Page 30 of Appointment in Bath

“Your father was unable to join you, I see,” Mr. Colfax said. “Is his health no better?”

“He’s still p-poorly, I’m afraid,” Meg said. “He…He sends his regrets.”

It was partially true.

When Meg had informed her father that she’d been invited to dine at the vicarage, he’d first inquired who else would be there and had then commanded her to convey his regards. He had respect for the Pinnocks, and for the Colfaxes. As for the rest of the dinner guests…

Meg had refrained from mentioning that Ivo Beresford would be in attendance.

It wasn’t a secret that could be kept forever. She had no illusions on that score. The vicar’s servants would inevitably gossip. So would Mr. Pinnock and his son. Both worked the counters at Pinnock’s Emporium and both had a reputation for conversing easily with their patrons.

By this time tomorrow, the whole of Maidenbridge would know that a Beresford and a Burton-Smythe had dined together on terms of cordiality. Far worse, Meg’s father would know. She could only imagine his reaction.

But she wasn’t going to think of it. Not this evening.

Tonight, she was resolved to enjoy herself. Tomorrow she’d worry about all the rest of it.

“Come and warm yourself by the fire.” Miss Colfax guided Meg to an empty space on the parlor’s chintz-covered settee. “You must be frozen through.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. “It’s n-not raining any longer, b-but it is very cold out this evening.”

“If the temperature continues to drop at this rate,” Mr. Beresford remarked, “we may yet have a white Christmas.”

Meg met his eyes as she took a seat. He gave her a faint, reassuring smile. There was a hint of encouragement in it. As if he knew how awkward this evening might be for her and was promising her that all would be well.

She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than was proper, only belatedly realizing that she was perilously close to staring at him. It was the first time she’d seen him out of his breeches and top-boots. He was dressed in a fine black wool frock coat, a figured silk waistcoat, and an impeccably cut pair of wheat-colored trousers. A dark silk cravat was knotted at his neck, and his honey-blond hair—no longer windswept—was pomaded into meticulous order.

It was too much, really. She’d rather he was disheveled and wearing his spectacles, gazing out at the clapper bridge with an expression of bright-eyed wonder. That Ivo Beresford could be met with on terms approaching equality. But this golden God was quite another being entirely.

“English winters,” the black-bearded gentleman said in a vaguely accented mutter. “Intolerable.”

Meg flashed the man an uncertain look.

“Mr. Ruggiero has lived these past two decades in Italy,” the vicar said, introducing him to Meg as the guests resumed their seats. “He was Mr. Beresford’s guide on his grand tour of Europe. You know Mr. Beresford, of course. And I believe you’re acquainted with Mr. Pinnock and his son, Nigel?”

“How d-do you do,” Meg stammered.

“I for one will be glad of the snow.” Mr. Pinnock leaned back in his chair. His ample midsection was contained by a checked waistcoat with gold buttons. One of the offerings at his store, no doubt. “We have a new selection of sleds at the Emporium. Don’t like to see them languishing in the storeroom unwanted.”

Nigel Pinnock nodded along with his father. He was a young man of nineteen, sporting a pair of patchy brown side-whiskers. “There’s good sledding in Shropshire. The winter here is nothing to the winters we had there.”

“You’re not thinking of returning, I hope,” Miss Colfax said from her place beside Meg on the settee. “We’ve all come to rely so much on the Emporium.”

“We won’t be departing just yet, miss, never you fear,” Mr. Pinnock replied. “If we do, the store will remain. It’s a dream of mine to have a Pinnock’s Emporium in villages across England.” He looked to Mr. Beresford. “Daresay it seems a small enough dream to the son of an earl.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Beresford answered. “Prosperous shopkeepers are the result of a prosperous village. To my mind, your ambitions are all to the good.”

“You’re ambitious yourself, I understand.” Mr. Pinnock cast a significant glance at Meg. “In every respect, it seems.”

Meg willed herself not to blush under Mr. Pinnock’s scrutiny. She supposed it had been too much to hope that he would confine his remarks to next-day gossip. It seemed the convergence of a Burton-Smythe and a Beresford was too scandalous a subject to ignore, even for courtesy’s sake.

But Mr. Beresford did ignore it. Both his gaze and his attention remained firmly on Mr. Pinnock. “I see nothing wrong with keeping one’s sights set on the future,” he said. “Nothing has ever been achieved by looking backward.”

“As Lot’s wife would attest,” Mr. Colfax interjected dryly.

The vicar’s attempt at levity was effective. The gentlemen chuckled and Miss Colfax smiled with relief at an awkward moment averted.

“Quite so,” Mr. Pinnock said, returning his focus to Mr. Beresford. “The vicar mentioned that you’re touting a rail station in Maidenbridge.”