Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

Lord Lucas would not be at home to escort his wife, and a slim package.

      ‘Goodness, look at these.’ Bree pushed the invitations across the breakfast table to Rosa. ‘We need more gowns, don’t you think? I haven’t got anything suitable for full-dress occasions.’

      ‘And I certainly have not. Do you intend to accept them all?’

      ‘I think so. I expect we will get weary of frivolity soon, but it is fun at the moment. So long as you are not finding it too much to go out in the evenings on top of working at the Mermaid.’

      ‘I enjoy it.’ Rosa spread honey on her roll and took a bite. ‘I am finding it very stimulating, and it is interesting to be working with adults. I do have a list of questions, though, if we could go through them before I go to the office. Unless you need me this morning?’

      ‘No, although we should go shopping, but I do not mind—morning or afternoon are both fine for me.’ Bree picked up the package and reached for her bread knife to slit the seals.

      ‘I’ll go this morning, then. Did I tell you I have solved the mystery of the fodder bill? Someone had put all the use of oats into the corn column and the … Goodness, what lovely gloves.’

      ‘They are, are they not?’ Bree stared at the fine calfskin gloves, perfect for a lady to drive in, with delicate punch work on the backs and dashing cuffs. They were strong, but as soft as butter when she stroked them.

      ‘Did you order them?’

      ‘No. I think they must be a present.’ Bree drew on the right one, flexing her fingers. ‘They are silk lined, what luxury.’

      ‘Who from? Oh, look, there is a card.’ Rosa caught it up and passed it to Bree.

      Max! ‘Oh. They are from Mr Latymer.’

      ‘My dear, you cannot possibly accept them. Not from a gentleman.’ Rosa ran one finger down the back of the left glove and sighed regretfully.

      ‘Why ever not? I could accept a fan or handkerchiefs, could I not?’

      Her companion coloured up. ‘Gloves are more … intimate.’

      ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Bree pulled on the other glove and smiled appreciatively as she turned her wrist to admire the effect. ‘They are hardly underwear!’

      ‘Oh, dear, how can I put this?’ Rosa glanced round and checked that the maid was not in the room. ‘There is a certain symbolism about gloves. And shoes. You have to insert part of your body into a tight fitting …’ She came to a halt, unable to explain further. ‘Cinderella,’ she added, rather wildly.

      Light dawned. ‘You mean, like sex? Good heavens, I had no idea.’ No wonder Mr Latymer was getting hot and bothered and Max had been so frosty when he saw Mr Latymer slowly stripping off her gloves in Green Park. ‘How am I supposed to know that?’

      ‘You aren’t. I’m supposed, as a good chaperon, to warn you.’

      ‘I’ll have to send them back, won’t I?’

      ‘I’m afraid so. With a polite note saying you appreciate the gesture, but you are unable to accept articles of apparel.’

      ‘Oh, dear.’ Bree sighed and folded the gloves back into their wrapping paper before any butter got on them. The door banged open and Piers bounced in. ‘Good morning, Piers.’

      ‘Morning. Good morning, Rosa. Bree, I’ve finished all my Latin. I got up early. Now, say I can go down to the Mermaid with Rosa this morning?’

      ‘If you can bounce about like that, and you’ve finished all the tasks set you, then you ought to be going back to school,’ Bree said, feigning severity.

      ‘I’m tired, really.’ Piers drooped unconvincingly into a chair next to Rosa. ‘I’m just being brave. What’s for breakfast?’

      ‘What you see! If you want anything else, then ring for it. Oh, and there’s a letter for you.’

      ‘Who from?’ Piers forked up the last of the bacon and stuck it inelegantly between two slices of toast.

      ‘Uncle George, I think.’ Bree squinted at the handwriting as she passed it over. ‘Not his usual tidy hand.’

      Piers put down his toast and slit the seal. ‘Yes, Uncle George it is.’ He read steadily, taking occasional bites of bacon, then stopped eating, his hand still in mid air.

      ‘Piers, for goodness’ sake, if you can’t mind your manners for me, do think of poor Rosa with your breakfast waving about under her nose,’ Bree chided.

      ‘What? Sorry, Rosa. Look, Bree, this is da—I mean, very odd. The old boy doesn’t sound himself at all. He rambles on about the farm, not saying anything of any purpose. Then he asks if we are all right and the business is doing well. And then he says what a good thing it is that I am growing up and can manage my half of the company, and that’s a great weight off his mind. And then there’s something scrawled, which I can’t make head nor tail of.’ He passed the sheet back and Bree peered at it.

      ‘Neither can I. He’s crossed the sheet to save paper.’

      Rosa got to her feet. ‘I will go down to the Mermaid—you will want to discuss this in private.’

      ‘No, please don’t. You are one of the family.’ Bree flashed her a worried frown. ‘I don’t understand this at all. Rosa, can you read this? You might be more used to bad handwriting.’

      ‘It looks like, never forgive myself. Excuse me, but is Mr Mallory an elderly gentleman? Could he be becoming confused? It does happen.’

      ‘He is only sixty-five,’ Bree protested. ‘Oh, dear, perhaps I had better go down and see him.’

      ‘Me too.’ Piers perked up.

      ‘Either you are well enough to go back to Harrow or you are still convalescent and must stay here and help Rosa with the business. I can take the Aylesbury stage—Mr Hearn’s Despatch goes daily from the King’s Arms.’ Bree frowned and looked at the clock over the mantel. ‘It goes at two o’clock, I think. It’s only at Snow’s Hill at the end of High Holborn,’ she explained to Rosa. ‘I can go up tomorrow, spend the night and get the morning coach back if it is just a false alarm.’

      They all sat looking at the folded letter as though expecting it to speak and solve the riddle of Uncle George’s odd ramblings. Rosa gave herself a little shake. ‘If we can just go through my list of queries? Then I’ll get off to the inn. Do you still want to go shopping this afternoon?’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Bree said with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I’m sure it’s just a storm in a teacup and I can come back directly. If there are any problems, I’ll write at once and stay down there.’

      They worked through a list of queries about the intricacies of the ticketing system, whether it was worth trying a different printer for waybills, how livestock was priced and why turkeys were not carried—’Unless dead’, as Piers helpfully added—and what to do about the unsatisfactory behaviour of one of the ostlers. Then the others departed, Piers quizzing Rosa about the mystery of the fodder bill.

      Bree wandered into the drawing room, sank down on the sofa and regarded the empty fireplace blankly, worrying about her uncle. Should she go down today? No, she decided. He might just have been down in the dumps and there’ll be a letter tomorrow saying so. And he’ll be mortified if I go haring off down there because of that. I’ll give him twenty-four hours.

      But it would be good to have someone to talk to about it. She felt Piers was too young, and she could hardly burden Rosa with family worries, but what if there was something seriously wrong with him? He was unmarried, a reserved, independent type who would hate it if they had to start interfering in his life, however good their motives and however tactful they were.

      If only Max were here. She could talk to him and he would