Rose did not choose to respond to her uncle’s impertinence.
“I daresay we will have less competition in Bath,” Fitzwilliam went on. “Eh, Sir Benedict? Little Bath is not so crowded as mighty London. Cheaper, too, if that matters to you.”
Benedict merely eyed him with chilling scorn.
“I did not get on at all,” Fitzwilliam complained. “London ladies all think themselves too smart to be vicars’ wives, I can tell you! If the Marquess of Redfylde would only make up his mind, we poor bachelors might get on, but, as it is, all the girls have set their caps at him.”
“We are not all mercenary, Uncle,” Rose said hotly.
Fitzwilliam’s smile was pained. “You must understand, Sir Benedict, that my niece’s season has been scrapped for a complete disaster. I am conducting her to her mama in disgrace. Lady Matlock will be able to puff her off in Bath, I daresay. The place is full of gouty old men on the lookout for something young and warm. Present company excluded, of course, Sir Benedict,” he added unctuously as Rose fought back sudden tears.
Fitzwilliam patted her hand. “There, there, pet. It was not your fault Westlands did not propose. You did everything you could. What did his lordship mean, taking her out driving in the park every day, waltzing with her at Almack’s, and then haring off to Derbyshire without proposing?” he demanded, apparently of Benedict. “You know Westlands, of course, Sir Benedict: Lord Wayborn’s son. Why, you must be cousins.”
“The connection is very distant, I assure you,” Benedict said coolly.
“She might have had Redfylde himself, poor child, if Lord Westlands’s attentions had not been so marked. She might as well be used goods! I’ve a mind to call him out, the rascal.”
Rose said maliciously, “You forget, Uncle, that Westlands is an excellent shot.”
“So am I an excellent shot!” cried Fitzwilliam, and the pair fell to arguing over which gentleman would most likely be killed in the hypothetical duel: the viscount or the vicar.
Benedict took the opportunity to blow his nose. Perhaps it was selfish, but he did not care if Lady Rose Fitzwilliam died an old maid. He did not care if his distant cousin Lord Westlands had behaved like a cad. He did not care if Westlands and Fitzwilliam killed one another in a pointless duel. He wished he could set the Fitzwilliams down in the road and leave them to their fate, but, sadly, one was bound by a code of civility.
He pretended to fall asleep. Fitzwilliam soon slept in earnest, but Rose, bored, drummed on her jewel box with her gloved fingertips. “You can stop pretending now, Sir Benedict,” she said, pouncing onto the seat next to him. “We must have some conversation, or I shall go mad!”
He opened his eyes. “Kindly return to your seat, Lady Rose.”
“You’re only number fifty-six on my aunt’s list of eligible bachelors,” she sniffed angrily. “Aunt Maria says you’re too stuffy and dignified to run after girls half your age, but I’ve noticed that you dye your hair black in an effort to appear younger.”
Benedict could not be goaded so easily. He simply closed his eyes again. To his relief, Rose returned to her seat and did not speak again until they reached her mother’s house in the Royal Crescent of Bath, and there she only thanked him haughtily as she quit his carriage.
Lord Matlock had not joined his countess in Bath. Therefore, his lordship’s youngest brother was obliged to put up in the York House Hotel in George Street. Fitzwilliam jumped out into the hotel yard, grumbling about the expense, and releasing such potent waves of French musk that Benedict was obliged to step out of the carriage until he stopped sneezing. Reluctant to return to the noisome, confined space, the baronet paid the coachman and dismissed him.
The house he had leased from Lord Skeldings stood at a distance from York House, but Benedict had strong legs and an excellent umbrella. For sixpence a boy from the hotel agreed to carry his valise. Declining both Fitzwilliam’s offer of a late supper, and the landlord’s offer of a sedan chair, he gave the boy the address, and they set off on foot. The rain, which had almost stopped, seemed to pick up again as they climbed up Lansdown Road to Camden Place.
By no means as famed as the Royal Crescent or the Circus, Camden Place was still one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Bath. Benedict had chosen it for its remoteness. The long, steep walk up Lansdown Road did not trouble him in the least. He liked to walk.
On a night like this, Benedict’s valet would usually greet his master at the door with a hot brandy, but, oddly, there was no sign of Pickering as they walked up to No. 6 Camden Place. More puzzled than annoyed by his manservant’s absence, Benedict paid the boy from the hotel his sixpence and rang the bell. When no one answered, Benedict became concerned.
He could not possibly have guessed that the storm had played a cruel trick on him. This was not No. 6 at all. It was No. 9. The violent storm had pulled the brass number loose at the top, spinning it around and around until it finally came to rest upside down. Pickering was waiting up for his master across the street. In fact, had it not been for the long, narrow park that ran down the middle of Camden Place, Pickering would have been able to see his master from where he stood looking out of the window, and Benedict would have been able to see him.
Benedict took out the key that his landlord, Lord Skeldings, had given him. His handicap obliged him to close his umbrella and wedge it between his knees first, which made it a wet and awkward operation. To make matters worse, a sudden gust of wind sheered his hat from his head and tossed it over the iron railings of the park. Benedict scarcely noticed the loss, having just discovered a greater calamity: his latchkey did not fit.
“Perfect!” he muttered. Now he was annoyed. Cursing under his breath, he began to bang on the door with his umbrella.
Miss Cosy Vaughn gasped as her naked feet slapped the floor of her bedroom. The bare floorboards were so cold that, for a moment, she forgot why she was getting out of bed in the middle of the night. A rhythmic banging from downstairs soon restored her memory, however: some nameless fool was pounding on the front door, and if she didn’t put a stop to it, the noise would wake up her mother, if it hadn’t already. Fumbling for the candle on her bedside table, she lit it, savoring its warmth as she pulled on her dressing gown.
There was no fire in her room because the coal was running out, and the collier, who could roast in the hot coals of hell for all she cared, had declined to extend the Vaughns any more credit. Cosy had gone to bed bundled in a shawl, with woolly socks on her feet. The socks had itched so badly that she had peeled them off in the dark, but now, still half asleep, she searched for them, her teeth chattering.
The windows of her bedroom faced the street, but with the rain coming down in sheets, she could see nothing when she looked through the dark glass. As the knocking continued, she hurried to check on her mother and sister, who were sharing a bed in the next room to conserve fuel. Warmed by “logs” painstakingly crafted from tightly rolled overdue bills, the room was blazing hot. Lady Agatha, propped in a sitting position so as not to disturb the cold cream on her pockmarked face, snored peacefully while nine-year-old Allegra had flung the bedclothes off and was hanging half out of her mother’s bed, her mop of pale, straight hair almost grazing the floor.
“Who is he at all, Miss Cosy? Sure he knocks like a bailiff.”
Nora Murphy had come down from the attic with a shawl thrown over her nightgown, scraping her wiry, grizzled hair into a bun as she hurried down the hall.
“A
