Page 33 of Appointment in Bath

“They’re keen on the idea.”

It was partially true. Both men had pledged their support, contingent on Ivo obtaining the backing of his parents and Sir Frederick. Ivo had promised them that the Beresford and Burton-Smythe endorsements were forthcoming, knowing full well that the latter was still very much in question.

Ivo had no regrets. He was confident that, when he finally met with Sir Frederick, the man could be persuaded to see reason. Sir Frederick may be an ogre in his personal dealings, but he'd never been accused of falling short in matters that affected Letchford Hall. A railway would benefit him as well as it would the tradesman and villagers. Coal, crops, and anything else produced on his estate could be transported with ease.

Mr. Pinnock seemed to read his mind. “And Sir Frederick? What of his opinion? He’s in favor of your venture, I presume, if his daughter’s presence here is any indication.”

“She has nothing to do with the business,” Ivo said.

“More to do with pleasure, has she?” Mr. Pinnock smiled smugly. “No need to deny it. I’ve a gift for spotting these things. The butcher’s recent engagement is down to me. So is the chemist’s. But a Beresford and a Burton-Smythe! Now that would be a feather in my cap.”

The vicar had warned Ivo about Mr. Pinnock’s propensity for making matches. Ivo nevertheless felt a distinct flare of annoyance with the man. “My interest is solely in the railway,” he said. “As I told you before, a platform halt in Maidenbridge has the power to revitalize the village.”

Mr. Pinnock was temporarily diverted. “With more business for the Emporium?”

“And easier shipments of goods.”

Mr. Pinnock nodded slowly. “Mayhap it’s time I bought a rail ticket to see what all the fuss is about. Can’t promise to endorse the scheme until I do.”

A surge of accomplishment lifted Ivo’s spirits. “Naturally. One must be sensible about these things.”

He was prepared to say more when he heard Miss Burton-Smythe’s voice from across the table, haltingly interjecting during a pause in Ruggiero’s endless soliloquy.

“I b-beg your pardon,” she said. “I seem to have spilled wine on m-my gown.”

The entire table looked at her as one.

She held her half-filled glass in her hand. Her countenance was pale beneath her freckles.

“That’s easily remedied,” Miss Colfax said, setting aside her napkin. “Our housekeeper has all sorts of salves in the kitchen. She can remove any stain that hasn’t set in yet.” She began to get up. “I’ll walk you down.”

Ivo and the other gentleman moved to stand.

Miss Burton-Smythe rose from her chair in a flurry of gold silk skirts. “Pray d-don’t trouble yourself. I c-can find the way.” With that, she swiftly fled the dining room.

Ivo stared after her in the flickering candlelight. A frown curved his mouth as he returned to his seat. There had been no wine stain on her dress. None that he could see. He cast an accusing look at Ruggiero.

The signore responded with a bewildered shrug.

“Poor dear.” Miss Colfax spread her napkin back over her lap. “She is easily flustered, isn’t she? I shall give her five minutes to compose herself and then go after her.”

“No,” Ivo said. “Leave her be. It’s time she wants, not company.”

Miss Colfax’s gentle smile turned quizzical. “You speak as though you knew her.”

“I do,” he said. He was beginning to, anyway.

If Miss Burton-Smythe wasn’t back in five minutes, he’d go after her himself.

Chapter Nine

Meg had not, in fact, spilled her wine. Despite her anxiety at being in company, she wasn’t so fumble fingered as that. It was Mr. Ruggiero who had driven her to flee. Him and his endless stories about Ivo Beresford’s compassionate heart.

Initially, Meg had listened with avid attention, eager to hear anything about Mr. Beresford. She was, to her embarrassment, developing a bit of a fascination with the man. But as Mr. Ruggiero droned on, it became clear that every account of his employer’s life in Italy contained a similar theme. No matter how wretched a person’s situation—no matter how the world had shunned them—Mr. Beresford could always be counted on for a kind smile and a sympathetic word. He was, as Mr. Ruggiero insisted, a gentleman who took pity on the misfits of society.

It wasn’t very long into the man’s soliloquy that it had begun to occur to Meg that she was very likely one of them.

And that hadn’t been the worst of it.