Chapter 19 #2
“You are wondering who I am,” she guessed as Angel followed her into the cosy parlour.
“The reverend is my uncle, you see. I am Miss Caroline Honeywell, and my little sister, Abbie, is here too. We knew Uncle Bertie would be lonely with all his daughters married now, so… so we came to keep him company.”
Angel nodded her understanding, but there was something in the brisk way the girl spoke that made the words sound somewhat rehearsed.
She wondered what the real story was, not that she intended to pry.
So, Angel settled herself down in a sunny spot while Miss Caroline went to order the tea tray.
The weather here was a good deal brighter than it had been in town, where they’d not seen the sun all year.
Angel hoped they might see a glimmer of warmth for their wedding.
“And how are you enjoying Little Valentine?” she asked when Caroline returned. “Have you been here long?”
The girl sat down and smoothed her skirts a little nervously.
“Since late April, and it’s lovely, though I did not realise how fashionable it is, and how very busy.
” Her eyes grew shadowed with worry for a moment, and Angel wondered if she was hiding.
In the past, Little Valentine would have been an excellent choice to do just that, but now, not so much.
“Yes, I have not been here since early April, and I can see how much it has changed already. There’s so much building going on.”
“Yes, indeed. The locals have mixed feelings about it, I assure you. There are so many men here, working on the building sites, and so they come through town to go to The Dog and Duck—it can cause a little tension.”
Angel nodded, well able to believe it.
Out in the hallway, the sound of the front door opening and the chatter of voices, punctuated by deep, masculine laughter, filled the air.
“They’re back,” Caroline said with obvious relief, and leapt up to greet them. “You’ve got a visitor, Cousin Izzy.”
Angel got to her feet as she heard a squeal of delight, and the next moment was engulfed in a hug.
“Angel! Oh, you are here at last and… and looking fine as fivepence! Oh, Ben, come and meet my very dear friend.”
Angel laughed as she regarded Izzy, who looked the height of fashion herself. “Why, Mrs Midwinter, you look très chic. That’s a Parisian design, unless I miss my guess.”
“You do not,” Izzy said, giving a little twirl before reaching for the hand of a handsome man with startling blue eyes and the fairest blond hair Angel had ever seen.
“We’ve only been back a week from our honeymoon.
Now, let me introduce you. Ben, this is Miss Angelica Everdene, soon to be the very grand Marchioness of Hartwell.
Will you be too fine to speak to us, Angel? ”
Angel laughed as Mr Midwinter bowed over her hand, his expression rueful as he did not attempt to get a word in edgewise. “Indeed not, so stop teasing, you wretched girl, and tell me all about your honeymoon.”
“Oh, not all, surely?” Izzy said with a naughty wink, which made Miss Caroline blush scarlet. “And never mind that, I want to know about the treasure!”
The Mermaid, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 25th June 1816
“It’s a disgrace, my lord,” Blake grumbled as he did his best to stow Hart’s clothes in the limited space. “And you a marquess. I don’t know what the world is coming to. Why you didn’t accept Hawkney’s invitation to stay at Hatherley Hall, I really don’t—”
“Because Hawkney is an annoying stick-in-the-mud and he don’t like me,” Hart replied, holding onto his patience as best he could despite having explained this before.
He hadn’t been back in Blake’s good books for very long, though, and he did not want a return to sulking if he could help it, so he did his best to modify his frustrated tone and sound understanding.
“And, as you know, the hotel was fully booked. It was good of them to find us anything. We knew it would be awkward, and it’s only for one night.
Both Mr and Mrs Everdene are leaving directly after the wedding, so The Crow’s Nest is ours until we leave on our honeymoon.
I don’t think a night in rather cramped quarters is going to do either of us any injury. ”
“They could have given you one of the better rooms and put the guest in this one.”
“Not if they want to keep that guest’s good opinion, they couldn’t,” Hart replied tersely, deciding he’d best get out of the admittedly close quarters before he did his valet an injury.
“I’m going for a walk,” he announced, and hurried through the door.
“But sir—your hat!”
Hart repressed a grin as he imagined the look of frustration on the poor fellow’s face.
Still, at least the old fusspot approved of his soon-to-be marchioness.
Though a dreadful snob—almost as bad as his father—Blake had been no match for Angel, who had wrapped the fellow about her finger in short order.
She had simply asked his advice about which colour waistcoats suited Hart the best so she could select her wardrobe to compliment them, and he’d been putty in her hands.
Thoughts of Angel stirred up the lather of frustration that had been building over the past weeks, and he picked up his pace.
She ought to be home by now, and by hook or by crook, he intended to get some time alone with her.
Though they had managed a little furtive kissing and fondling, it had been most unsatisfactory and had left him in a far worse state than he’d started, which was saying something.
So, he strode through the town with one thought on his mind—and consequently did not see the fellow turning the corner in the opposite direction until they collided.
“God dammit!”
“Blast!”
Hart looked in dismay as rolls of plans and a leather folder containing papers scattered about them.
“Dreadfully sorry,” he said as the man cursed again, and bent to gather his things.
Hart hurried to retrieve a thick roll of what looked like building plans before they tumbled into the gutter.
The man stood as he returned, an expression of impatience on his face as he held out his hand for Hart to return the roll.
Hart was about to do so when he hesitated. “Wait, don’t I know you?”
Steely grey eyes, grim and humourless, met his. “I think not,” he replied tersely.
Hart held onto the plans, tapping one end against his other palm.
The fellow was tall, athletic looking, with dark hair cut too short for fashion.
Impeccably dressed, there was nothing frivolous about him.
His waistcoat was a sombre shade of charcoal with no embellishment.
Yet Hart could swear, “Yes, I do. I never forget a face—oh, I’ve got it. You’re Rivington’s brother!”
A hunted look flickered briefly in the fellow’s eyes before he set his jaw, looking deuced unfriendly. “If he owes you money—”
Hart laughed, shaking his head as he returned the roll of plans.
“Oh, no. Not a bit of it. I don’t run with his set.
Too exciting for me,” he said easily, unsurprised that the fellow wanted nothing to do with his dreadful brother, who was certainly not good ton, despite the title. “You’re Gideon Bramwell, I think?”
The fellow grunted, which might have been agreement, before begrudgingly holding out his hand to shake Hart’s proffered one.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Hartwell. Did I hear you’re an architect? Is that what all the plans are about?”
A look that might have been exasperation crossed the fellow’s face, but he managed to remain polite—barely. “Yes, my lord. The plans are about the new hotel. I have designed it and am here to oversee the project.”
“Ah, how marvellous. Well, I should like to take a look at it, but I’m getting married tomorrow, so I’ve other fish to fry,” he said with a grin.
He remembered now what he’d heard of this fellow.
Mr Bramwell was struggling to make a name for himself because of his black sheep brother.
Dirt stuck, and it was clinging to Gideon Bramwell rather insistently.
A pity, that, for he was supposed to be a clever fellow, talented.
“Next time I’m here, I’ll come and you can give me the tour.
You never know, I might need an architect in the future. ”
Bramwell looked at him sceptically, as if finding it most unlikely Hart would want to do anything of the sort.
As his reputation for taking little seriously was well established, Hart supposed he couldn’t blame the fellow.
Still, he nodded, obviously eager to be on his way. “As you wish. If you would excuse me.”
“Come to the wedding.”
The man stopped in his tracks, startled into gaping at Hart, who had rather surprised himself.
Grinning, Hart shrugged. “I’m celebrating, and everyone ought to celebrate with me. I’ll have an invitation sent to you.” Bramwell opened his mouth, ready to refuse, so Hart added, “It’s at Hatherley Hall.”
“The Dowager Duchess of Hawkney’s home?”
A considering glint lit his eyes and Hart congratulated himself on having judged correctly.
“That’s right. Lots of rich clients to meet, if you’ve a knack for turning the ton up sweet.”
A wry look flitted across the fellow’s face. “I don’t. Not even close, but all the same it’s an excellent opportunity, and I thank you for it.”
Hart nodded and, with that, Mr Bramwell doffed his hat and strode quickly away.
Hart turned, watching him go, and noticing how many of the ladies walking through the town did likewise.
He grinned, wondering if poor Bramwell had any notion of what manner of females were bred in this neck of the woods. The fellow had better watch out.
The Mermaid, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 25th June 1816
Angel huffed with impatience as she kept watch from the front parlour. Surely Leo knew she was here by now. Where the devil—? A tall, handsome figure rounded the corner of the street, striding towards her house with a look of determination.