turnpike in England. We should be there some time in the afternoon.'
Greville gave a satisfied sigh. 'And if we feel like it, we can indulge in a shampoo at Mahomed's Baths before dinner!'
'We can indeed,' Rupert agreed. 'Come on, we must send a messenger ahead. It wouldn't do to arrive there and find the fires unlit.'
Chapter 5
After a delay caused by one of the horses casting a shoe, it was the early evening of Thursday, December 18, before Greville's traveling carriage bowled down toward Brighton from the windmill heights of the Downs. The team's hooves rang on the hard road, and the carriage lamps cut cleanly through the darkness as the final mile was covered to the fashionable spa that had once been the insignificant fishing town of Brighthelmston.
The wide grassy area known as the Steine had originally been on the eastern extremity of the old town, and was where the local fishermen had mended and dried their nets. Then the Prince of Wales chose adjacent Great East Street in which to build his seaside palace, the Palladian villa called the Marine Pavilion. The rear of the Pavilion looked out on the Steine, and in order that the royal view should not be spoiled, the locals and their unsightly nets were banished. Equally unsightly Great East Street, at least that part which had the audacity to pass the Pavilion, had been purchased and was being pulled down apace, and where it stood there would soon be tranquil gardens.
The Steine had become the
Immediately to the south of the Marine Pavilion stood the Castle Inn and its grand assembly rooms, which would in all probability one day suffer the same royal fate as Great East Street and Radcliffe House. A few buildings further on was Garsington House, then the pretty villa of Mrs. Fitzherbert, who was either the Prince of Wales's wife or his mistress, according to one's political persuasion. Like the Pavilion, her house was in darkness because she was in London with the Price Regent, but Garsington House was ablaze with lights, and from it drifted the sound of indifferently played Vivaldi.
Radcliffe House stood directly against the Pavilion and, like the Castle Inn on the other side, its looming redbrick sturdiness dwarfed the royal residence's pale elegance. It was isolated on the northwest corner of the Steine, its access from Great East Street now lost in the frenzy of royal improvement. Fortunately its main entrance was to the north, and it was here that Greville's town carriage drew up. The illuminated fanlight above the door signified the servants' anticipation of guests, and the horses had barely come to a standstill when two of Evangeline's liveried footmen hastened out to attend to the luggage.
Greville alighted, and took a deep appreciative breath of the sea air. Brighton was renowned for its mild winters, but it seemed to him that this year there was an underlying chill, even a hint of snow, perhaps. Snow on the Steine? That would be a novel thing. He looked across the fine open grass toward the terraces of handsome houses opposite. In the middle of them, on the corner of new St. James's Street, stood Donaldson's Circulating Library, a single-story wooden building, painted white and fronted by a columned verandah. It was here that everyone entered his or her name in a register, so that those already in town knew who had just arrived, and in the past he had always signed it. But not this time, oh, no, not this time. Rupert could sign what he wanted, but Sir Greville Seton wasn't about to broadcast his presence to the Garsingtons.
His glance moved to a house in the northeast corner of the Steine. There was a lighted lantern and a Christmas wreath at the door. It was the home of Admiral Sir Jocelyn Holcroft and his daughter Chloe, and outside it stood a dashing red curricle that Greville recognized as belonging to one Oliver March.
Rupert alighted as well, and scowled as he too saw the curricle. 'Damn March!' he breathed, and tugged his top hat low over his forehead.
Greville clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. 'He'll soon be saying the same of you,' he declared, and ushered Rupert into the house.
Warm air, chandeliers, and the welcome flicker of firelight greeted them in the cream-and-blue hall, where touches of gilded plasterwork set everything off to perfection. The floor was tiled in black and white, and there was a sky-blue velvet sofa and a table on which there would by now have been an arrangement of Christmas greenery if Evangeline had been in residence; indeed there would have been seasonal decorations everywhere, but yuletide was a barren business for Radcliffe House this year.
The portly butler, Fosdyke, hastened to greet them. His receding hair was concealed beneath a neatly powdered white bagwig, and he wore a gray coat and black breeches, both of which were somewhat strained by his girth. He was reckoned the finest butler in Brighton, and he and his wife, a fine cook who made excellent gingerbread, the local delicacy that was Evangeline's great weakness, oversaw the staff of Radcliffe House. They had charge of an assortment of footmen, maids, scullions, grooms, and coachmen. There were also two local gardeners who came in daily from the town, for there was not a great deal of garden to look after, just a railed semicircle of shrubs and flower beds on the Steine side, and a pocket handkerchief of walled garden on the Great East Street side.
'I trust your journey was expeditious, sirs?' Fosdyke inquired solicitously.
'Just a cast shoe to hamper our progress,' Greville replied.
Rupert nodded, then looked at the butler. 'I say, Fosdyke, I hope you managed to send word to Mahomed's Baths?'
'A running footman was dispatched as soon as your message arrived, my lord. Both you and Sir Greville are expected. Sheikh Mahomed himself will attend you.'
'Excellent.' Rupert raised an eager eyebrow. 'And what has Mrs. Fosdyke prepared for our evening repast?'
'Mulligatawny soup, roast pork and apple sauce, and syllabub, sir.'
Rupert's mouth watered. 'I look forward to it. Convey my compliments to her even before we sit down, for I
The butler inclined his head. 'I will tell her, my lord. Dinner will be at eight, sirs, but will you be requiring refreshment in the meantime?' Fosdyke asked.
Rupert turned to Greville. 'What do you say?'
'I'd rather go straight to Mahomed's, the exertion will give us an excellent appetite for Mrs. Fosdyke's peerless roast pork.'
Rupert nodded agreement, and then thought of something. 'Tell me, Fosdyke, are Sir Jocelyn and Miss Holcroft in good health?'
'Oh, yes, my lord, and they will both be in Lady Evangeline's play.'
Rupert went on. 'And, Fosdyke, have you come across a person by the name of Oliver March?'
The butler cleared his throat. 'Yes, I have, my lord. He has taken lodgings in Duchess Place, and is often seen driving Miss Holcroft in his curricle.' Seeing the stormy expression this information produced on Rupert's face, Fosdyke hurried on. 'Shall I send for fly-by-nights to convey you to the baths, sirs?'
'Certainly not!' declared Greville, appalled at the thought of being found in one of the wheeled sedan chairs that were peculiar to Brighton, and were trundled along by two men, one in front and the other behind. In his opinion such conveyances were best suited to the elderly and infirm, not to healthy young men who were perfectly capable of walking the short distance to and from the shoreside baths.
'As you wish, Sir Greville.'
'That will be all for the moment, Fosdyke. Just see that our things are taken to whichever rooms have been aired for us. The usual ones, I take it?'
'Indeed so, Sir Greville. You have the blue chamber, and my lord the green.' The butler bowed, then snapped his fingers at the footmen, who had now brought all the luggage in from the carriage. They immediately carried the first of it toward the staircase that led up from the Great East Street side of the hall.
