The day itself had been arranged by dint of the exchange of exceedingly formal and impersonal notes. Lord Penrith presents his compliments to Miss Mallory and begs to enquire if she and Mr Mallory are able to join the Nonesuch Whips with one of their equipages on Saturday 10th September for a picnic expedition to Greenwich Park. If it is not convenient to use one of their own conveyances, he begs the pleasure of their company as his guests …
If it had not been for the invitation, Bree would have concluded that Max was avoiding her again after that strangely intense journey into Buckinghamshire. At least, for her it had been intense—for him, she had no idea. Max’s thoughts about her, his motives, remained a mystery.
‘Miss Mallory, Latymer.’ Max. She had conjured him up just by thinking about him. Bree suppressed the foolish, superstitious thought and managed to plaster a polite smile on her lips.
‘My lord. I had no idea you were here this evening.’ Or else I would have spent the entire day in a foolish state of dither over what to wear, how to do my hair, what I would say to you. She was aware of Mr Latymer’s cool gaze upon her and strove for composure. ‘May I recommend the lobster patties?’
‘I find I have little appetite this evening, Miss Mallory,’ he rejoined politely and she realised that his eyes were not on her, but were clashing with Mr Latymer’s.
‘I am looking forward to the picnic on Saturday,’ she said brightly. The atmosphere had changed; if she had not known that the sky outside was clear and the stars twinkling she would have thought thunder and lightning were imminent, her skin prickled so.
‘As am I, Miss Mallory. May I hope you will do me the favour of travelling in my drag?’
‘I had just invited Miss Mallory to travel in mine,’ Latymer interjected. Had he? Did he ask me while I was daydreaming about Max?
‘I will travel out with Mr Latymer and home with Lord Penrith,’ she declared brightly, then realised she had succeeded in satisfying neither man. She ought to feel flattered that they were bristling over her—rather, she felt a stab of something not far removed from fear. Their antagonism was real, not the joshing rivalry of friends.
‘I was first in this matter,’ Mr Latymer said tightly. ‘You do not like to yield point, do you, Dysart?’
‘I never yield what is mine,’ Max said tightly. ‘Miss Mallory, until Saturday.’
‘My lord.’ She nodded politely, her stomach tightening with tension. What is his? Just what does that mean?
Chapter Fourteen
The small household at Gower Street was in turmoil, a state which neatly mirrored Bree’s own state of mind. She had spent two days attempting to put her thoughts and emotions into some kind of sensible state and was aware of failing miserably.
Rosa was managing her work at the Mermaid magnificently, which had the effect of making Bree feel that her own nose was thoroughly out of joint. In this, at least, she understood her own feelings. She had believed herself indispensable and had found that she was not, a discovery that was a salutary lesson.
And she was not yet comfortable with her newly acquired leisure and her status as a slightly shady member of the ton. If truth be told, she found most of the parties dull, shopping soon palled and she had found no close friends amongst her new acquaintances other than Lady Lucas and Mr Latymer.
Bree grimaced, knowing that her long habit of reticence and self-sufficiency was holding her back from making new friends. In time, no doubt, she would learn to confide and share.
But what did she feel about Max? No. She stopped that line of thought and corrected herself. She knew exactly what she thought of the Earl of Penrith: she was in love with him, fool that she was.
What does he think about me? Now that was the real question. Goodness knows, was the honest reply. Lust? Friendship? Mild liking? But what explained the fact that he would drop everything to travel in thoroughgoing discomfort on the roof of a stage just in order to keep an eye on her? Or that he would kiss her very comprehensively in the course of an evening, and then subject her to a dull afternoon call and formal invitations to what should be a very informal event?
The spare coach, gleaming from top rail to wheel hubs, stood outside, causing a minor traffic jam in Gower Street and enormous entertainment for every street urchin for blocks around. The chestnuts were, indeed, champing at the bit, and she had a nasty feeling she was going to receive confirmation of the generally held belief that horses of that colour were flighty and unreliable.
William Huggins, an enormous nosegay stuck in the buttonhole of his many-caped greatcoat, sat on the box. He was good-naturedly flicking away urchins with his whip, making them shriek with delight as the whip-point snapped just behind their skinny buttocks without making more than a great deal of noise.
Their most experienced groom was up behind, the yard of tin polished until it gleamed, and the domestic staff were packing the last items into not one, but two, bulging picnic hampers.
‘Raised pork pie, gooseberry tart, a pound of butter—don’t squash that!—the ham’s in that cloth …’ Cook scurried about, checking things off her list while Piers supervised the stowing of a keg of ale, a half-dozen bottles of wine and jugs of Cook’s celebrated ginger ale and lemonade.
The arrival of Brice Latymer’s drag, all gleaming dark blue lacquer, brass rails and with a team of handsome greys, put the finishing touch to the chaos in the street. Bree was aware of her neighbours’ curtains twitching, the heads of curious staff poking up out of service areas and even one or two front doors opening surreptitiously.
‘I had better go with Mr Latymer,’ Bree said to Piers. ‘At least that will help unblock the street. Now, you know where we are all meeting up in Green Park?’ She tipped back her head to look up at Huggins. ‘You understand? You yield the ribbons to whichever of the Whips they decide, and you take over his drag unless he has brought a second driver, in which case you sit up behind with Pratt.’
‘Aye, Miss Bree, whatever you say, though it’s much against my better judgement. I just hope they can all drive as well as his lordship.’ His lordship was, no doubt, Lord Penrith.
‘I don’t think anyone can match him—except you, of course,’ she added hastily. ‘But they are all very good drivers. And you’ll let Piers take the ribbons as well.’
‘Aye, Miss Bree.’ The coachman jerked his head towards Latymer’s drag. ‘That one know what he’s doing?’
‘I hope so, Bill.’ Bree grinned, relaxing into familiar banter with her oldest friend. ‘He’d better, starting off right under your nose!’
Max circled his drag in behind the array already drawn up just inside the park. There were ten, twelve when Latymer and the stage joined them. He had drawn up a list of drivers to take turns with the stage and had extracted the sworn word of all of them not to race—or face his wrath.
Now as they gossiped and joked, tossing friendly insult from box to box, he thought about the letter he had just received from Ryder.
It seems more than probable that all of those responsible for producing your art work perished in an epidemic of smallpox, which ravished Winchester seven years ago, the enquiry agent had written. I am in the process of checking all the parish registers in the city—it may be that this will lead directly to the fate of the article in question.
In other words, Drusilla probably perished with her family. It would explain the total silence. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of that horrible disease, struggling, yet again, with the knowledge that his own easy release from this coil meant the confirmation of his wife’s death.
A