Mama looked puzzled.
Lydia’s belly turned sour, and she swallowed. “Rumors?” She glanced to Mavis.
“Something about a night in Bath without a chaperone.”
“Really? Who?”
“Why, you and … well, Mr. Newton,” Mavis said, staring at Lydia with undisguised interest. “Worry not. We paid it no never mind. But I must say, there are some who will not be as indulgent. But we will stand by you, dear Miss Whitfield.” She leaned forward and patted Lydia’s hand in sympathy. “Even if we are the only ones in attendance at your ball, it will be an exemplary evening.”
“Don’t forget Lord Aldershot, Mavis. He will be there, too, of course.”
The expression of their youngest guest stilled; her eyes turned glassy. “Of course, Mama.” Then she reapplied her smile. “Tell me what color you are going to wear, Miss Whitfield. Cream? Ivory? Off-white? So hard to decide, is it not? Though all are excellent choices.”
Lydia was slow to answer; her mind was a riot of concerns, her thoughts in chaos. Was it too late? Was Robert’s career already ruined?
“So, Mrs. Caudle, did you come by stage or did you hire a coach?” Mama asked the rector’s wife. It was a pedestrian but safe subject. She had dropped her volume, but in the silence, Lydia could hear the discussion without strain.
“We came with Lord Aldershot, in his carriage. He is to stay in Bath for a few days, as well, and asked if we would care to join him. Wasn’t that kind?”
“Most kind.”
Lydia noted the sarcasm in her mother’s tone, but Mrs. Caudle did not. “Lord Aldershot is always so accommodating—often at our house. He and the Reverend get along like boyhood friends despite the difference in their ages. So refreshing to meet someone of the peerage who is not all caught up by their position in society. Although we do have an ancient lineage, as you probably know…” And so the lady continued outtalking Mama and skipping from topic to topic with the best of them.
Lydia was thoroughly confused. If Barley was in Bath, why had he not come to see her as she had requested? Had he been affected by the rumors already? Avoiding her company? The day seemed to be getting worse.
“We must be going.”
Mavis stood up, startling Lydia from her reverie.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said stupidly, standing for the good-byes. Their guests had stayed the requisite quarter hour.
As soon as they were gone, Mama left her perfectly comfortable settee and approached Lydia with a serious expression; it bordered on annoyed. “Lydia, I think we need to talk.”
Rubbing at her forehead, Lydia dropped her eyes to the table … and the acceptance letter from Mavis. She blinked. And blinked again.
The florid style of the writing was unmistakable. Had she placed the threatening note beside it, they would be a match. This was the same hand … the hand of her blackmailer.
Mavis? It couldn’t be! Mavis?
Grabbing the letter, Lydia raced for the door.
“Lydia! Where are you going?” her mother called after her.
Lydia was going to stop Mavis. She was going to confront her. She was going to accuse the rector’s daughter of avarice of biblical proportions. She was going to end the blackmail once and for all.
Running to the balcony overlooking the entrance, Lydia shouted, “No. Shodster, don’t let them leave.”
But it was too late; he had been in the act of closing the door, not opening it.
Chapter 19
In which control and puppetry draw Miss Whitfield and Mr. Newton onto the field of honor
Robert marched up Great Pulteney Street with purpose. He adroitly dodged his fellow pedestrians and the vehicles clogging up the thoroughfare. He had much on his mind; he had reached a conclusion.
He was on his way to number nineteen to assure Lydia that while they might talk, discuss, debate, or engage in any other manner of communication, he would not let her beggar herself for him, not his career, not his person … not … just not. He cared too deeply to let her make any sacrifices on his behalf.
This conclusion was not dissimilar from that of the day before. He was nothing if not consistent.
Wending his way between horses and wagons, Robert crossed the street. He glanced up to assess his distance to the town house when he watched someone—someone Lydia-shaped—hastening from the building, arm in the air, waving a paper. She seemed to be rushing toward a carriage-and-two, but it pulled away from the curb, unaware of her urgency.
Seeing Lydia lift her skirt above her ankles to give chase spurred Robert to quicken his pace. He could cut off the carriage and allow Lydia to catch up; her purpose must be significant to flout convention by running—running down a crowded sidewalk. It was fortune that this end of Great Pulteney Street narrowed toward the bridge and slowed traffic. He did not have to step in front of a cantering team.
As the open carriage approached, Robert recognized Lord Aldershot, though not the two ladies at his side. Robert stepped off the curb just as the team slowed for the upcoming turn. He reached out to grab the reins of the lead horse, and though he was pulled backward a step or two, Robert retained his balance and brought the phaeton to a standstill.
“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Lord Aldershot. A stream of very ungentlemanly words followed his question, for which the man received a glower or two from those within hearing.
“Beg your pardon,” Robert said, moving to the back of the team, so that their conversation would not require raised voices. As he did, he glanced and met not the stare of Lord Aldershot but that of a stubby-nosed man behind him, standing on the back of the carriage: Lord Aldershot’s groom.
Robert was thunderstruck. The groom was none other than the third villain from the barn.
The implications were staggering.
This was a man who would not be wandering about the countryside without the express permission of his employer—who would be housed with said employer and at his beck and call—who … who had last been seen in the company of Les and Morley. There was only one conclusion that could be derived, and Robert derived it!
Aldershot was involved in Lydia’s kidnapping.
“You!” he shouted, just as another voice shouted likewise. Robert jerked and turned his head.
Lydia had attained the carriage and had stepped up onto the running board. Holding a paper in one hand, securing her balance with the other, she stared with great hostility, not at Aldershot, but at the younger of the two ladies beside the baron.
“I know who you are! Visiting with the pretext of friendship while spreading your lies. Your arrogance, stupidity, and greed will see you no richer.” Lydia’s color was excessively high and her voice excessively loud. “I will not, do you hear me—”