Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Your Grace.” Our hostess dipped a low curtsey to the duchess. “Gentlemen. I am Mrs. Hortense Blumenthal. How might I be of service?”
“This was all arranged,” Her Grace said, impatience dripping from every syllable. “I was assured of discretion and excellent service.”
“We provide both at Bascomb’s Retreat, though I apologize for being at somewhat of a loss.”
“My son,” Her Grace muttered, “is in need of a brief respite. I was assured that short notice would not be an issue.”
“If I might ask, Your Grace, assured by whom?”
“For pity’s sake,” the duchess snapped. “That is none of your affair. Lord Julian has delicate nerves. He gets them from his late father. He is in need of your services. The dark days of winter are particularly difficult for him, and I cannot leave him at the Hall on his own.”
A fraught, frowning silence sprang up while Mrs. Blumenthal considered me as one would a fractious schoolboy.
Sir Clive cleared his throat. “I believe Lord Huffnagel is your ombudsman?”
The last perishing name I wanted to hear was Lord Huffnagel’s—he was undoubtedly on the very premises—but Mrs. Blumenthal appeared reassured by the mention.
“I see. Well, then. We will make his lordship very comfortable, but first, some documents will require—”
“Clerical details do not interest me,” Her Grace said. “Julian, make the best of this opportunity. Do you understand me?”
I sighed gustily. “Very clearly, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Blumenthal wasn’t about to give up. “But, ma’am, I mean, Your Grace, we cannot accept a new arrival without—”
The duchess swept toward the door. “Sir Clive, our business here is finished. Any documents can be sent to me at the Hall, and I will see them dealt with. Sums owing will be paid promptly, if that’s your concern. Julian, I will keep you in my prayers.”
I would need them. “Good night, Your Grace. Sir Clive.”
Sir Clive spared me a solicitous squeeze to the shoulder. I stuck my nose in the air and appeared to ignore his gesture of support.
My heartbeat, for no sensible reason, accelerated.
Mrs. Blumenthal sent me an appraising look. “If my lord will wait here, I will see your mother out.”
“She is quite capable of seeing herself out. I am honestly looking forward to a respite from her company. You have no idea, madam. Not the first, earthly clue the tribulations a loyal and long-suffering son suffers for the cause of his mother’s dignity.
My older brother has been traveling for months on the Continent, and his objective has hardly been to admire great art.
Certainly not. Waltham has left me to contend with Her Grace on my own, despite my so-called delicate nerves.
Her Grace spoke the truth. I need and deserve a respite. ”
Some of Mrs. Blumenthal’s starchiness eased. “You are placing yourself at the Retreat voluntarily?”
She should have asked me that question before witnesses, particularly in the absence of any legal documents. That she was bending rules suggested that unexpected arrivals were not unheard of at the Retreat.
“Of course I am not here voluntarily,” I replied.
“I emphatically do not want to be in this place, make no mistake about that, but until Her Grace’s temper cools, I will take advantage of what she termed this opportunity.
The duchess doesn’t care for my choice of bride.
I don’t care to be told whom to marry. I don’t suppose you have any brandy?
I’m also behind with the London newspapers, if you have some recent editions available? ”
Mrs. Blumenthal appeared to consider options. As a younger woman, she might have been pretty, but her features now were best described as uncompromising. Straight nose, definite chin going soft beneath, fleshy cheeks, and a small mouth that hadn’t likely smiled since Napoleon’s second abdication.
“Your stay with us will be brief?” she asked.
“I honestly don’t care, my good woman, provided the libation is adequate and you have an ample supply of interesting books.
A partner at whist wouldn’t go amiss, and I do hope the bill of fare is well prepared.
If I might wax a shade ungentlemanly, my mother is stubborn, but I have participated in wartime sieges.
I can outlast her little tantrums, and it’s time she learned that lesson. ”
Forgive me, Your Grace. Forgive me, Hyperia. Forgive me, Arthur. Next, I’d be maligning my horse.
“Very well, then. I’ll see about your brandy, my lord, but if I might just have your boots?”
“My boots? As if I’d linger in a lady’s presence without footwear?” As if I’d be all but hobbled out of doors by stockinged feet in the dead of winter?
“The boot-boy will see to them, sir. You wouldn’t want to appear at breakfast in muddy boots.”
She’d attempted a cajoling note. The bullying would soon follow, and I could not afford that delay.
“Why not show me to my quarters, and you can have the damned boots. I borrowed this pair. Don’t care for Hessians, myself, but Her Grace gave me no notice that we’d be going out.”
“Very inconsiderate of her, my lord. I do understand. I think we’ll put you in the north wing for now.”
“I will be a model guest, Mrs. Blumenthal, if only to disappoint my mother.”
She lit a carrying candle and accompanied me up two flights of steps. Not another soul was stirring, though an exceedingly muscular footman was on sentry duty at the top of the stairs.
“You will have a nice view of the woods from here,” she said. “We can also draw you a bath before you retire.”
The better to search my clothing, of course. “No need at this hour. Brandy for a nightcap will do nicely.”
Her frustration showed in a firming of her mouth. “Very well. In the morning, then, and we will have some documents to complete tomorrow as well.”
“Would the services of a valet be too much to ask?” I was a ducal heir. I was entitled to expect basic domestic service, wasn’t I?
“The lateness of the hour, my lord, has limited the hospitality I can offer at present. We can discuss amenities further after you’ve enjoyed your breakfast tray.
” She turned down the last corridor in the wing and stopped before a plain door at the end.
No footman guarded my door. “I will warn you that a bland diet is recommended for guests suffering an imbalance of the humors.”
“My humors are fine. What I suffer is an imbalance of maternal ire. Send me up some eggs and toast to break my fast. I will manage, provided you don’t skimp on the butter and jam.
But speaking of morning… Will I run into anybody here who might travel in polite circles?
One wants to avoid awkwardness. Her Grace’s temper is legendary, but one still hopes for some forewarning if an explanation must be readied. ”
I’d apparently done a credible impersonation of an entitled fribble, because Mrs. Blumenthal answered the question as she sorted through a ring of keys.
“We go by first names only here, my lord, and I can confidently say that your fellow guests in the north wing will not have encountered you previously. Our numbers are smaller than they used to be, but many of those residing here hail from Ireland, Scotland, and the Continent. Your mother chose a very select location for your respite.”
Oh, right. The Retreat was patronized by families with the blunt to send their embarrassments over hill and dale and even across the water. Good to know.
She let me into a small but comfortable bedroom and lit two sconces with her carrying candle.
The fire was laid but unlit, and thus the chamber was quite chilly.
The bed was not as wide as the standard four-poster, but it would nearly fit one of my height.
More chintz adorned a small sofa and hassock, and a braided rug lent a homey touch.
No porcelain figurines that might have been broken and pressed into service for sharp edges. The washbasin was copper—too light to make an adequate cosh—and no warming pan stood on the hearth, much less a hand poker beside it.
Not a weapon in sight, in other words.
“I’ll see to your brandy, my lord, and send a footman up to light the fire.”
“Excellent.”
She paused in the doorway. “We do keep doors locked after dark, my lord, for the protection of our guests. Nobody’s valuables go missing. Nobody’s privacy is imperiled.”
“How quaint. Like public school but without Cicero and Caesar. Good night, Mrs. Blumenthal. My mother will have much to answer for.”
“Your boots, my lord?”
Botheration. I parted with a pair of Dantry’s spare Hessians. She did not attempt to relieve me of my cloak, probably because the chamber was so cold.
She shut and locked the door, the snick of the latch grating across my last nerve.
With a firm refusal to indulge in panic, I inspected my quarters. Within a minute, I’d found two peepholes, which I covered with tiny bits of a calling card moistened with saliva.
The bed and washstand were bolted to the floor, and the two lamps were bolted to their sconces.
The washstand and even the andirons were similarly secured.
I went to the window to inspect the view Mrs. Blumenthal mentioned and saw dim light still emanating from the stable, while the carriage house was now dark.
What I had taken to be Lord Huffnagel’s horse was no longer in the barn aisle, and that was a very good, lucky development.
If he’d been informed of my presence, he hadn’t seen fit to inspect me in person.
Perhaps Mrs. Blumenthal hadn’t wanted to detain him at such an hour.
Perhaps she wanted to have her facts in order before she discussed an unscheduled arrival for which his lordship might have been responsible.
I had a little time, in other words, and that, too, was prodigious good luck, because the windows were covered with stout bars, and I hadn’t thought to bring either a crowbar or file.