Regency Collection 2013 Part 1. Louise Allen

a shower of copies of Ackerman’s Repository of Useful Arts cascading to the floor.

      ‘Newcastle upon Tyne,’ Lily repeated. ‘I shall want the travelling carriage, John Coachman, two footmen and Janet.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘I intend looking at that new warehouse Lovington wrote to recommend we purchase. I shall also have a very close look at the books; I am most suspicious about the decline in demand for tea in the north east that he is reporting.’

      ‘Then send for him to come here! And surely an agent can assess this warehouse? Or one of your trustees can go.’

      ‘I want to go. I am tired of London, and I want a holiday, and no one can say I am running away from a scandal now.’ Lily sat down and reached for the standish and pen. There were apologies to send for invitations she had already accepted, and Lady Billington to warn that she would not be required until further notice.

      ‘You are running after that man,’ Mrs Herrick accused. ‘Lily, you cannot do such a thing.’

      ‘I shall certainly call upon Lord Allerton,’ Lily replied with dignity. ‘I wish to thank him for a number of things.’

      ‘Lord Allerton? Who is he?’ Mrs Herrick swung her feet off the chaise and groped for her vinaigrette.

      ‘Oh, of course, I forgot, you do not know.’ Lily put down the pen. ‘Mr Lovell is actually the Earl of Allerton. I only found out at the Duchess’s ball on Monday night.’

      ‘Why did you not tell me?’ Mrs Herrick demanded. ‘Of all the bird-witted girls! We could have invited him to dinner, thrown a party, goodness knows what. We have an earl living at the bottom of the garden and you let him go! Words fail me.’

      ‘We quarrelled.’ Lily folded a note and stuck a wafer on it with a thump. ‘However, it was my fault. Largely my fault,’ she corrected, thinking of Jack’s numerous infuriating tendencies. ‘And I do not like being in the wrong and not admitting it. Besides, I am indebted to him.’

      ‘Then write him a polite note thanking him, child!’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘For what, exactly, are you indebted?’ Mrs Herrick added suspiciously.

      ‘He knocked Lord Dovercourt out and he fought a duel with Adrian Randall, both on account of their insults to me.’

      ‘Oh, my heavens.’ Mrs Herrick seized the smelling bottle and subsided back on to the chaise-longue. ‘A duel! The scandal! Was anyone killed?’

      ‘No, although Lord Allerton was wounded. And there will be no scandal.’ Lily reached for another piece of notepaper. ‘I shall have my holiday, I will attend to business, and I will call upon Lord Allerton and have a civilised conversation with him.’

      Mrs Herrick was fanning herself with a copy of the Repository. ‘You must take a chaperon.’

      ‘No. I am sorry, Aunt, but Janet will be quite sufficient. Lady Billington will not want to leave London at this time in any case.’

      ‘There never was any use arguing with you, you stubborn girl,’ Mrs Herrick moaned faintly. ‘Just like your mother. How long will this benighted journey take you?’

      ‘Two or three days, I imagine.’ Lily frowned in calculation. ‘It takes the stage just over thirty hours, but they do not stop at night. I will go and find an atlas.’

      ‘You cannot travel on a Sunday,’ her aunt announced as she returned and laid the book open on the table.

      ‘No, naturally not,’ Lily agreed, tracing the road. ‘I think if I make an early start tomorrow I should get to Stamford by evening. Then to York the next day, which will be Saturday. I shall stay there on Sunday. Just think, I will be able to attend services in the Minster.’ Aunt Herrick brightened at the thought of such an uplifting and unexceptionable experience. ‘Then Newcastle on Monday.’

      ‘But where will you stay?’

      ‘Mr Lovington is married; I imagine he will invite me to stay.’

      ‘Then you must write to warn him.’

      ‘And give him time to adjust the books? I may be doing him an injustice and the fall in business is merely a change in local demand. But he might be dishonest, or he might be simply idle. I shall see.’ Lily sat down and began to make a list. ‘I may even travel over to the Lakes—it would be a pity to go that far north and not take advantage of the sights.’

      If one was to become resigned to being a wealthy spinster, one might as well take advantage of the freedom that should accompany that state. For after all, if one was not in the Marriage Mart, one did not have to behave like a meek little ninny. Only, resignation seemed a hard state to achieve just at the moment.

      Jack reined in the landlord’s cob and sat looking out over the shallow valley that cradled Allerton Castle. Home.

      Home almost forty-five hours after he had left the Bull and Mouth, ten since he climbed down into the yard of the Saracen’s Head in Newcastle. It had been three in the morning when he arrived, after thirty-five hours on the coach, thanks to a cast shoe just north of Stamford. There had been coffee gulped scalding in a dozen crowded tap rooms, indigestible meals left half-eaten, and the enforced company of five other people, who, however many times they changed at the various halts, always seemed to include one man who snored, two who had never washed in their lives, one woman with a rich head cold and a convivial soul who just wanted to talk.

      And despite the discomfort, the distractions, the pain in his arm, there had been far too much time to think.

      His wound throbbed sickeningly and he thought he was probably running a low fever despite the few hours of snatched sleep at the Saracen’s Head. He had slept like the dead, only to be awoken by a shriek. He opened one eye, saw the door shutting on a flurry of skirts, then glanced down. Ah. Hazily he recalled dragging off all his clothes and falling on to the bed. There had been apologies to be made before he got any breakfast.

      Now, with the breeze ruffling the trees and bringing him the soft sound of the Aller running over its bed of stones, he began to feel almost human again. The stark mass of the castle, one corner tumbled into ruin, glowed gently in the morning sun. Home. He shook the reins and the cob responded, taking the light gig down on to the bridge over the long-dry moat and into the courtyard in front of the castle.

      ‘Jack!’ It was Penelope, hurling herself down the front steps without a thought for the fact that her hair had gone up, and her hemlines come down, upon her sixteenth birthday two months previously. ‘You’re home! Grimwade, tell Mama that Jack is back!’

      Jack grinned as the butler appeared through the battered oak doors. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He fixed a dour, but affectionate, eye on the youngest Miss Lovell. ‘Miss Penelope, I believe that her ladyship is well aware of his lordship’s arrival, having heard your cries of joy from the turret, as we all did. Wilson, take the gig round to the stables and bring in his lordship’s luggage.’

      Jack handed the reins over and climbed down, fending off his sister’s bear-hug with his good arm. ‘Hello, brat. Have you been good while I’ve been away?’

      ‘Of course. I am a young lady now, after all.’ She tipped her head to one side and regarded him critically. ‘You look dreadful. Have you been carousing? I expect you have. And visiting dens of iniquity, whatever they are.’

      ‘Only one, and that was not so very iniquitous,’ he admitted. ‘I had a very long and uncomfortable journey back on the stage, that is all. And young ladies know nothing at all about carousing.’

      ‘Pooh,’ Penelope retorted inelegantly. ‘I think it is all a hum anyway, being a young lady. I mean, my hair is a nuisance, I keep tripping over my skirts, I am supposed to behave all the time, but I don’t get any of the fun. No balls, no parties, no flirting.’

      ‘You are in training,’ Jack explained, tucking her hand under his elbow and nodding his thanks to the butler, who was standing holding