I three young gentlemen
Jeremy Wrothling viscount Wrothlington
Hon Nicholas Derwent
Simon Havershall
“Well?” demanded the Honourable Nicholas Derwent.
“You don’t have to ask; look at his face,” said Simon Havershall.
Jeremy Wrothling, viscount Wrothlington, flung himself into a chair in the suite shared by the young men in the ‘York House’ hotel in Bath. He was a blond young man dressed almost casually, but in perfectly fitting clothes of the finest quality, save for the bird’s eye wipe he wore instead of a standard cravat.
“You were right, Nicky,” he said. “Jessica threw my ring at me.”
“How did you frame it?” asked Simon. He was as dark as his friend was fair, small, neat of build, with eyes that missed nothing.
“As we agreed; I asked her how she would feel if there was a broken entail, meaning that someone else was the viscount, not me. She screeched at me about leading her on and that she would only marry a dull dog like me if she could be a viscountess.”
“Dull dog? But you’re a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, a sportsman extraordinaire, a whip of the finest,” said Simon. “Talk about dull, don’t she even realise that a title from your pater can’t be subject to a broken entail?”
“Nicky was right, talk to a female with legal terms, and most of the time, their eyes glaze over,” said Jeremy.
“Said she would,” said Nicky Derwent. Nicky was a cousin to both the others, through the female line, and had wavy golden-brown locks and a dreamy look. He was usually the least loquacious of the three, but wrote poetry which was better for not being addressed to women of his acquaintance. “Look how Amelia carried on about me being a younger son, and there not being much chance of Dan dying now the war was over. Deuced bad form. And she sneered at the Viking ring I dug up and wanted to give her as a love-token, because I thought she entered into my feelings about antiquities.”
“And I caught Lydia sneaking round with Caldicott and kissing him in the conservatory,” said Simon.
“Most people use the lips,” said Jeremy.
“Put your damned sarcasm away,” said Simon. “And do you know what she said to me? She said a lady had to keep her options open, because there was no point settling for second best. I thought she loved me.”
“Caldicott’s a rake,” said Jeremy.
“He’s a damned loose screw,” said Nicky.
“Women seem to like dangerous men,” said Jeremy.
“Which is why those who know you’re a nonesuch throw themselves at you,” said Simon. “Are we going through with it?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy. “We each go to a posting inn, and see if there is a lone young lady, and she must be a lady, and induce her to travel with us. Take her to my hunting box, that being the better part of three hours travel, twenty miles, and if the women like us for our own sweet sakes, we marry them, because they can chaperone each other. Besides, my Great-Aunt Frideswide lives there with her companion, which does for the look of it.”
“We won’t have to talk to them, will we?” said Nicky, in lively horror. “Your great-aunt is crazy and her companion is first cousin to the Grim Reaper.”
“Aggie isn’t that bad,” said Jeremy. “She just feels the responsibility of caring for Aunt Frid, who is in her second childhood. She has her meals in private, now, so you need not worry that she will take all her clothes off at dinner like she did last time. Or, at least, she might, but you won’t have to see it. She was a famous courtesan in her time, and knew a number of royal dukes intimately.”
“All very well, but it was a shock to know her a bit too intimately,” said Nicky.
“Aggie keeps an eye on her, and they have a brawny maid in case Aunt Frid goes wandering,” said Jeremy. “And it’s not like summer storms when she goes outside in her shift to dance. Poor old thing, if it gives her pleasure, why should we decry it?”
“Because it’s scary,” said Nicky, frankly.
“I don’t mind the old lady,” said Simon. “When she’s lucid, her tales are delightful. I have been keeping notes, and one day I will use them in a novel which I will dedicate to her.”
“She’d like that, if she understood,” said Jeremy, touched. “Good; we’ll set off tomorrow. I expect I’ll be slow, as I only have a carriage with me, bringing the mater and her bevy of dressers, maids, companions and vestals with her.”
“You can fit six in the family carriage, does that constitute a bevy?” asked Simon.
“It feels like a bevy,” said Jeremy, firmly.
“Yes, I imagine it probably does,” said Simon. “As long as you don’t have to carry her cicisbeo as well.”
Jeremy shuddered.
“I can’t stand him,” he said. “I couldn’t stand him when the pater was alive, either. I know it’s fashionable to take lovers, but I want a wife who is satisfied with me, and with whom I would be satisfied.”
“How uxorious of you!” said Simon, lightly. “Not that I disagree. And this is why we are kidnapping poor but virtuous ladies in the hopes that they will be more convivial than the gold-diggers we meet in society. ‘Oh, Simon’s so safe and steady, he could keep me in comfort, but I want excitement as well,’ which is what Lydia said.”
“Put her from your mind, old man,” said Jeremy. “By the time she realises what a mistake she’s made, with luck, you’ll be safely married.”
“What if they’re under twenty-one?” asked Nicky.
“If they’re alone in the world, they won’t have a guardian,” said Jeremy. “Oh, well, there’s always Scotland.”
“In December? You have rats in the attic,” said Nicky.
“Hush! We write to an importer of whisky I know, and have him bring a consignment south; and a chaplain. Then, onboard ship, we are on sovereign territory of Scotland.”
“Does it count?” asked Simon, dubiously.
“If we talk very fast, and don’t back down it counts,” said Jeremy. “It’s a casuistry which has been used for making treaties.”
“Well, I don’t suppose anyone else knows, either,” said Simon. “So, they can’t refute it.” He considered. “Are we going to choose inns so we don’t go to the same place?”
“Good thought,” said Jeremy. “I thought I’d go to the White Hart.”
“Isn’t it a bit prestigious for the sort of ladies we’re looking for?” asked Nicky.
“It’s the main posting inn,” said Jeremy. “Someone doesn’t have to be staying there to be there. I thought I’d give it a day there, and then try The Three Tuns, in Stall Street.”
“Good idea, to have a second one to go to,” said Nicky. “I thought I’d go to the Angel Inn, Westgate Street, it’s respectable, but cheap. Then, oh, The Saracen’s Head in Broad Street.”
“I’ll try The White Lion, and The Christopher, in Market Place,” said Simon.
“A toast, to our success,” said Jeremy.
They set out the next morning, through frost crackling underfoot. It had not snowed much, but older folk said it was too cold to snow.
Jeremy drove to the White Hart, asked for his horses to be watered, and threw blankets over them. He went into the tap room, where visitors congregated, and propped himself up at the bar, ignoring the flirtatious wriggles of the tapster’s daughter and her low-cut dress.
There were not many people in there yet, but Jeremy’s eyes were drawn to a youth, in rather outmoded clothing, worn appallingly badly.
There was something about the way the youth moved that made Jeremy’s eyes narrow.
Then the youth came up to him.
The voice was well-modulated, obviously educated.
“Excuse me, are you the coachman for a stage coach, and do you have room for one?” the youth asked.
“I tell you what, you can ride on the box with me, and pay your way by talking to me so I don’t drift off into the killing sleep of cold,” said Jeremy.
“Thank you,” the youth replied.
Nicky pulled into the Angel Inn, in his phaeton, as a young woman in dowdy clothing, but obviously a lady, pulled a trunk which was too heavy for her into the inn yard. She consulted a pocket book in her reticule, and sighed. The sigh condensed in a cloud about her.
Nicky raised his hat.
“I suspect the stages will be behind schedule on these treacherous icy roads; going up and down hill,” he said. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“It depends where you are going, sir,” her voice was softly modulated.
“Oh, I’m exercising my nags,” said Nicky. “I can please myself. Or, indeed, you.”
“Oh, well, if you are going part of the way, I was heading for Cheltenham,” she said.
“Well, if you’ll hold my horse’s heads, I can load up your trunk and we can get going,” said Nicky. The young lady did hold his horse’s heads, without fear, and she stepped away when he remounted and took up the reins, leaning over to help her scramble in.
“Here,” said Nicky. “There’s a blanket to put over yourself; it gets chilly.”
Simon hesitated at the Market Place, in his gig, deciding whether to go to The White Lion, or The Christopher, it still being very early, when he saw a young woman, dowdily dressed in clothes which had seen much darning, and she was carrying a cheap valise. Her clothes were those of the upper class, out of date, but once stylish. She might be a dresser, of course, gifted her mistress’s clothes.
Simon decided to take a chance on her.
“Excuse me, you look as if you need help,” he said.
“Oh! I should not... you look harmless,” she said. Her voice was definitely that of a lady.
“I am harmless,” said Simon. “Where are you off to?”
“Milsom Street, number two,” she said. “I... I need to visit the bank before I do anything else.”
Simon consulted his watch.
“It’s almost eight; there should be someone there. You are not leaving Bath?”
“Oh! Yes, but I must see my bank manager first, so I am not defrauded.” She flushed. “I know, I do not look as if I have much to be defrauded of, but now I am one-and-twenty, I resent my small portion being usurped.”
“Intriging!” said Simon. “And where to, after the bank?”
“Anywhere,” she said.
“Hop up, then; the bank first, and then, my lady, your carriage awaits, and I shall hie you off to Lady Frideswide Wrothling, who is as senile as a coot, but has some entertainingly warm stories of her days at court,” said Simon, who found dissembling hard.
