all. Better to get it out of your system now. ”
“Have you been drinking?” Benedict demanded.
Pickering went on doggedly. “If it is your health that concerns you, Mrs. Price’s girls will not infect you with a social disease. They won’t rob you or blackmail you. That’s the Price guarantee: honest girls at an honest price. She can get you any kind of female you would like.”
This elicited something between a snarl of pain and an explosion of derisive mirth from the baronet. “Is that so, Pickering? Can she get me…I don’t know…a tall, slender Irish girl with tangled red hair, green eyes, perfect skin, good teeth, small, high breasts, and a laughing mouth?”
“I don’t see why not, sir.”
“While you’re at it, have her sing to me in Italian! Can your Mrs. Price find me a girl like that?” Laboriously, he climbed to his feet. The room tilted and swayed around him. “No, don’t help me,” he said sharply as his valet started toward him.
“I can prepare you a cure, if you like,” Pickering offered as his master limped past him into his dressing room. “My father’s recipe.”
“No,” Benedict said firmly. “I drank my bottle, and now I must suffer for it.” He looked around him in distaste. The dressing room was a six-sided chamber with a mirrored door set into every wall. He had come through the first door. Four of the other doors concealed closets while behind the fifth a steaming Roman-style bathing pool awaited him. Lord Skeldings, apparently, had spared no expense on his Bath home. The bathing chamber was equipped with up-to-date plumbing, with hot water piped in.
“Cover these mirrors,” Benedict uttered in distaste. The last thing he wanted was six full-length views of his mortal body. He walked through to the bathroom.
After his bath, he was able to sit next to the fire for a few hours. His entire body ached. For dinner he managed to eat a plate of the injustly famous Bath olivers. The oliver was a dry digestive biscuit developed by Bath’s own celebrated Dr. Oliver. Perhaps they tasted better when washed down with the foul-tasting water on offer in the Pump Room.
Pickering brought him the Bath papers, neatly folded into small sections, which made it easier for Benedict to manage the flimsy newsprint with his one hand. Ordinarily, he never glanced into the society columns, but, then, ordinarily, he was not on the lookout for a wife. The sooner he got married, the better. Then he could go back to his happy way of life, which did not include reading the society columns.
He found himself wondering what Miss Cosy might be doing at that moment. Certainly not reading the society columns! Probably, she was enjoying her portion of his thousand pounds. He hoped that her accomplices, whom he imagined to be big, burly men, had not cheated her of her fair share. She had earned it. He did not expect ever to see her again.
“She’s probably halfway to London by now.” He sighed.
“Sir?” Engaged in spreading a shawl over his gentleman’s knees, Pickering looked up.
“I was thinking about the unfortunate young woman who robbed me,” Benedict explained. “She must have been forced by extreme poverty into a life of crime. I have often thought it is a great pity that, outside of marriage, the women of our society have few options in life, other than thievery or, God forbid, prostitution. I would rather she steal from me a little than sell her body to countless men. In her place, I might have done the same.”
“Oh, sir!” said Pickering, appalled. “Not one of your crusades?”
Benedict smiled ruefully. “I have but one crusade in Bath, and that is to find a wife.”
“I have informed myself on the Bath social calendar,” Pickering said eagerly. His interest in who would become Lady Wayborn was, if anything, keener than his master’s. After all, her ladyship would set the tone at Wayborn Hall in the years to come. Pickering hoped she would be kind and beautiful; Sir
“Have you been drinking?” Benedict demanded.
Pickering went on doggedly. “If it is your health that concerns you, Mrs. Price’s girls will not infect you with a social disease. They won’t rob you or blackmail you. That’s the Price guarantee: honest girls at an honest price. She can get you any kind of female you would like.”
This elicited something between a snarl of pain and an explosion of derisive mirth from the baronet. “Is that so, Pickering? Can she get me…I don’t know…a tall, slender Irish girl with tangled red hair, green eyes, perfect skin, good teeth, small, high breasts, and a laughing mouth?”
“I don’t see why not, sir.”
“While you’re at it, have her sing to me in Italian! Can your Mrs. Price find me a girl like that?” Laboriously, he climbed to his feet. The room tilted and swayed around him. “No, don’t help me,” he said sharply as his valet started toward him.
“I can prepare you a cure, if you like,” Pickering offered as his master limped past him into his dressing room. “My father’s recipe.”
“No,” Benedict said firmly. “I drank my bottle, and now I must suffer for it.” He looked around him in distaste. The dressing room was a six-sided chamber with a mirrored door set into every wall. He had come through the first door. Four of the other doors concealed closets while behind the fifth a steaming Roman-style bathing pool awaited him. Lord Skeldings, apparently, had spared no expense on his Bath home. The bathing chamber was equipped with up-to-date plumbing, with hot water piped in.
“Cover these mirrors,” Benedict uttered in distaste. The last thing he wanted was six full-length views of his mortal body. He walked through to the bathroom.
After his bath, he was able to sit next to the fire for a few hours. His entire body ached. For dinner he managed to eat a plate of the injustly famous Bath olivers. The oliver was a dry digestive biscuit developed by Bath’s own celebrated Dr. Oliver. Perhaps they tasted better when washed down with the foul-tasting water on offer in the Pump Room.
Pickering brought him the Bath papers, neatly folded into small sections, which made it easier for Benedict to manage the flimsy newsprint with his one hand. Ordinarily, he never glanced into the society columns, but, then, ordinarily, he was not on the lookout for a wife. The sooner he got married, the better. Then he could go back to his happy way of life, which did not include reading the society columns.
He found himself wondering what Miss Cosy might be doing at that moment. Certainly not reading the society columns! Probably, she was enjoying her portion of his thousand pounds. He hoped that her accomplices, whom he imagined to be big, burly men, had not cheated her of her fair share. She had earned it. He did not expect ever to see her again.
“She’s probably halfway to London by now.” He sighed.
“Sir?” Engaged in spreading a shawl over his gentleman’s knees, Pickering looked up.
“I was thinking about the unfortunate young woman who robbed me,” Benedict explained. “She must have been forced by extreme poverty into a life of crime. I have often thought it is a great pity that, outside of marriage, the women of our society have few options in life, other than thievery or, God forbid, prostitution. I would rather she steal from me a little than sell her body to countless men. In her place, I might have done the same.”
“Oh, sir!” said Pickering, appalled. “Not one of your crusades?”
Benedict smiled ruefully. “I have but one crusade in Bath, and that is to find a wife.”
“I have informed myself on the Bath social calendar,” Pickering said eagerly. His interest in who would become Lady Wayborn was, if anything, keener than his master’s. After all, her ladyship would set the tone at Wayborn Hall in the years to come. Pickering hoped she would be kind and beautiful; Sir
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