He would leave her in peace to find a new situation and be on his way. Within the next day or so his ankle would be strong enough to begin travelling, but where he knew not. He was close to Bristol; a journey to the port would take half a day at most and once there he could book a passage to France. It would not be difficult to resume his old life at the tables of the slightly less respectable gaming houses or take whatever menial work was offered. That way he would never touch a penny of the inheritance so long denied him.
But why shouldn’t he enjoy his legacy? Would it not be sweet revenge to plunder the fortune his grandfather had so carefully conserved? Perhaps he would travel back to London after all, deal with Mr Spence and his formalities, and ensure a constant flow of funds to his pocket over the coming years as he wandered Europe. That would certainly spare him the discomfort of living off his wits. But what an existence! The one thing that had sustained him in seven long years of exile was the excitement and intrigue of a life on the edge. Take that away and what was left? A tedious round of places you didn’t know, people you would never see again, plans that held no interest.
One way or another, though, he would leave England and this time willingly and for good. There was nobody to mourn his departure—except perhaps Lucas Avery. He’d been his one true friend. He knew him to be living in Bath, a short distance away, with a wife and children that Gareth had never met. He wondered if he could risk a meeting or whether Lucas might have changed his mind about his old friend in the years since that fateful evening. The unknown wife, too, might not easily welcome a convicted card cheat. But he would have liked to have bid him a final goodbye.
And Amelie, he suspected, was also in Bath. If he chose to make the journey, he might even see her there. If he chose! In his heart he knew that the decision had already been made. Of course he would make the journey, of course he would see her. Be truthful with yourself, he thought savagely. She was dangerous to him; a threat to his plans and to his peace of mind, but somehow he couldn’t keep away. He might try to justify the trip to Bath in a dozen ways, but he was going there for one reason alone. He’d willed himself to forget this girl, but he could not: she was a constant refrain singing in his mind. London or France would both have to wait.
Amelie woke to the swish of heavy silk curtains being drawn and felt the warmth of the mid-morning sun streaming onto her bed. She hadn’t heard the entrance of the maid on the deep pile carpet, but turning her head she saw that a cup of steaming chocolate sat waiting and a large jug of hot water was already on the washstand. A refashioned dress of her grandmother’s was draped across the armchair, hardly the height of fashion, but acceptable enough for this one day. Miss Repton had been busy. She supposed she must thank her.
She lay back on the pillows and stretched luxuriously. Eventually she’d slept long and deep, cocooned in the comfort of the four-poster, a far cry from the straw mattress of recent days. At last she was at her grandmother’s. She’d succeeded in what she’d set out to do and the world felt good. Or at least a part of it did. Gareth’s figure once more crept unbidden into the corners of her mind. He would soon be preparing to leave the George and then where would he go? Whatever his decision, she scolded herself, it concerned her no longer.
This morning she was intent on pleasure for she knew it would be fleeting. She had no false expectations that Brielle would agree with her wish to remain single. For a woman of her grandmother’s generation, indeed for a woman of her own, marriage had to be the goal of life and anyone who rejected it was either unwanted or eccentric. How much better to live alone, she thought, than be chained to a man with whom she shared nothing but a roof. That was likely to remain a dream. There was one thing of which she was sure: her heart would stay her own. It would not be a difficult vow to keep; until now she’d felt nothing for any man she’d ever met. Until now. But Gareth Wendover was clearly ineligible and destined to travel through life alone. A misguided passion for him would ensure the very unhappiness she was trying to escape.
The bedroom door opened and her grandmother came into the room fully dressed and looking businesslike. ‘Good, you’re awake. Are you well rested?’
Amelie smiled her assent.
‘That’s as well—we’ve a lot to do today. I’ll see you in the breakfast room in thirty minutes.’
Brielle’s brisk commands were diverting. Her grandmother might be approaching old age, but she was as sprightly as ever and it was clear that she’d already been up some hours planning the day ahead. Amelie made haste to obey.
The carriage had been ordered to the door immediately after breakfast and very soon they were bowling along Bath’s main thoroughfare. Brielle’s destination was the small but elegant shop of a highly talented young modiste. She had heard on the grapevine that this new seamstress had the originality and skill of many a more expensive establishment. She had a very clear idea of what would suit her granddaughter, something in the French style, she thought, beautifully cut and simply adorned, to flatter the young woman’s budding figure.
It seemed to Amelie that the next few hours were spent in a fantasy of fashion. There were outfits for every occasion: braided, embroidered, some adorned with knots of ribbon, others with spangled rosettes and silver fringes. Walking dresses, riding costumes, day toilettes and ball gowns floated past on a wave of elegance.
She tried hard to keep her feet on the ground, worrying about the mounting cost and how she could ever repay her grandmother even a fraction of the staggering bill for this dazzling wardrobe. Frantically she tried to catch sight of the price tags as the dresses were brought forwards for her inspection. An evening gown in sea-green tulle made her gasp as she gazed in wonder at her reflection in the mirror. She could hardly recognise the modish and graceful young woman looking back at her.
‘How much did you say this gown was?’ she asked the seamstress tentatively.
‘That is one of our newest creations, mademoiselle, and made from the finest silk tulle. A very reasonable hundred guineas. It suits mademoiselle to perfection.’
Shocked by the price, Amelie began reluctantly to take off the charming creation when the modiste, catching a minatory look from Brielle, coughed apologetically and decided that she had made a mistake.
‘Of course, for such a beautiful young lady we can come to an agreeable arrangement, I’m sure. You will wear the dress with a distinction that will bring honour to our small salon and build our reputation.’
After that Amelie gave up trying to keep count of the ever-increasing total. It was all way beyond anything she could ever have afforded from her allowance. The colours and fabrics flew past her eyes like a moving kaleidoscope. To the pile of dresses were added furtrimmed pelisses, tiny pearl-stitched slippers, long white leather gloves and a Norwich silk shawl, all apparently necessities for a protracted stay in Bath. By the time they left the salon, the carriage was brimming with boxes and packages and had to be sent back to Laura Place while they made their way to Milsom Street to pay a call on Brielle’s favourite milliner.
Amelie, who owned precisely two hats, was amazed by the information that she would need no fewer than six if she were to grace the Bath social scene successfully. One extraordinary confection followed another as Madame Charcot laid before them the finest of her wares. Amelie’s London Season had been notable for its modesty. Lord Silverdale had neither the money nor the wish to expend large sums on his daughter’s coming-out and expected