Ragwort was indignant. “Of course! What manner of dumb-cluck do you take me for?”
“All right, all right, I only asked,” Bodkin said quickly.
“Anyway, calling her is actually quite pointless, and I don’t really know why I bothered.”
“What do you mean?”
“If someone’s holding her captive through her belt, she won’t be able to speak or communicate in any other way with anyone trying to rescue her.”
Bodkin stared at him. “Of
course
she can speak!”
“Not if someone has her belt,” Ragwort repeated patiently. “For the same reason, she can safely be left anywhere her captor chooses. It doesn’t matter where he goes—she cannot run away, because she’s completely in his power. That’s why, if it
is
Lord Benjamin, he doesn’t have to give her a second thought until he has the page from Nostradamus. He can put her entirely from his mind. It’s like buying a new handkerchief, then folding it away in a drawer until it’s needed.”
Dismayed, Bodkin sat on the floor and gazed tearfully at the buckle. “We country brownies must be very naive, because I didn’t know any of that,” he confessed miserably. “Oh, Ragwort, how on earth am I going to rescue her?”
“I don’t know, and that’s fact. Unless...”
“Yes?”
“Well, if we could find the rest of her belt and steal it back, then we—” He broke off with an irritated snort. “Come to think of it, that won’t do any good, because
you can’t
remember what her belt looks like!”
Bodkin lowered his eyes glumly. He felt so utterly foolish. Why couldn’t he recall Nutmeg’s belt? He’d seen her wearing it every single day for months.
Ragwort leaned against the dado, his arms folded and his tail swishing idly. “This is most perplexing. Which of them has the belt? Hordwell or Lord Benjamin?”
“Or Sir Dominic Fortune. Maybe he’s part of it all, too.” Bodkin glanced around the room. It was the principal bedchamber, with cream and gold walls and a dado, and a fine chandelier chinked gently in the breeze from the open window. Dominic’s possessions were everywhere, including the book he was reading, a small box containing his neck cloth pins, seals, and rings, a tortoiseshell hairbrush and comb, and his gray paisley dressing gown draped casually over the foot of the vast green velvet four-posted bed.
Bodkin’s face was thoughtful. If Dominic had the belt, maybe it was here in this room right now. “Ragwort, are you sure you’ve searched
everywhere
in here?”
“Until I’m blue in the
face,”
Ragwort replied flatly. “You can search again if you like, but I’ve had enough.”
Footsteps approached the bedroom door, and the brownies fell silent as Dominic came in. He was tugging off his neck cloth, which he tossed onto the bed, then he stepped to the window and looked down at the sloping hillside, where most of the runaway horses had now been rounded up. He recognized one of the animals, a fine colt named Golden Pear, which had almost won the Derby that summer. An old nursery rhyme came to him, and he murmured the first line aloud. “I had a little nut tree, nothing it would bear, but a silver nutmeg, and a golden pear.”
Bodkin and Ragwort exchanged glances. Surely this was no coincidence! He knew about Nutmeg, and must have the belt! Bodkin got angrily to his feet, his tail beginning to twirl, but Ragwort put a restraining hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Then he pulled Bodkin toward the door and only ventured to whisper when they were in the passage.
“Leave him for the time being.”
“I want to run him through!” cried Bodkin with more vehemence than wisdom.
Dominic heard and called out. “Is someone there?”
Ragwort clamped a hand over Bodkin’s mouth. “You really are a country bumpkin, aren’t you?” he breathed, watching as Dominic looked curiously out into the apparently deserted passage.
The moment Dominic’s door had closed again, Ragwort took his hand away from Bodkin’s mouth. “Come on—it’s not the end of the world yet. Let’s go back to my house and share a dish of sweet tea.”
“Or
maybe some mead? I’ve brought some with me from Horditall, and if I say so myself, it’s very fine.” This was by way of a peace offering, for Bodkin knew he’d been less than helpful or sensible over the past few minutes.
Ragwort flushed a little and cleared his throat. “Er, no, thank you all the same. Alcohol doesn’t agree with me.”
Bodkin looked curiously at him. “What do you mean?”
“Tea will do me nicely right now,” Ragwort replied, ignoring the question.
Bodkin didn’t press further, and together they scampered down through the house to the entrance hall. A maid was just coming in through the front door with two baskets of produce she’d purchased in the town for the cook, and as she put them down and turned to close the door again, the brownies slipped outside.
In his room Dominic took off his coat and boots, then undid his shirt before lying on the bed, his hands behind his head. He stared thoughtfully at die bed hangings. He’d come here to find a bride and forget Georgiana, but now she was in Bath, too, and he found it very painful; indeed, he was in half a mind to return to London. Still, there was tomorrow night’s ball at the Assembly Rooms, where he’d be able to inspect most of the likely contenders in his own private marriage mart. Please let them be an improvement on Miss Polly Peach, the only young lady—apart from Georgiana— he’d encountered since arriving. He thought of Polly for a moment. What an aggravating creature she was, so much so that it had been a positive pleasure to confound her with a kiss. Oh, yes, he’d stopped her breath for a moment! He smiled a little. “You stopped your own breath a little too, Dominic Fortune,” he murmured, for he wasn’t usually given to such public displays. Memories of the kiss washed over him with unexpected warmth. Plague take it, he’d
enjoyed
kissing her, in fact if he was strictly honest, he’d enjoyed it too much for comfort. His body stirred a little, and he closed his eyes. If he didn’t dislike her so, he could almost swear he desired her...
Downstairs, the tired maid carried the baskets to the basement kitchens, where the cook, a plump woman whose rosy cheeks and good-natured smile were an excellent advertisement for the quality of her cooking, examined the purchases with great care. She went over the cooking apples in particular, and frowned at the maid. “Were these the best you could find?”
The maid was crestfallen. “Yes, Mrs. Matthews.”
“But it’s autumn, the best time for apples, and these aren’t even very large. Oh, dear, I’d much prefer them to be better quality. Sir Dominic told me he’s very fond of my apple pie, and he has Major Dashingham coming to dine tonight”
“I really couldn’t find any better, Mrs. Matthews,” the maid insisted.
The cook nodded. “Oh, very well, but mark my words, Jinny Carter, if I go to town tomorrow and find there
are
better apples, it will be the worst for you.”
Jinny’s eyes filled with tears. “But that’s not fair, Mrs. Matthews, they might put out better ones by tomorrow!”
Mrs. Matthews beckoned another maid. “Get to work peeling these, Anne.”
“Yes, Mrs. Matthews.”
“And you, Jinny, go out in the garden and see if there’s any fresh mint for the leg of lamb. I think you’ll find some beneath the mulberry tree, where last week’s frost didn’t reach.” The cook shook her head and tutted. “Lamb indeed, such a washy meat compared with mutton, but Sir Dominic insists he prefers it.”
Jinny hurried thankfully out of the back door and up the steps to the garden, where George, the gardener, was raking up autumn leaves. She paused to greet him for a moment and remarked that this was one of the finest falls she could remember, so warm that by this time of year the fine potted orange trees adorning the rooftop terrace above the kitchens had usually been taken in. George grunted in response, for he was a man of few words, so Jinny hurried on about her business.
As
she neared the mulberry tree, which was right at the bottom of the garden, next to the door in the high wall that bordered-the lane behind, she noticed that the door’s catch had worked loose. Left as it was, anyone who felt like it could just walk in. She’d have to tell George, for such things were his task. Reaching the tree, she began to gather a large handful of the mint, but then she heard an ominous buzzing sound from the branches overhead. She glanced up, and her eyes widened as she saw a seething swarm of honeybees against a fork in the tree trunk.
With a gasp, she grabbed the last of the mint, and stepped hastily away. Now there were two jobs for old George to deal with, she thought, and hurried toward him, but he gave her such a glower that she changed her mind. Let him find out for himself, and serve him right if Sir Dominic got to hear that he’d neglected his work. Tossing her head again, she stalked past him without a word.
Chapter 16
It rained heavily that evening. Polly stood at the library window, looking along Brock Street, where the cobbles shone in the light from the lamps. She wore the ivory woolen gown in which she’d traveled from Horditall, now with a fringed crimson-and-gold shawl around her shoulders. Her blonde hair was brushed loose because she’d had a headache before dinner, and her face was pensive as she gazed at her reflection in the rain-spotted window.
She was worried about the kiss on the pavement, and how far and wide the Marquis de Torkalotte might already have spread the juicy tidbit. Right now, how many Bath dinner parties were being far more amused by his tittle-tattling than by the debacle on Claverton Down? Was the Peach’s Bank heiress being sniggered at over the mulligatawny? Were her morals—or lack of them—under discussion as the red mullet was served? She glanced at her uncle, who’d fallen asleep in his fireside chair. He hadn’t heard the lurid tale yet, but was sure to be regaled with it when he arrived at the King’s Baths in the morning. He was still in a bad mood anyway, for there was no sign of his valuables, and he was still convinced that the servants were dishonest, every man Jack and woman Jill of them! One thing was certain, his niece had decided not to accompany him anywhere tomorrow, not even the Assembly Room ball. Her gown and accessories had been brought from Horditall, but she hadn’t tried anything on, nor would she after that kiss. She’d spare her blushes by claiming another headache that would incapacitate her all day and into the night! She closed her eyes, wishing she could dislike Sir Dominic Fortune as much as he deserved, but instead she was in peril of falling head over heels in love with him!
A carriage was splashing along Brock Street, preceded by a soaking wet linkboy with a smoking torch. She watched it idly, her thoughts still upon Dominic, but then a face looked out as the vehicle passed by, and she recognized Dominic’s friend. Major Dashingham, who’d suffered Bodkin’s attentions at the review. Was he going to see Dominic? Curiosity got the better of her, and she hurried to the dining room, from where she could look along the sweep of the crescent. The carriage drew up at Dominic’s door, and the major climbed down. His uniform shone in the light from the lamps as he quickly crossed the pavement to the door, which opened immediately to admit him.
Polly drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders and returned to the library. There she sat on the sofa opposite her uncle and picked up her volume of
The Castle of Otranto.
At last she was able to put her worries aside, and was soon lost in the tale of gothic horror. Several hours passed, broken only by Hordwell’s snores and Giles bringing her the tray of tea she rang for. She was just about to pour herself a cup when she became aware of a faint noise from the sugar bowl. A sugar lump rose into the air and disappeared as someone ate it. As a second lump followed suit, she sat forward urgently.
“Bodkin?”
The second lump was hastily dropped, and she heard footsteps pattering toward the door. In a trice she got up to follow. “Bodkin!” she called. “Please stop, for I must speak to you! Didn’t you go to Zuder’s? Haven’t you seen my note?”
But the footsteps ran down the stairs toward the kitchen basement. Polly followed, paying no heed to the startled servants as she pursued the invisible brownie to the back door, the handle of which rattled as he tried to get out. For a moment she thought she had him trapped, but then the door opened, and he dashed out into the rainswept night. Without hesitation, Polly ran out as well. “Bodkin, come back! I have to talk to you!” she called, following the wet squelch of his footsteps on the flagstone path. The wind stirred through the trees, and she lost the sounds he made in the rustle of leaves. “Bodkin?” She glanced around, hardly aware of the rain.
Suddenly the door in the garden-wall banged, and she knew he’d gone out into the lane. Impulsively she gave chase again, even though her hem and shoes were already soaked. Lamps shone above each garden door along the seeming deserted lane, and raindrops flashed their pale arcs of light Puddles filled deep ruts, and water poured from the eaves of some sheds. She listened carefully, trying to hear the brownie above the loud patter the rain made on the ivy against me wall. Then she saw one of the puddles splashing quite violently as Bodkin stumbled and fell.
The brownie scrambled to his feet and fled toward the nearest door, which happened to be that of Dominic’s house, although he didn’t realize it. George the gardener hadn’t noticed the broken catch, so Bodkin slipped into the garden beyond, and set off toward the kitchens, where a little shelter seemed likely. But he hadn’t gone more than a few yards when a familiar droning sound caught his attention. He looked quickly at the mulberry tree in the comer.
Bees!
A
swarm of them!
His eyes lit up for a moment, but then Polly called again, and he ran on to the basement, where he hid behind an enormous rainwater butt that stood against the wall, directly below the rooftop terrace.
Polly had seen the door to Dominic’s garden being pushed open, and knew where Bodkin had gone. That particular garden was the very last in the crescent that she would have chosen to enter, but having come this far in pursuit of her prey, she didn’t intend to give up now. After a tentative glance inside, she followed the brownie. By now she was so wet right through that her woolen gown clung to her like a second skin, her hair hung in rats’ tails around her shoulders, and the fringe of her shawl was dripping as if it had just been hauled out of the washtub. She, too, heard the sound of bees coming from the tree in the comer, but she hardly gave them a thought as she advanced slowly through the icy downpour. Then a slight sound drew her attention to the house.