Amanda Scott (14 page)

Abel entered seconds later, informing her that he had been awaiting her summons. “Master said ye would be right peckish when ye woke, miss. What shall I fetch ye?”

Ordering a full breakfast and a pot of tea, and telling him to hurry, she seated herself and waited impatiently, grateful when he returned a few minutes later with a rack of buttered toast, two pots of jam, and her tea.

“Cook be boiling an egg, miss. The rest be ready and waiting, so it’ll not be long. I’ll just go ter fetch it.”

Munching toast and jam, she grinned at him but didn’t attempt to express her gratitude until he returned with the rest of her breakfast. When she had finished, she left the sunny little parlor and went in search of Sydney, finding him at last in his snuff room.

Wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell, she quickly closed the door behind her, well aware that he insisted upon keeping the temperature in the room as constant as possible. A fire burned low in the grate, and the room was delightfully warm.

Sydney, with Ching Ho at his side, was bent over a counter on one side of the room, and only glanced up briefly at the sound of the door. “One moment,” he said. “I want to finish this mix before I forget what I’ve added and what I haven’t. I mean to give it to Prinny at Oatlands, so it won’t do to make a mistake. He’ll probably hesitate to accept it in any event, after the last time in that house that he dared try a mixture of mine.”

“Surely, he ought to have forgotten that occasion by now,” Carolyn said, refusing to be drawn.

“Very likely,” he agreed. “But although he usually only pretends to take snuff these days, managing to lose his pinch somewhere between his snuff box and his nose, he is still a connoisseur and will instantly recognize a poor mix.”

“Well, this one, lacking any helpful addition from me, will be no such thing,” Carolyn retorted, gazing at the many shelves containing neatly labeled jars of snuff. Moving closer to the counter, she saw that Sydney was carefully adding to the contents of an elegantly painted jar what looked liked powder from several squares of paper carefully arranged before him. A twist of hard tobacco lay beside a wooden grater, and a small hammer and hand rake lay beside these. “What is that?” she asked when he drew a paper with a small amount of pinkish powder on it toward him.

“Crushed Chinese camphor,” he said without taking his eyes from his work. “Prinny likes his snuff slightly scented. I’ll also add a bit of Australian eucalyptus to intrigue him.”

“He is said to have a whole cellar of snuff,” Carolyn said.

“Yes, but nowadays he prefers a blend put up for him by Fribourg and Treyer. He still enjoys trying new mixes, however, and I flatter myself that he will like this one. Look at the snuff box I found for him.”

He nodded toward a silver box sitting by itself a little to one side, and Carolyn picked it up, laughing when she recognized the cameo framed in diamonds on the lid. “His pavilion at Brighton! He will adore it, Sydney. Where did you find it?”

“Had it from Jefferys of Bath,” he told her, “so he won’t have seen it. He generally purchases his from Rundle and Bridge in London. Now, hush, and let me concentrate. Hold that paper, Ching Ho. It wants to move when I touch the powder.”

Carolyn sat in a chair near the window and waited patiently until he had finished, whereupon Ching Ho swept the paraphernalia onto a tray and carried it out of the room to clean.

“How does he get the tobacco out of all those little holes in the grater?” she asked when the door had shut behind him.

“With a silver pin,” Sydney told her, taking the chair beside hers. “Sorry you had to wait, but mixing is a process that won’t tolerate a stop-and-start sort of attention.”

She chuckled. “All that work just so someone can cock up his nose and compose his features into an expression of pompous dignity as he performs the solemn rite. Most men look as if they scorn the whole world when they take snuff.”

“Not only men, my dear,” he said, smiling at her. “Members of the fair sex also indulge.”

“To be sure, but not nearly so many anymore, and women never make such a nonsensical ritual out of it.”

“Not so. There once was a woman so devoted to snuff as to direct in her will that her coffin be filled with enough Scotch snuff to cover her body. Furthermore, the six greatest snuff-takers in her parish were to act as her pallbearers, wearing snuff-colored beaver hats instead of the usual funereal black.”

“I don’t believe you. You made that up.”

He looked wounded. “I did not. Was there something in particular you wanted of me? I trust you are feeling better.”

She blushed. “Much better. I came both to thank you and to apologize. It occurs to me now that I ought to have thanked Ching Ho, too, only I seem never to speak to him or he to me.”

“Silent sort, is Ching,” he said, “unless he has something he wishes to say. Generally, I find him restful.”

“Meaning I talk too much, I suppose.”

“I didn’t say that. Is that the only reason you wished to talk to me? You did nothing for which you need apologize, you know, and I can think of no good reason for you to thank me.”

“Well, I did have too much to drink last night. I hope I did not make a spectacle of myself.”

“You did not. You were in high spirits, to be sure, but no more than anyone might expect on the anniversary of your birth.”

“I haven’t seen Godmama or Puck yet this morning.”

“I promise you,” he said with an understanding smile, “they will have noticed nothing amiss. And since Mama received one letter from Matilda and another from Nurse Helmer in the morning post, she will not have been thinking about you at all.”

Carolyn grinned. “Did she, really? You know, Sydney, I don’t recall that there was nearly so much skirmishing between them before we came here. Of course, when Godmama and I were in London for the Season, with Skipton and Matilda, the children were not with us, but before that, whenever I would visit, and even for the short period that I spent at Skipton Manor before we left for London, everyone was always very polite. It was only after we returned from London that your mama and Nurse Helmer seemed to form a coalition against Matilda and Miss Rumsey.”

“The antagonism was just more subtly expressed before,” Sydney said. “In case you haven’t chanced to notice, my mama likes to rule the roast, and Matilda is rather a strong woman herself. I daresay Nurse and that governess—What did you call her, Rumsey?” When she nodded, he said, “Well, I think they are skirmishing for position. Nurse will lose, of course, because Matilda will make Skipton pension her off as soon as Stephen goes off to Eton—which explains why Nurse insists he is too sickly to go—and the governess will be kept on for young Harriet.”

“Goodness, I believe you are right,” Carolyn said, having not seen matters from this viewpoint before. “Did Nurse go on again about Stephen’s ill health in today’s letter?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he said, grinning. “When Mama’s letter came I was trapped in the room long enough to learn that Matilda, confirming that we are to go to them for Christmas, had suggested that would be the perfect opportunity for Mama to return what she calls the Louis-Fifteen table. For some reason, Mama did not choose to explain the matter in greater detail to me, and I refused to pursue it because I wanted to escape before hearing Nurse’s latest grievances on behalf of the children. That woman used to terrify me. Still does, in fact. Treats me as though I’d never grown up. I’ll wager she treats Skipton the same. If I were in his shoes, I’d have pensioned her off years ago.”

“I daresay he is accustomed to her, you know,” Carolyn said. “Furthermore, he pays no more heed to nursery matters than most gentlemen do. And in fairness to Matilda, though she must be fully aware that it is Nurse who keeps Godmama so well informed about the household, she also knows that it would be unthinkable to dismiss one who has served the family so long and well.”

“Would it now?” he asked, smiling at her.

“You know it would. And say what you will, sir, I know you would not have dismissed her either.”

“You know that for a fact, do you? Oh, Ching,” he added when his manservant returned just then with the tray of articles he had taken away to clean, “I believe I forgot to mention that I shall have to attend a meeting of the turnpike trust this afternoon. I’ll want to go to the stable shortly after one.”

Ching Ho bowed. “At one, my master. I will see to the preparations.”

“Yes, thank you. That will be all for now. You can put those things away later.”

When the man had gone, Carolyn said with a chuckle, “He makes it sound as if he will have a great deal to do to see to the preparations, as he calls it, but I daresay it takes you a while to dress, does it not? Still, he could just as well have put those things away now. There is nearly an hour before you leave, and I should not have minded his presence. Indeed, I forgot, once again, to thank him for his remedy.”

“He will not regard that,” Sydney said, “and in point of fact, there is a small matter I wish to discuss privately with you. Since this is the one room that neither my mother nor Cousin Judith ever enters, it seems an excellent opportunity.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated long enough for her to repeat her question before he said reluctantly, “It is about Lyndhurst.”

“Lyndhurst?”

He gave her a rueful but teasing look and drawled, “You know the fellow. Large man, muscles, devilish leer in his—”

“Sydney, for goodness’ sake, don’t be absurd. You know perfectly well—”

“Sorry,” he said. “The fact is, I don’t like the fellow. He is not a … well, not a suita—”

“If I hear one more time,” Carolyn cut in, gritting her teeth, “that he is not suitable for me to know or that he has a dangerous reputation—”

“Damn,” Sydney swore, exasperated.

Carolyn said frostily, “I beg your pardon.”

“That boot’s on the other foot,” he said with a sigh. “I should beg yours for making such a song about this, but the plain fact is that I think you are going to be displeased with me and I seem to be quaking as much as I did when Nurse used to say she rather thought my father would wish to know that I had been up to mischief. The truth is that I warned Lyndhurst off last night—told him he wasn’t to keep pressing his attentions on you.”

Carolyn was silent.

“I suppose you are vexed,” he said, watching her as though he would see into her mind. “I know you dislike it when I—”

“I am not angry, Sydney,” she said. “I can’t think why I’m not, but I’m not.”

“I thought you liked him,” he said gently. “You looked so merry when you danced with him, and when you put him off, I thought you were only flirting. But it won’t do, Caro. It—”

“It was the wine, Sydney.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “It is the most lamentable thing,” she said, “but I cannot seem to care enough about any man to make a push to attract his interest. Oh, Lyndhurst is a romantic figure, I suppose—all those dark looks and his lordly manner. Indeed, I doubt that you have got rid of him at all, you know, but I find I don’t much mind it if you have.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“Yes, but it is a depressing state of affairs, nonetheless. Do you not see? Here am I, already one-and-twenty years of age, and I have never truly been in love. Indeed, I doubt I shall ever fall in love, for I cannot imagine ever feeling such a deep passion for any man. I know what love ought to be, you see, for I have read any number of books that describe it in detail. Twice I even thought I might have found it, but I discovered my error on both occasions with the most amazing speed. I know I would have been miserable had I married either of those two wretched gentlemen, and I can tell you, I am very glad I have no stern papa to order me to marry where I cannot love.”

“You must never do that,” he said firmly.

“You are such a good friend to me, Sydney,” she said, reaching out to pat his hand. When he placed his other hand on hers, she looked at him for a long moment, aware of a rush of warmth through her body. But she rallied quickly and said, “Now that you have routed my most promising suitor, sir, I hope you realize it is your duty to advise me what I must do next!”

He released her hand and glanced out the window before he said rather gruffly, “You will come about, Caro. Do not let your imagined advancing years panic you into doing something you will regret. I cannot doubt that you will meet someone for whom you can develop the sort of tenderness you seek, and if you do not, you are always welcome at Bathwick Hill House.”

“Well, I believe I shall become a permanent pensioner then,” she said. “I have looked over all the gentlemen in Bath, you know, and I doubt Godmama will take me to London again. However, I shall not repine. Perhaps I shall meet someone at Oatlands. Indeed,” she added with an air of pensiveness not wholly belied by the sudden glint of mischief in her eyes, “perhaps I have not set my sights high enough. I do not approve of divorce, so the Regent is out, but certainly a royal duke might do—”

“My dear girl,” Sydney said with an ominous frown, “if I thought for one moment that you were not jesting, I swear I would refuse to take you to Oatlands at all. A royal duke indeed! The most likely one to be there, besides York, is Cumberland, since he seems to have been chasing Prinny all over the map of late, and you would be most unwise to attract his notice.”

“Is it true that he murdered his valet?” she asked with a look of polite interest.

“He says the boot was on the other foot,” Sydney retorted, “that his French valet tried to kill him and the English one, an unctuous sort called Cornelius Neall, saved him, whereupon the Frenchman killed himself. Cumberland was hurt, because he is known to have recovered at Carlton House, but I don’t know any more than that. In any event, Cumberland is not a suita—”

“Sydney,” Carolyn said sweetly, “isn’t it time you prepared for your meeting? I daresay it is already so late that you will never be dressed and away by one.”

“Very true,” he said, giving her a long look. “Ching will be waiting for me. And I suppose you want a nuncheon.”

“Good Lord, no, I just ate,” she said. “Moreover, since I wish to hear nothing about the disputed Louis table or about sickly Stephen, I mean to ride out or to walk in the garden.”