Page 65 of Appointment in Bath

Ivo felt a flicker of satisfaction. Could Miss Heywood be the girl to bring his toplofty brother low? Ivo wondered, but he didn’t linger to indulge his curiosity. The moment Kate departed to show her guests to their rooms, Ivo slipped out unnoticed amid the chaos of family, servants, barking dogs, and overlapping conversations.

There wasn’t time to saddle Snap. Instead, stopping only long enough to outfit himself in sturdy top-boots and a heavy greatcoat, he marched out the gate and into the snow.

The distance between Beasley Park and Letchford Hall was a negligible one. Only a mile at its nearest edge. A shortcut across three pastures, a leap over a frozen stile, and Ivo was within sight of the ancestral home of the Burton-Smythes.

It wasn’t the way he’d envisioned meeting with Sir Frederick. Ivo was meant to have arrived in a carriage, unrumpled, at the house’s front door, everything in proper order as befitting a distinguished man of business.

But needs must.

Bounding up the snow-covered brick steps, he rapped soundly at the massive oak front door. Razor-pointed icicles hung from the stone casing above, as lethal as a French guillotine waiting to behead the unwary. Ivo carefully avoided them. He hadn’t come this far only to be injured by an undignified act of nature.

At length, a small, grim-looking old woman in a black stuff dress answered Ivo’s knock. The housekeeper, he presumed. Her flinty eyes betrayed immediate recognition. A look of amazement followed. Her gaze shot past him, brows lifting as they registered the absence of a horse or carriage.

“Mr. Ivo Beresford to see Sir Frederick,” Ivo said. “If you please.”

The woman’s mouth pursed so severely that, for an instant, it disappeared completely. She stiffly opened the door.

Admitting him into the house, she directed him to a small parlor off the entry hall. It was sparsely furnished, with heavy draperies, a mahogany-framed settee, and two carved Jacobean chairs.

“You may wait here, sir,” she said after taking his hat and greatcoat, “while I inquire if Sir Frederick is at home.”

Ivo smiled to himself. Of course, Sir Frederick was at home. Though, whether he’d see Ivo or not was an open question.

While he waited, Ivo straightened his riding coat, brushed the dirt from his breeches, and smoothed the wind-swept locks of his hair. He wasn’t dressed for a business meeting. He was dressed for the out of doors. A country gentleman’s uniform of broadcloth, Bedford cord, and leather. That it was cut well to his figure, made little difference.

Hopefully the notoriously proud and disagreeable Sir Frederick wouldn’t take it as an insult.

But it wasn’t Sir Frederick Ivo was thinking about as he paced the anteroom.

It was Meg.

Was she aware he was here? Did she want to see him? Twelfth Night had come and gone over a fortnight ago. Perhaps she’d given up on him calling. Perhaps she no longer wished to welcome him with tea and cake as she’d promised the last time they’d met.

He flexed his hands at his sides as he walked up and down the room. So occupied was he with his thoughts that the sound of the housekeeper’s voice made him start.

“Sir Frederick will see you in his study, sir,” the old curmudgeon said. “This way.”

Composing his emotions behind a mask of aristocratic confidence, Ivo exited the parlor, following the housekeeper down a wide, flagstone-lined corridor.

The inside of Letchford Hall was as antiquated as its exterior. There was aged brickwork and exposed stone, along with faded landscape paintings, worn tapestries, and even an entire suit of armor standing guard at the foot of the stairs.

No wonder Meg’s fancies drifted toward Arthurian legends. Ivo might have believed he was stepping into one if the fragrance of silver polish, lemon oil, and beeswax had been slightly less obtrusive.

Sir Frederick’s study was located near the end of the corridor, past the open doors of what looked to be a substantial library. The man himself was waiting inside, seated behind a dark, carved Jacobean desk of intimidating proportions.

Ivo came to a standstill as the housekeeper announced him.

It had been years since he’d seen Sir Frederick. Time hadn’t been kind to the ginger-haired baronet. He was substantially heavier, with a fleshy face and puffy bags under his eyes that attested to his penchant for rich foods and drink. His furious red hair was now shot with gray, and his ruddy countenance damp as if the mere act of sitting upright behind his desk was aggravating his condition.

He didn’t rise to greet Ivo as the housekeeper departed. He merely stared at him for a long while, too many emotions running through his eyes to properly catalog them. “You have the look of your father,” he said at last.

Ivo smiled. “Indeed, sir,” he replied amiably. “I trust you won’t hold it against me.”

Sir Frederick’s mouth twitched. But it wasn’t with humor. He was plainly holding onto his temper by a thread.

Ivo’s spirits sank. Good lord. Sir Frederick must truly hate Ivo’s father. And not only as a philosophical exercise, but as an acrid ever-present emotion. One that seemed to have been eating away at the man for a very long while.

Was Ivo’s proposal to be doomed before it began?