Free Theft of Life by Imogen Robertson Page B

altercation that was blocking the corner showing no sign of abating, she turned to her groom. ‘Peters, you had better drive the chaise home. Mr Bartholomew, I think we must walk from here.’ She swung herself lightly from her perch and handed her whip to her groom.
    Langhorne’s repository was built off Barbican and was of sufficient size to allow the gentlemen who came to buy their carriage horses there to see the animals trot at a decent pace. For today’s event, however, the carriages and horses had been cleared from the arena, and replaced by the great balloon.
    Harriet was amazed by the crush and despairing of finding anyone in the crowd, but almost as soon as they had pushed their way into the throng, Mr Bartholomew touched her arm and pointed up towards the galleries. In the middle of an upper balcony a long table had been laid. Even at this distance Harriet could see the gleam of white tablecloths and silverware, and the sun touched the gold on the livery of the footmen serving a dozen or so ladies and gentlemen. Harriet was preparing to plunge through the crowd towards the building’s entrance when she heard herself being hailed. Behind her, perched on the top of a coach, squeezed by some miracle against the southern wall of the yard, was the party from Berkeley Square. The horses had been led away, but the coach remained to give the party a platform from which to observe the wonders of M. Blanchard. Graves was waving a chicken leg at her. Little Anne was clasped firmly on her nurse’s lap and seemed absorbed in licking her fingers. Jonathan and Stephen were too engaged in staring at the swelling body of the gold and green balloon to give her more than a distracted wave. Harriet returned the salutes and managed to mime both her love and her intention to go elsewhere, then return later.
    Bartholomew was at her elbow. ‘Isn’t that the shopkeeper who lives off the Thornleigh family? Who is he waving at?’
    Harriet gave him a look that had made many an Admiral nervous when her late husband was in the Navy. ‘That young man has devoted himself to the children and their welfare for five years. He is one of the best men I have ever met in my life.’
    Bartholomew, to his credit, blushed violently. ‘Of course, my apologies. I misunderstood the situation.’
    ‘You did.’
    ‘It is simply I was told, when he …’ Wisely, Mr Bartholomew gave up the attempt to excuse himself further. He became instead vigorous and effective in clearing a way for her through the crowd until they could reach the building where Sir Charles was feasting. They passed under the high carriage arch then into the lower, darker interior and climbed the stairs. Partway through their ascent, Mr Bartholomew hesitated and turned to her. ‘Mrs Westerman, may I apologise again for that careless remark? I am sure any young man thrust into such a position of responsibility must occasionally make decisions that appear to older men, more experienced in business, as strange or foolish.’
    She looked at him coldly. ‘Perhaps. I have lived as a neighbour to Thornleigh Hall for many years and I can assure you the estate is a great deal better managed now than it was before Jonathan inherited. Do
you
have any first-hand knowledge of his business?’
    He admitted he did not, bowed, and they climbed the remaining stairs. He did seem genuinely contrite. The door to the private parlours that led onto the balcony was open, but guarded by a pair of immaculate footmen, facing outwards towards the stairs. Harriet suspected that her own servants would be craning their necks for a view of the balloon. Bartholomew spoke to one, who disappeared for a moment out into the air of the balcony while his fellow stood aside and invited them with an elegant sweep of his white-gloved hand to come into the parlour he guarded. It was a pleasant room, timbered and low; the paint on the plaster smelled fresh and a good run of windows gave out onto the arena outside. The