Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1) (2 page)

As Agatha trotted along astride the decrepit horse she admitted to herself that it was true. She had never set out to be a hoyden, but it had just happened. All in the name of
science
of course. For example, she had to try riding a horse astride because mathematically it seemed like a much better point of balance than the silly legs on one side and lean to the right saddle that society forced women into. Then there was that interesting little book on mechanical principles she had found. It had passed many a dark day for her, holed up in her room with her brother’s pristine Greek primer in order to decipher all the symbols. It really had been rather revealing, and fortunately she had finished it before Grandfather had burned it. And beaten her again.

In actual fact, in Agatha’s opinion, men had little if any redeeming features. Having done an extensive study of the species, they all seemed rather too
self-interested
. Her brother had left her with their tyrant grandfather to pursue his painting, Grandfather was only interested in spending his money on ‘a good time’, and all the footmen stole from the household kitty. Goodness, even the vicar was out looking for money for the church. A raindrop slid down Agatha’s nose. And then there was her father, selfishly claimed by death.

The shower abated as Agatha arrived back at the house, a small farmstead on the edge of Hope Sands. Its dour windows looked down on her forbiddingly. She sighed heavily; it was not worth going round the back to see to the state of her water clock. Judging by the enormous puddles on the ground, the poor clepsydra would be measuring at least five hours more than it should have done.

Dismounting from the horse, she slowly sloshed up the muddy path to the front door which stood slightly ajar. No one welcomed her into the hall. Within, the doors to each bare room stood open and the fire in the kitchen had gone out. A note on the large oak table explained that the cook, the maid and the footman had found work at the nearby manor. They were terribly sorry, but they had taken the last of the food with them.

That wasn’t the only thing they had taken with them. Standing on the cold black and white tiles of the kitchen floor, it was evident that all the pots and pans were missing. The jars of preserves had also vanished. Even the blackberry jam pot at the back of the cupboard in which she had been measuring the mold growth had gone.

Slowly Agatha paced back through the cold, ground-floor rooms. The dresser stood bare of the usual blue and white plates, and a dark stain on the floor showed where an armchair had been taken. With a gasp, Agatha re-entered the hall and clattered quickly up the creaking stairs in her outsize boots, tripping on the top step.

Her lonely, familiar room loomed in front of her. The door which she had left closed that morning was open, propped in place by the broken, open remains of her mother’s trunk. Where before a mound of clothing had packed the sturdy box, now there was merely an empty space.  

Two tears, the only ones she had shed that day, rolled smoothly down her nose. Crawling slowly to her knees, Agatha pushed the trunk into the room, the door banging shut behind her. Throat burning with silent sobs, she pulled herself into the lone chair by the trunk and stared sightlessly at the wall at the far end of the room.
They were only dresses. At least she had her freedom at last.

Stoically, Agatha counted the pock marks in the plaster at the end of the room and waited for her tears to dry. The pock marks covered the entire wall. She rubbed at her eyes. This was an experiment she hadn’t yet got
quite
right.

As the last tear dried on her chin, a faint noise came through the door. Straightening in the chair, Agatha cocked her head, and gripped the arms of the chair. The sound was familiar to her, sat as she had been so many times near to the top of the stairs, waiting for someone, anyone to come up and let her out of her room.

She blinked and froze. The third step on the stairs creaked, and then the sixth.
Who was it
? The staff were gone, the will had already been read, so no more visitors were expected. The owner of the house wasn’t due to take up possession for another week. Having met him once, Agatha knew that he would have knocked before entering.

Frantically she glanced to the bedroom floor on her left. The staff had missed the habitual bowl and potato knife as they cleared the house of goods to sell. Bending sharply over the arm of the chair, she picked up the bowl, placed it in her lap and laid her right hand inside, lightly holding the bone handle of the knife.

No
. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Standing quietly, she pushed the knife into her skirts and, gripping the solid bowl, shuffled to the door.

Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as she waited. The handle on the door twisted slightly and then stopped. Whoever it was, the person was well versed in subterfuge. Agatha hadn’t heard any more of the normally creaky stairs as they ascended. She held her breath. The handle stopped moving.

With a huff, she slumped, her shoulders aching with tension.

A glint of light on the door handle sparkled as it moved slowly around again. Agatha straightened and breathed in through her nose quietly. She shifted her grip slightly on the bowl and raised it above her head.
Good god.
Who was there?

The door opened inwardly on its hinges, propelled by a sharp push. But no one stepped through.

“I would not enter if I were you,” Agatha said, her throat tightening sharply. She coughed. “Go away and no harm will come to you.”

A low laugh resounded in the hallway. The intruder thrust a confident highly-polished booted foot through the doorway. He paid no attention to her threat. Agatha’s eyes travelled upward, taking in the pristine, white breeches encasing muscular thighs, and the expensive-looking tailored coat that hung on broad shoulders. Bright blond hair hung around a forbidding face dominated by a sharp nose.

“I said, don’t come any further. Turn round and go away!” Her voice began to squeak slightly but she could not take her eyes away from the man.

Blue eyes turned to observe her, pinning her to her frozen position. The man took another step in and slowly turned to face her. He smiled slightly. It did not reassure her.

“Please just go. I don’t want to do this!”

The man frowned and lifted a foot. In one deft movement Agatha pulled forward her arm, hidden behind the door, and slammed the bowl on the intruder’s head.

“Ow.” He put a hand to his head and tottered slightly. “What the…?”

Not hard enough
. Agatha lifted the copper bowl again and, with two hands, whipped it down faster.

“Aagh. What are you doing?” The man sucked at his fingers and backed behind the door.

Damn, she had miscalculated. Really she should have waited for him to move his fingers away before hitting him.

For a few seconds there was silence. Agatha clutched the bowl to her skirts. The man lurched half-in and half-out of the doorway. Still sucking his fingers, he felt at his head with his free hand and then rubbed them against his coat. A red stain emerged stickily against his coat, rather as if he’d rubbed jam on the pristine wool.

“Goddamn it!” he cursed, taking his hand out of his mouth. “That was the first time I’ve worn this coat. Ames will be heartily displeased.” He paused and grimaced. “Actually I rather think he’ll laugh. Bloody hell, my head hurts.”

Agatha stared open-mouthed. “Wh… who are you?” she stammered. Scuttling backwards, she fell back into her chair. “What do you want?”

He looked up at her and bowed shallowly. “Lord Henry Anglethorpe at your service. Your brother sent me.” The blood on his head shone brightly against his long blond hair.

Agatha slumped in her seat, a rising heat burning at the tips of her ears.
Lord Henry Anglethorpe
. Peter had written to her of a Henry he had become friends with at Oxford whom Peter had regarded as a genius and the brother he had never had. He was one of the only people who encouraged Peter in his art, and his earliest patron. He hadn’t mentioned that this Henry was a lord.

Curling her hand round the fallen potato knife, Agatha damned Peter in her mind. Just like a bloody man. Firstly he had left her in this farmstead with nowhere to go, and now it was his fault that she had nearly brained a lord. Oh dear. This was
much
worse than the discovery of one of her failed experiments.

CHAPTER 2

Lord Henry Anglethorpe shook his head slowly from side to side. The room still rolled slightly as the pain from the wound on his head pulsed through his skull.
Devil take it
—how had she known he was there?

“Are you alright, my lord?” The voice was clear, precise and not at all remorseful.

Henry took in a quick breath and nodded, and then cursed. Holding his head stiffly, he turned to observe the small figure that sat immobile at the other end of the room, more than ten paces away. She hadn’t apologized, or greeted him. He blinked. Not many people managed to surprise him.

Without turning his back on her again, he examined the small bowl that lay on the floor. Potato peelings lay scattered at the base of the door. She’d hit him with a
cooking pot
?

He advanced a few paces towards her. “There’s no need to be afraid.”

Agatha stood up gracefully, revealing a small knife in her hand. Holding it outstretched, she motioned him back with a jerk of her head. Raising his eyebrows, he stepped lightly backwards once, and stopped.
Interesting.

“I repeat,” she said briskly. “What do you want?”

Henry folded his arms. “Your brother asked me to give you a season. I was on my way back from business in Exeter and thought I would collect you myself.”

“Collect me?” The disbelief in her voice was palpable.

“Look out of the window.” The beginnings of impatience tugged at him. He needed to leave before darkness fell. It was a long way back to London and he had already delayed the journey longer than he had planned.

Agatha backed to the window and looked out. Henry had left his carriage outside the front gate. The tiger had been cleaning his nails with a knife when he had dismounted and the coachman had been examining the trigger mechanism on his blunderbuss. He hoped they had put them away.

“A season? But why? You do not know me!”

Henry sighed, his earlier amusement gone. They really did need to leave; although they had driven southwards post haste, his previous stop in Wales had taken longer than he had anticipated. There had been certain
issues
that he had had to take care of personally.

“I promised your brother in exchange for some of his paintings.”

He waited as Agatha furrowed her brow and scratched her drawn white face with a free hand, her outdated worn black dress rustling as she moved.

Surely she knew that a season was more expensive than an unknown painter’s scribbles? He resisted the urge to draw his pocket watch out from underneath his waistcoat—he didn’t want to frighten Agatha. Given the past fifteen minutes, he wouldn’t put it past the little kitten to attempt to throw her vegetable peeler at him.

He wiggled a cramped toe inside one of his boots. “Besides, my sister makes her come out this season, and I think it would be better if she had someone to share it with. She tells me she is lonely.” He made no mention of his sister’s worrying melancholies.

Agatha gasped.

“So will you come with me, or not?”

“I will think on it.”

For the life of him, Henry couldn’t understand what there was to think of. He’d seen the state of the house as he’d walked through it, the ransacked cupboards and the lack of servants.

Smoothing down his coat one last time, he folded his arms and waited. “I have brought you a maid. There is no need to be concerned in relation to propriety. You have ten minutes.” He paused, his eyes still on the knife. “And you can bring the carrot peeler with you.”

Agatha stared at him for a few seconds and then slowly pushed herself out of the chair. Without taking her eyes off him, she put out a foot that revealed the unmistakable round toes of a large boot that still carried a crust of mud around the rim.

Standing on one leg, she made a swinging motion and, grimacing, nearly toppled to the floor. Henry unfolded his arms. What on earth was she doing? He took a step forward but Agatha waved her knife at him. Again she put out a ginger foot, and after much see sawing back and forth, connected with the open trunk that lay at her feet. With the tip of her boot she pushed the trunk to one side, shuffled three paces and knelt on the floor.

At no point had she blinked or broken his gaze. Henry resumed jiggling his toe in his boot. Despite himself he was beginning to enjoy the situation.

Agatha slumped and blinked. “Oh bloody hell.” She rubbed at her eyes.

He frowned; he’d have to break her of that habit. Young ladies did not swear in polite company. Especially those ones associated with the Anglethorpes. And if he was to have any chance of getting a good match for Victoria he would need to prevent any hint of scandal attaching itself to their name. Perhaps she wasn’t a good idea as a companion after all.

His frown grew deeper as Agatha bent over the floor, the soft silk of her dress whispering over the boards.

The floorboards creaked as Agatha slid the blade of her potato knife into a crevice between the floorboards. Pushing down on the handle, she levered up a small length of the polished wood. She lifted it out and placed it to one side beside the knife. Looking back at Henry, she tensed and drew her knife closer.

Lying on the floor, she pushed her arm into the hole and groped in the small space. Henry looked at the ceiling.
Dear Lord.

“I’m ready. What are you waiting for?”

Henry glanced from side to side. Where in the blazes had she and the knife gone?

“I thought you were in a hurry?” The clinking of metallic objects thumped in the hall.

Striding out through the door, he caught a glimpse of Agatha’s skirt as she clumped down the stairs. Her hand shoved something in her pocket, a large weighty something that chinked slightly as she stepped downwards.