Page 14 of Appointment in Bath

“And you.” Her father’s unforgiving gaze fixed upon her. “Stop gawping and sit down.”

Stomach quivering, Meg resumed her seat. “Are you f-feeling b-better, father?”

Her father’s brows sank. He had no patience with her stuttering. “Do I look like I’m feeling better?”

“N-no, sir.”

He scowled. “I thought that governess of yours was to have rid you of that infernal habit? She assured me she had before she up and left us.”

“She had,” Meg said. “M-mostly.”

Except when Meg was with her father.

Or with Mr. Beresford.

Her eyes slid guiltily away from her father’s face. To even think of a Beresford in his presence was akin to treason. To be sure, were Sir Frederick truly Henry VIII and not just his uncanny copy, he’d likely have her hauled straight to the scaffold on Tower Green. And if he discovered that she was planning to meet a Beresford male alone…

That would certainly be an excuse for drawing and quartering.

Meg swallowed hard.

She still couldn’t quite believe she’d agreed to ride with Mr. Beresford in the morning. How in heaven had he convinced her to do it? To ignore eighteen years of her father’s strictures on Lord Allendale’s family and thirteen years of Miss Adams’s warnings about being alone, unchaperoned, with a young man?

It scarcely mattered now. Given the state of the weather, Meg doubted she’d be able to keep her promise. She couldn’t very well ride out to the river when it was raining so awfully.

“Sir Frederick!” Mrs. Church strode in. A harried footman trotted behind her with the silver tray holding Meg’s father’s wine. “I do wish you’d told me you’d be coming down. I would have had all in readiness.”

“Am I now obligated to announce my movements in my own house? Bring me that bottle, Judson.”

The footman hastened to fill Sir Frederick’s glass.

Meg bit her lip. Her father wasn’t supposed to be drinking port or eating red meats. Dr. Spragg had made that abundantly clear during his last visit. Overindulgence could easily trigger another attack. “Father… M-must you have the port this evening?”

Judson hesitated, the bottle frozen in his hand as it tipped over the rim of Sir Frederick’s glass.

“Abstaining from it won’t cure the suppurating abscess on my leg, will it?” Her father glared at the footman. “Don’t dare stop pouring that port, Judson.”

“Build up the fire, Hill,” Mrs. Church commanded the other footman. “Lucy?” She snapped her fingers at the panicked housemaid. “Fetch a blanket for your master.”

“No more fussing, Church,” Sir Frederick said. “You make me feel like an old woman.” He raised his glass to his lips. “Just see that my steak is made how I like it and leave me be.”

Mrs. Church’s lips pinched shut. “Very good, sir.” She flashed Meg a speaking glance before withdrawing along with the other servants.

Meg was left alone with her father. She cleared her throat. “Father—”

“I said no more fussing.”

“Yes, but…Dr. Spragg would n-never forgive me if you—”

Her father silenced her by the simple expedient of bringing his fist down on the table. The place settings jumped.

So did Meg.

“I won’t be dictated to by that prosing windbag,” he growled. “And I won’t stand any lectures from a chit of a girl. If you can’t restrain your tongue, you may dine in your room.”

Meg was tempted to do so. She’d rather eat alone, with only a book to keep her company, than face her father’s ill temper. He was a grumpy man at the best of times, but since his leg ulcer had abscessed, he’d become like a bear with a sore head, shouting at anyone who dared oppose him.

But no. She wouldn’t run away. She refused to.