers by flirting with him, which was all highly enjoyable until the ghastly evening when they had encountered each other in a temporarily deserted conservatory and she had flung herself on to his chest, weeping.
Giles, who was, as he told himself bitterly afterwards, neither a saint nor a eunuch, had gathered her efficiently into his arms, patted those parts that he could with propriety and murmured soothing nonsense while mentally wincing at the damage to the shoulder of his evening coat.
Beatriz, it turned out, had just been introduced for the first time to the princeling she was destined to marry. He was, according to the sobbing Beatriz, old—thirty-five—fat, short and ugly—plump, medium height and somewhat plain, as Giles discovered later—and had fat, wet lips. Untrue, although Giles was not inclined to approach very close to check that.
He had produced a large, clean handkerchief and had done his best to calm her down, with such success that when Dom Frederico had entered the conservatory there was no sign of tears and his grateful daughter had both arms around the neck of Lord Revesby.
In the course of the painful subsequent discussion Giles could only give thanks for his recent training in diplomacy. Somehow he had managed to convince Dom Frederico that he had no designs on his daughter, that Beatriz was quite innocent of any misbehaviour, and that he had found her weeping and had been foolish enough to offer comfort rather than seeking out her duenna. When he subsequently met the princeling that Beatriz was destined for he could sympathise with her tears, for the man was definitely self-important and not very intelligent, but that was the fate of well-connected young ladies, to marry where their family’s interests lay.
It was time to reach an accommodation with his ailing father, if that was possible without them strangling each other within days. And it was time to take over what parts of the business of the marquessate that his father was inclined to relinquish. To do that he must settle down. He needed to find a wife, he knew, and, as he was not as demanding as a plump Portuguese princeling, English society must be awash with suitable young ladies only too happy to wed his title.
A flicker of blue skirts caught his attention for a moment, but of course it was not the mystery lady from Laura Place. The woman passing on the other side of the street was a small and buxom blonde in a highly fashionable ensemble and the short-tempered passenger in the chaise had been taller. When she had emerged from beneath that frightful veil she had been dark haired and dark eyed, like Beatriz, which had taken him aback for a second.
The rest of the encounter was a blur and Giles had had his eyes closed for most of that strange, impulsive kiss. He could not account for it. Flirting with Beatriz had been entertaining, but he had never felt the urge to do anything as rash as kiss her. Not that he had lived like a monk for the past few years, but occasional discreet liaisons with attractive widows had not involved snatched kisses with total strangers either.
The brunette in the chaise had been wearing a blue walking dress, plain but good and not unfashionable. A very superior governess, perhaps. He did not envy her students if they tried her patience. She had a tightly reined temper and that momentary loss of control had surely been as unfamiliar to her as it was unexpected for him. And yet there had been something about her, something familiar, which was unlikely. He knew no governesses, nor did he have to tolerate ladies of uncertain temper. Why he hadn’t had his face slapped for his presumption on the hilltop he had no idea. Possibly she had been completely taken aback, because she was most certainly not a lady given to promiscuous kissing, that was plain enough.
Chapter Three
He would call at Laura Place tomorrow, Giles thought, moving back from the window as he shrugged out of his comfortable old riding coat.
But, no, damn it, he realised, one hand at the knot of his neckcloth. I can’t very well do that without revealing that I followed her home, which might be enough to alarm any right-thinking female.
He unwound the now-crumpled muslin from around his neck as he considered the problem. This would take some thought if he were to satisfy his mysteriously insistent curiosity about who she was and why kissing her had made him feel he had...had come home, of all the bizarre impressions. But he could manage it with a discreet enquiry of Bath’s Master of Ceremonies at the Assembly Rooms who would have all the well-bred residents and visitors in the city at his fingertips. After all, how difficult could securing an introduction to the Laura Place ladies be, compared to identifying French spies in the Portuguese court or riding through Spain behind enemy lines?
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of porters with cans of hot water and, on their heels, Dryden, pin neat as usual, despite a day spent in an open vehicle. ‘My apologies for my tardiness, my lord. There was a tree across the road at Cherhill, as no doubt you encountered for yourself. I will lay out your evening clothes directly.’
‘I will be dining here in my room and not going out, Dryden. A clean shirt and my banyan will do.’ He had been in the country for only two weeks, but the volume of correspondence was threatening to take over his life. He would need a secretary soon, but for now he would have to tackle the most urgent matters himself. ‘However, I will need your very best work tomorrow morning, Dryden.’
‘The Marquess? Of course, my lord. The new waistcoat, I presume?’
