Amelia's Intrigue (Regency Idyll Book 1) Page 18

  “That is Abby,” grinned the earl. “She is only f-five.”

  “Ah, five!” said the Beau, smiling into Abby’s great hazel eyes. “I suppose I may not ask you to marry me, then?”

  Abby giggled and shook her head.

  “No, I thought not. But I am very pleased to meet you, my dear. Are you a friend of Geordies?”

  Abby nodded emphatically.

  “How wonderful,” drawled the Beau. “So am I. And this,” he added, lifting Abby up into the crook of his arm and standing, “this must be your father.”

  The earl, seeing that the possibilities for a mill had come to a screeching halt, recalled that he ought to use some of the manners his mama had taught him. “This is Bear,” he offered, “and this is Jesse and Davey. And this is Coffee,” he added, as the ex-soldier moved closer. “We have c-come to see Mr. J-Jackson.”

  Brummell smiled and shook hands with each of them in turn, even Jesse and Davey. “And now you must tell them who I am, Geordie,” he said quietly, “for that is how it is done.”

  “Oh! I f-forgot that p-part. This is Mr. B-Brummell.”

  “Beau Brummell?” Bear asked in a whisper.

  “The Beau Brummell?” Coffee gulped, running his hand through his hair and surreptitiously tugging at his coat.

  “The same,” announced the Beau with a wide grin. “My lord,” he said, eyeing Geordan and chuckling a bit because Abby had become brave enough to tug at a curl beside his ear, “are you aware that you are missing? Enter,” he urged regally, opening the door to the Saloon and ushering the little group in before him, Abby still balanced on his arm. “John,” he called, leading them in a line past a number of staring young bloods towards Jackson’s office, “you have some particularly important visitors.”

  Gentleman Jackson, poking his head around the doorway, spied the Beau and his flock and grinned. Then he spied the earl and his mouth dropped open. “Get in here, all of ye,” he ordered in a tone that set Brummell’s teeth on edge.

  “Really, John,” the Beau complained, as Jackson shut the door behind them, “I have not been ordered about in that tone of voice since I was ten.”

  “I’m ten,” Jesse offered innocently.

  “Are ye now?” Jackson asked. “Well, an’ I’ll bet ye’ll not turn out to be such a dandy as the Beau, here, will ye? Lord knows I couldn’t stand for there to be two of ’im. Bantam,” he growled, overlooking the rest for a moment, “do ye know that ye be lost? Yer brother’s been looking everywhere fer ye. He come in here not two hours ago wantin’ to know had I seen ye. He thinks ye’ve been kidnapped. It ain’t funny, George,” Jackson added with a glare at Brummell. “Tony’s about out of his mind with worryin’.”

  “I am n-not k-kidnapped,” the earl declared roundly. “B-Bear and Coffee have b-brought me here so you will t-take me home. They do n-not believe that I l-live at Rutlidge House.”

  “I wonder why not,” Brummell drawled, taking his quizzing glass from his pocket and inspecting the earl from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. That made Geordan laugh and thoroughly entranced Davey, who walked up to the Beau and, standing on tiptoe, stared up at him through the other side of the glass. “Perhaps,” the Beau continued, unfastening the quizzing glass and handing it to the boy, “they expected that an earl would be a bit more—appropriately groomed.”

  “They all got apartments fer rent,” Coffee murmured, tapping at his forehead. “We be in an off-shoot a Bedlam here, Bear.”

  “No, no, ye be in the right place,” Jackson offered his hand to the two men, and Brummell made the introductions.

  “The lad truly is an earl?” Bear asked, his mind whirling. “This lad, standin’ here?”

  “Then Tony ain’t no highwayman, neither?” Coffee asked.

  “Well, now,” the Beau grinned. “I am sure Tony may be a highwayman if he wishes. I would not put it past him to do so. Geordan, close your mouth, I am only funning. Your brother is most likely not a practitioner of the High Toby.”

  “But Geordie is an earl?” Bear asked again, in disbelief.

  “The seventh Earl of Rutlidge,” Brummell assured him with twitching lips.

  “An’ in line to become the dearly departed Earl of Rutlidge if he don’t have an adequate explanation for his disappearance,” Jackson added. “Ye do got an explanation, do ye not, bantam?”

  “Y-Yes, sir,” the earl answered, his eyes growing round at something behind the Gentleman. Brummell, hearing the sound of scampering paws, knew what the earl was watching without seeing it and moved himself and Abby gracefully out of the way. The huge dog pounded into the room through the open rear door, jumped up onto Jackson’s desk hurling papers everywhere, and leapt from there directly onto the earl, knocking him, laughing, to the floor. Jackson yelled, “No!” Jesse shouted “Look out!” much too late; Bear and Coffee collided with each other an attempt to avoid the beast; Davey, who had climbed unnoticed up onto an empty shelf, sat surveying the scene through Brummell’s quizzing glass; and Abby, pointing, giggled “Doggie,” into the Beau’s ear.

  “It does appear to be, my dear,” the Beau agreed, “though I have my doubts as to its parentage.”

  “His father were the devil himself,” Jackson growled, bending down to pull the ecstatic, tail-wagging, face-licking bundle of fur off the earl. “Enough, sir! Let the bantam up!”

  “D-Did you n-name him yet?” Geordan asked, gaining his knees and hugging the mongrel as Jackson hung on to the dog’s collar.

  “Cribb,” Jackson chuckled. “I named ’im Cribb.”

  Bear, Coffee and the Beau roared with laughter. “He does look a bit like th’Champion, now ye mention it,” Bear grinned.

  “A wonnerful lot like ’im,” Coffee agreed. “Got th’ same sweet movements as well.”

  “Aye,” nodded Jackson, his eyes sparkling, “and he eats about as much.”

  “And the ears are a precise match,” added the Beau. “He is the boxing champion of England, Geordan,” he explained, catching the look of puzzlement on the earl’s face. “Tom Cribb.”

  “I thought Mr. Jackson was the ch-champion.”

  “No, retired I did, bantam,” the Gentleman explained. “Been four others since my time. But Cribb, he be special. Never saw a man with more bottom nor finer science to ’im.”

  “An’ ’e is big,” Coffee grinned, eyeing the dog, “an’ ugly.”

  “Enough patting,” Jackson proclaimed, reaching over and pulling the earl to his feet. “We need to git ye home, bantam. Now, how’re we goin’ ta do it?”

  “Why, we are going to walk it, Jackson,” Brummell declared. “It is a surety that we are not all going to fit into a hackney.”

  “We?” Jackson asked with a surprised lift of his eyebrows. “Do I take it ye intend to make part of the company, Brummell?”

  “John, I would not miss it for the world. And you will bring Cribb along, will you not? It would be shameful for us not to have our own mascot for this parade.”

  “Yes, please,” Jesse pleaded, having become brave enough to stand still while the big dog’s tongue happily scoured his hand. “We’ll preten’ ta be a bunch o’ swells out fer a promenade in Green Park. An’, an’ Cribb will be our guard dog.”

  “A good idea,” Brummell nodded seriously. “I have not pretended to be a swell for at least ten minutes now. I should like to get back into the swing of it.”

  For the few personages of the West End who had stirred themselves to rise before eleven, it was a Monday morning to be remembered. The little band that set forth from Jackson’s Saloon on Bond Street to traverse the distance to Grosvenor Square caught the attention of every set of disbelieving eyes they passed. The Beau, dressed in the height of fashion, took the lead with Abby in his arms, pointing out to her all the high points and sights along the way. Jesse, holding tightly to Cribb’s leash, skipped along behind him, the boy and the dog merrily tussling over stops at street lamps and carriage wheels along the way. Bear and Coffee followed them, thei
r eyes still wide with amazement. In their wake, Davey wandered unsteadily, refusing to take the quizzing glass from his eye for a moment. And Gentleman Jackson, the earl’s hand clasped securely in one of his own and using the other one to steady the sturdy little boy in front of him when he stumbled because of staring through the glass, brought up the rear.

  “It is some sort of joke,” Lord Alvanley mused to a rather bemused Sefton as the little band trooped insouciantly by the bow window of White’s on St. James’s Street. “It is like the time the Beau had us all wearing dandelions in our buttonholes just to see how far we would go. But new fashion or not, I, for one, am not about to become tour guide for Great Unwashed.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Alvanley,” Sefton replied, his eyes following the group. “One of those Great Unwashed is Gentleman Jackson and another is Lord Rutlidge.”

  By the time they arrived at Rutlidge House, Bear was carrying Davey on his shoulders and trying futilely to divest the boy of Mr. Brummell’s quizzing glass. “I should let him keep it if I were you, Bear,” Brummell offered, bringing the little parade to a halt. “I shan’t miss it, you know. I have others.”

  “This be Rutlidge House?” Coffee asked, looking up at the magnificent stone façade.

  “Aye,” Gentleman Jackson answered.

  “I knew we would f-find it,” the earl said, walking into the courtyard, his hand still firmly implanted in Jackson’s.

  The gentleman who answered the door at Jackson’s knock took a step backward, heaving a great sigh of relief, and then scowled at the earl. “Where on earth have you been, Master Geordan? This household has been at sixes and sevens since Saturday morning.”

  “I am s-sorry, Simpson,” Geordan replied, staring down at the toes of his boots. “I did n-not mean to be m-missing.”

  “Nor he won’t be missing again, will ye, bantam?” Jackson said, giving the hand he held a reassuring squeeze. “Talbot in?”

  “No he is not. He is out combing the streets in search of this reprobate,” answered Simpson, the signs of profound reassurance evident in his eyes. “Thank you for bringing him home, Mr…”

  “J-Jackson,” the earl provided quietly, beginning to look up. “This is Gentleman Jackson, Simpson, and that,” he said, pointing to the group that stood silently in the courtyard behind him, “is Mr. Brummell and Abby and C-Coffee and Bear and J-Jesse and Davey and C-Cribb. Cribb is the d-dog. You like d-dogs, don’t you, Simpson? May we all c-come in n-now? Cribb, too? We have w-walked a long way and I think everyone is thirsty.”

  Simpson, noticing for the first time the assemblage in the courtyard, opened his mouth and then shut it soundlessly. He made a very precise bow to the earl and pulled the door open as far as it would go.

  Mr. Brummell, his smile widening at Simpson’s actions, urged the members of his flock forward, overcoming Bear’s protests with a simple, “Nonsense. Lord Rutlidge would be crushed were you to turn around and leave him now. Good morning, Simpson,” he added as he carried Abby past that well-controlled countenance and into the Great Hall. He set that young miss gently down upon the black marble floor, stripped off his gloves, removed his hat, and handed them all to Simpson. “We shall be eternally grateful, I think, Simpson, for some ale and a few glasses of milk… and a dish of water.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Simpson replied, his lips twitching in response to Mr. Brummell’s wink. “If you will follow me to the back drawing room.”

  “N-No,” the earl protested suddenly, tugging his hand from Jackson’s. “In the k-kitchen, Simpson. B-Bear let me eat in his k-kitchen. And we all g-got to s-sit around the t-table while things were c-cooking and it was ’ceptional f-fun.”

  “I think not, my lord,” Simpson declared with great dignity, setting Mr. Brummell’s hat and gloves upon the long table. “At least not until I have discussed the situation with Dancell.” With that he led he led the visitors up the main staircase and down the hall to the biggest of the drawing rooms, a somewhat disappointed earl bringing up the rear.

  WHEN Mr. Talbot drove his curricle, with his mother beside him and his uncle riding alongside, into the back courtyard at Rutlidge House and gave the horses over into Martin’s care, it was nearing seven o’clock. Northampton and Bristol arrived only a minute or so later, and the Mapletons – David, Kit and Amelia – joined the group even before Northampton had dismounted. None of them were smiling. None of them carried the earl along with them, and the expression on Tony’s face was so near despair that it made Miss Mapleton want to cry herself. “No one has had any luck?” she asked quietly. “Not even a word of him?”

  All their heads shook sadly from side to side.

  “Perhaps someone has left a message here,” the countess offered bracingly, taking her younger son’s arm and giving it a squeeze. “Do not look so downhearted, my dears. Come inside and we shall have Dancell make us a decent dinner. Do not,” she added with a warning look, “deny me the pleasure of your company at this precise moment if you please, nor protest that you are not dressed for the occasion. We will refresh ourselves and perhaps after we have dined something may occur to us. One never knows.”

  Northampton, the first to register the very real fear in the countess’s eyes and understand that she feared for Tony as much as for Geordan’s safety, nodded his assent quickly and whispered a hurried word in Miss Mapleton’s ear. That young lady dismounted quickly and accepted the invitation for them all. “We will need to send word to Mama, though,” she added.

  “I will set a footman to it,” James declared. “Northampton? Bristol? Any messages to be sent on your behalf?”

  “None,” they answered together.

  “What the deuce is taking you so long down there?” a voice rang out above them. “Talbot, get up here and rescue me or I shall lose my entire fortune to this gamester. I have never been so trounced in a game of picquet in my entire life.”

  “Wh-what?” Tony’s gaze, along with the rest, rose to see Mr. Brummell, one boot on the window sill, peering down at them.

  “I warn you, Talbot, if I leave this house a pauper, I shall put it around that you are the proprietor of a gaming hell and have taken advantage of my inexperience.”

  “Brummell, what the devil are you doing there?” Tony called.

  “We be entertaining yer guests, Tony, my lad,” Gentleman Jackson replied, opening the window next to the one Jackson had appropriated. “An’ if ye do not get up here and help us to do so with the greatest possible speed, I shall be forced to plant ye a facer. I ain’t never been whipped so bad at lottery tickets.”

  Beneath Jackson’s cocked knee a curly blonde head poked out at them, surveying each one curiously through a quizzing glass. “Is ye all be Geordie’s fambly?” the surveyor asked in a tough little voice. “He didn’t neber say there was so manys of ye. How we all goin’ ta fit aroun’ th’table, Mr. Jackson?”

  “We’ll fit,” John Jackson assured him, scooping the boy up and turning with him back into the room.

  “You will not believe,” Brummell stated from his window with an elegant bow to the beaming countess, “what Rutlidge has requested for dinner, ma’am. Nor will you believe where we are all going to eat it.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MRS. WARE cursed for the first and only time in her life. “Oh, damnation,” she mumbled, and the word brought Simpson’s head jolting around to stare at her as he entered the room.

  “What is it, Olivia?” he asked. “May I be of assistance?”

  “If Dancell strikes Jules with that horrible old wooden ladle of his one more time, I shall absolutely scream! I shall, Simpson. You see if I don’t. If he did not wish to serve dinner in the kitchen, then why did he agree to it, that is what I should like to know. They are all of them behaving like little demons with tiny pitchforks, sticking one another over and over again. Even the confectioner and the roasting boys cannot deal together. And I cannot, Simpson, I cannot see where we are to seat everyone. What sort of order can there be? Gracious! We have
her ladyship and his lordship and Mr. James and Master Tony, and Mr. Brummell of all people, plus a prize-fighter, an ex-soldier, and out-of-work factory person, two lords, and Miss Mapleton and her brothers, not to mention the children!”

  “Yes, well, I do appreciate your not mentioning the children,” Simpson said with a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “Come now, Olivia, you are upset over nothing. It shall be like a picnic. They will sit where they please and eat as much as they like and enjoy themselves immensely. And you do know why Dancell agreed to serve dinner in the kitchen as well as I, my dear.”

  “Because his lordship, he look on me with eyes all innocent,” Dancell grumbled, crossing behind Mrs. Ware to a counter upon which sat several pans of vegetables. “Here, where is Henri? Henri! Henri! Come! These must be put to the fire now. See! I am encircled by the buffoons. They are all become brainless.”

  Simpson sighed and shook his head sadly, but the twinkle in his eyes, Mrs. Ware noticed, had not departed. With agile steps, he set about helping to scrub the table. His able assistance provided the china and silver. By the time the countess arrived short of breath in the sanctified space belowstairs, the kitchen looked less like a madhouse and more like the heaven that Geordan expected it to be.

  “Mrs. Ware, Simpson,” the countess said with a little nod to each of them. “But where is Dancell? Oh, there you are. I cannot think how best to thank each of you. I realize how exceptional this is, but Geordan, of course, did not know. I have just now discovered what he… I am so sorry,” the lovely lady sighed.

  “His lordship, he is most excited his new friends should have the dinner, my lady,” Dancell offered, a mere twitch of his ladle sending Henri running into the pantry. “I am determined to say non when he speaks to me of dining in the kitchen, but I cannot.”

  “No, it is apparent you could not, Dancell. But you most certainly should have done so.”