Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) Page 5

  She wouldn’t look at him in the carriage on the way back to the house. Her mood extended to Victoria, who held her hand and gazed at Henry as if she wished he would disappear.

  As the butler let them back into the house in Mount Street, a small leaf from the hornbeam tree whipped into his face. Pulling it away from him with a snort of disgust, he entered the hall and drew a tired hand across his face where the leaf had scratched at it. Dropping the leaf to the floor, he crushed it beneath his feet and kicked it out over the doorstep. Clenching his fingers to his side, he turned, only to catch the wide eyes of Smythe, his butler.

  He straightened. “Goodnight.” Without waiting for a reply, he trod up the stairs evenly and walked straight to his room.

  In his rooms, the footmen prepared a large tin bath and laid out a brush and some soap. The effect of the warm water was extremely calming, the tension of the ball leaching from his body. He would need to apologize to Agatha in the morning. By all accounts he had been extremely rude. And actually he was rather interested in what she had been planning to do with the spoon and the egg. Reaching out a long arm for the soap, he rubbed it along his chest, watching in satisfaction as a generous lather was generated.

  Stopping, he sniffed and frowned as the faint aromas of pork filled the air. Who was cooking at this time of night? Rubbing his arm, he continued to clean himself.

  The smell of pork became stronger.

  “What in the hell?” Henry stared down at the bar of soap in his hand. Mixed in to its yellow texture were black flecks. Bringing the bar to his face, he sniffed and recoiled.

  “I’ve found out what experiment Miss Beauregard intends to do next, sir.”

  Henry dropped the soap in the bathwater with a splash. Ames quietly shut the bedroom door behind him. The smell of pork rose again through the air on the steam of the hot bath.

  Ames sniffed. “They intend to make soap from homemade potash sir. Gods what is that smell?”

  Henry slammed his hand down into the bath. “That smell, Ames, is me. I rather think you are a little late with your information. Agatha and Victoria appear to have made soap using pork dripping.” Grabbing a towel from a stand near the fire, he stood and furiously rubbed at his skin. “I need another bath.”

  “You can’t, sir. You’ve used up all the hot water. It’ll be nearly an hour until you can have one.”

  “Gods Ames, what have you been doing? You need to keep an eye on her.”

  “Miss Aggie, you mean?”

  “Yes… she’s a… she’s a liability… a…baggage of the highest order!”

  Ames pulled another towel off the rack and handed it to Henry. “Would you like me to order another bath, sir?”

  “Yes. Right away.”

  It was five o clock in the morning before he slept, and then only fitfully at that. Eggs and spoons chased him around the grounds of a familiar large house where the sea air swirled in the trees. When he tried the front door to escape from them, it was opened unexpectedly by Agatha. I’m being chased, he’d said, mumbling in his dream. Agatha had not said a word, but raised her eyebrows in disbelief. A crash sounded behind him. Looking back, the egg and the spoon lay splattered against the steps.

  It was then that he awoke, a ringing in his ears, the lingering image of Agatha in his mind. He’d been sure that she had made to open the door wider to the house, inviting him in. Inviting him into his own family home.

  With a grunt, he pulled his pocket watch off the table. Nine o’ clock in the morning. Gods but his ears hurt; what had woken him so loudly? Pulling on his dressing gown, he blearily left his room and strode down the stairs.

  “What’s going on?”

  Nobody answered him; the usual footmen were absent from their post in the hall. Pulling his dressing gown tighter, he glanced quickly down the stairs. The door to the drawing room stood slightly ajar. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made straight for the door and strode inside.

  Agatha lay sprawled on the floor by an upturned chair, the table in front of her a charred mess. With a curse, he ran to her side and knelt on the floor. He took her hand and leaned over her face. Agatha’s large eyes looked back at him, green and luminous. Slowly she blinked. With a sigh, Henry sank back on his heels and looked back around the room. A footman was busy sweeping up the ashes, whilst another held a bandage to Victoria’s eyebrow.

  Agatha put her free hand to her head and hiccupped. “Mrs. B. did say that one shouldn’t open phosphorous to the air at home. Perhaps we should have listened to her.”

  The footman next to Henry sniffed and looked up. “Lord Anglethorpe… err.”

  Victoria gazed at him from one barely open eye. “Bloody hell,” she said limply.

  Henry dropped Agatha’s hand, staring at her as she rubbed lightly at her face. Drawing in a deep breath, he got to his feet. For a few seconds he closed his eyes and just breathed. It was for their own good. Clenching his hands into fists, he caught Victoria’s gaze and held it, unable to look at the prone woman on the floor. “There will be no more experiments in my house, Agatha. Do you hear?”

  Agatha moaned and sat up. “I agree the phosphorous was a bit of a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Henry roared. She had no idea. “The mistake was you coming to live with us.”

  With a growl he strode to the door and ran up the stairs to his room. Dear God, why had she chosen to provoke him before he had even had time to have breakfast?

  CHAPTER 7

  Agatha sighed and pressed herself against the wall of the hallway. If it hadn’t been for Victoria, Agatha would have gone back to Devon to find her brother, as a very last resort mind. It was his fault she was in London. He was the one that had sent Horrible Henry to harry her. If only Peter wasn’t so insufferable when he was painting—only his wife and his small daughter could stand him. Six months it had been now, and it seemed that she had just exchanged one set of stifling constrictions for another.

  Agatha sidled further back behind one of the artistically-placed pot plants. The corridor at Hanover Square Rooms was draughty. Agatha shivered slightly. The plant poked her again on the shoulder, its razor sharp leaves leaving little dots on her arm. She imagined plucking one off and pushing it in the side of the next lady who compared her ordinariness to the beauty of Victoria.

  She stilled her hands as they reached for the leaf. Ladies did not brandish knives. Henry had made that very clear. They also did not go for walks alone, ride horses astride or mix water with salt on the dining room table to discover how soluble it was despite Mrs. B.’s extensive coverage of the experiment. In fact mentioning Mrs. B. was now a very taboo subject in the house in Mount Street. Especially as it had taken several weeks for Victoria’s eyebrows to regrow.

  She wrinkled her nose. It seemed that none of the things that she liked doing were compatible with living within sight of the beau monde. They were all considered somewhat scandalous.

  “Aggie, over here!” Victoria poked her head into the hall from the doorway to the large ballroom, the soft light accentuating her blonde hair and creamy skin. “Have you done it yet?”

  Agatha shook her head and mouthed a no. She shooed Victoria away with her hands. Victoria left with a soft swish of her skirts and a giggle.

  Pulling her wrap lightly round her, Agatha glanced up and down the empty hall, cursing the day that she had revealed more of the secrets of her childhood to Victoria in an effort to fill the boring hours that had been left behind after all their experimental activity had been curtailed. Perhaps she might have exaggerated some of them slightly. She had illicitly tasted whisky and, cigars, all in the name of science of course, and flirted with the footman because human biological interaction was science, wasn’t it?

  And then she was beaten again and shut up in her room. But she hadn’t told Victoria that part.

  Just as she hadn’t revealed everything. The fact that she could nearly hit a target with a throwing knife at ten paces. That she had practiced and practiced in secret becau
se after the book on mechanical principles had been burned, she had been shut up in her room all day with nothing but a knife and potatoes to peel as an endless punishment. It had seemed a fitting way to put into practice something called centripetal force the book had mentioned. Agatha flexed her fingers again, gazing longingly at the sharp leaves. Hah. Lucky Henry didn’t know about that. You should have never come here, he’d said. Perhaps she shouldn’t, but then she’d had nowhere else to go.

  Her body stilled as she saw the handsome man she was waiting for emerge from the door nearest the entrance hall. He straightened his cravat as he walked and pulled fastidiously at his breeches.

  She wished she had left more time to visit the powder room. Agatha was pretty, she knew that, but she was not beautiful. Not a diamond of the first water. But Victoria was. They practiced dances together, endured dress fittings together, and when it came to the balls and musicales, conspiratorially sat together. The endless line of gentlemen who paid court to Victoria gallantly included Agatha in their attentions too. She had more dances that she would have done, but many less than Victoria achieved.

  Mr. Charles Fashington had been one of Victoria’s court, although she did not accord him a dance very often. Two months into the season, he had deigned to ask Agatha to dance. Of course she had said yes with alacrity. One didn’t get the chance to dance often and there was no point in wasting the excellent Monsieur Bertrand’s tuition. Charles had also listened with a very interested ear to her discourse on science. Why he had even provided her with some of the material she had used to show the others some of the more interesting topics in Jane Marcet’s book. It was just too bad Henry had caught her. He never normally set foot in the ballroom.

  Shrinking back into the cover of the leaves, she watched as Charles walked past. He was only a few years older than her and he danced beautifully. Whilst his lips turned down slightly at the edges, his face was handsome, with dashing hair and only slightly padded shoulders. Agatha knew that he was part of the same club as Henry, he had mentioned it himself.

  Despite standing behind the pot plant in the cold hall, a warm flush travelled up her neck and reached Agatha’s ears. With a gasp, Agatha took off her wrap. Goodness, it really was rather warm. And she had had a rather brilliant idea.

  Charles was going to help her fulfil Victoria’s request.

  Victoria wanted to drink beautiful, bubbling champagne—not the watered down lemonade that she, Agatha and all the debutantes had to rely on. The current ball they were attending was being held in Hanover Square Rooms, a large recital hall in Mayfair. Hanover Square Rooms had only just been constructed and Lady Foxtone, the current hostess, was considered all the rage for having arranged her ball there. Her lemonade, however, was more watered down than most.

  Agatha couldn’t refuse Victoria. Especially not after the stories that she had told to impress her. You are just her companion, her senses whispered to her. You don’t need to do this.

  What would Henry think?

  Agatha stepped out from the pot plant. She might be the lowly companion but Victoria didn’t treat her as such. She treated her as a friend, the first one Agatha had ever had, allowing her to prattle on about angles, diagrams, chemistry, and biology without once censuring her or cutting her off. Sometimes she might even make an insightful remark which could change Agatha’s thoughts. For that reason alone she would do anything for Victoria.

  Sliding back into the ballroom, Agatha searched for Charles. He stood with his finely dressed friends against the outer edge of the ballroom, watching the whirling couples. Each of them sported waterfall designs to their cravats. He smiled as she approached, and, taking her hand, led her onto the dancefloor.

  He really was rather perfect.

  Feeling unusually light on her feet, Agatha floated around the ballroom in her dance slippers, her heavy boots a distant thought.

  “You’ve been very quiet, Agatha,” Charles murmured as they whirled. “You haven’t answered me.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked if you would be going to the circus in Vauxhall Gardens in three nights’ time. We can watch the Grand Salvatore together.”

  Interrupted in her plotting and the effort of counting dance steps, Agatha almost stumbled in surprise. She hadn’t been paying attention—Vauxhall Gardens—where the disreputable part of the ton caroused deep into the night? With Henry looking on, that wasn’t just somewhat scandalous. That was stupidly scandalous. As she frowned at him, he looked back down at her as they executed another quick step turn and laughed nervously.

  “Just ribbing you my dear. After your joke about approaching the Royal Academy of Science last week I thought you might laugh. Everyone knows the Royal Academy doesn’t take women.”

  They didn’t? Agatha inhaled and went back to counting her steps. Henry had tried to warn her. A novelty with scandalous ways. They’ll want to have fun with you.

  Six… seven… as she reached the count of eight she stepped out of his arms, a step to the left, back into his arms and twirl.

  Charles caught her neatly in his arms again. “I say. Couldn’t help admiring that marvelous new pair of greys Anglethorpe’s bought. Who did you say his dealer was?”

  Aha. Appeal to his self-interest. Charles had asked several times about Darkangel, Henry’s race horse. Hmm. “I’m really not sure, but I could ask.” Smiling sweetly, she cocked her head on one side. “That is, if you would be so kind as to get me a lovely glass of champagne?” Pulling back, she executed, to her mind, the best quadrille she’d ever done.

  Charles watched her with wide eyes, before taking her in his arms again. “Agatha m’dear,” he murmured. “No need for that. You should have just said. Go to the blue salon in fifteen minutes, the glass will be waiting for you there.”

  As Agatha whirled to a stop, Charles bent over her gloved hand and kissed it as usual before giving her a long intent look, and striding purposefully towards the ballroom door. Agatha continued to hold her hand out, not sure what to do with it. The back of the glove was wet. Glancing up at the roof, she wondered disbelievingly if there was a leak. Perhaps the workmen hadn’t quite finished off the building yet. It was all rather new.

  Grimacing, she bent and rubbed her hand along the part of her hem that skimmed the floor. Standing again, she gazed back through the crush and picked out Victoria’s long blond hair. Her friend started towards her with an uncustomary frown on her face. With a flick of her head, Agatha signaled to her to meet her by the curtained stage.

  “Charles is going to get us a glass of champagne,” she said breathlessly as Victoria arrived. “Meet me in the blue salon in ten minutes.”

  Victoria snapped open a fan and leaned forward, covering their faces. “Are you sure, Agatha? You don’t think Charles will tell anyone, do you?” Her frown deepened. “I’ve been hearing some things…”

  “No, don’t worry at all,” Agatha broke in. “Charles acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. I know he won’t tell anyone either, I gave him quite an incentive.” Her scientific examination of male human nature had been extensive. After all, most of the household at Hope Sands had been male. “I must go. He told me to go to the blue salon five minutes ago.” Pushing back Victoria’s fan, Agatha edged towards the door. “Who are you dancing with next?”

  “Lord Colchester.” Agatha winced. Lord Colchester was a man of advanced years whose only advantage was his immense wealth. Victoria tapped her fan on her skirts. “But what of…”

  Victoria’s last words were lost in the crush as Agatha pushed through the door from the ballroom. Once outside, she stopped to look around. The hall was deserted yet again. Hurrying down the hallway, she didn’t even give her favorite pot plant a cursory glance. She did not want to be discovered—she only had a few moments to grab the glass of champagne and wait for Victoria.

  The blue salon was located further down the long hall. In fact, it was further away than she had thought. She tried the doors to several rooms down th
e corridor but they were all locked and no lights shone beneath the doors. Each time she rattled the handles her heart thumped loudly in her ears.

  The last door at the end of the hallway stood slightly ajar; the wallpaper that glinted through the crack was a deep azure blue. Gulping in relief, she peered through to see Charles standing by a deep window, a glass of champagne fizzing on a round table by the fire. Agatha drew back into the hall. What was he doing in there? He was meant to have left the champagne glass on the table, alone.

  CHAPTER 8

  Henry walked through the dark streets to Granwich’s residence. The wind ruffled at his coat, and grabbed at his hat as he held it firmly on his head. If he hadn’t been intending to join Agatha and Victoria at Lady Foxtone’s ball later he wouldn’t have taken it with him.

  Granwich lived in the unfashionable old town houses that surrounded Covent Garden, interspersed between tanners yards and factories. Paint flaked on the small nondescript door that gave onto a narrow hall. Henry was greeted by a dour butler who led him into an austere side room with bare walls and a desk behind which stood a comfortable chair. In front of the desk stood a three legged stool. Henry winced. He knew which one he would be sitting in.

  “Sit down, Anglethorpe. Can I get you a drink?” Granwich moved to behind the desk and sank gracefully into the chair. His hand hovered over the decanter that sat beside him on the fireplace. The butler closed the door behind him with a discreet click.

  “No, thank you.” Henry could feel his stomach rumbling. He had missed dinner. Cursing under his breath, he put a hand to his midriff. He did unreasonable things when he was hungry. Usually he carried a bag of nuts in his coat pocket, but Ames had taken away his normal attire to clean, having told him in no uncertain terms that a peer of the realm did not go about his business with a bloodied jacket for six months. No peer of the realm that had Ames as a valet anyway.