Free Mayhem in Bath by Sandra Heath Page B

sense, sir? Walking sticks are not to be used as weapons!”
    Hordwell gave him a cold look. ‘‘Walking sticks have more right in here than fripperies,” he replied, then gazed ahead again, his expression one of stony indifference to the mayhem he’d caused.
    Dominic kissed Georgiana’s fingers reassuringly. “There, there, all is well again,” he murmured, before turning his outrage upon Polly. “I begin to despair of you, Miss Peach, for wherever you are, there also is trouble.”
    “One might say the same of you, sirrah!” she retorted indignantly.
    “You are the cause, madam, not me,” he replied, cradling the weeping Georgiana to his manly chest.
    Polly was furious with him, and with herself for being so drawn to him. “Then please allow me to warrant your low opinion,” she answered, and before she knew it was in her mind, she’d picked up the only glass of water remaining upright on the counter. With a flourish she tossed the contents all over him, although in truth it was her own hot emotions she needed to douse.
    Unfortunately she drenched Georgiana as well, and the lady in question screamed all the more. There were gasps all around, and Dominic looked as if he could cheerfully have choked his blonde assailant, but before he could give in to any such urge, two burly footmen hurried over to eject Polly and her uncle, wheelchair and all.
    Thus Polly’s first—and only—visit to the Bath Pump Room came to a premature and rather undignified end.
     

Chapter 10
     
    As Polly and Hordwell were politely but firmly ejected from the Pump Room, a bitterly angry Bodkin was busy searching 1 Royal Crescent. He was so dismayed by Polly’s apparent betrayal that he could barely marshal his thoughts. His tail twirled resentfully, and as he combed the house for Nutmeg, he was plotting boggart revenge on his former friend.
    His quest began in the basement and gradually moved upward, but there was no sign of his lost sweetheart, not even a little brownie dustpan. Disheartenment was beginning to set in when he reached the third story, where the principal bedrooms were to be found, and opened the first door he came to. It was instantly identifiable as Hordwell’s room, because of the old Turkish slippers placed neatly by the bed. A wicked smile creased the brownie’s face. Hordwell always hid his valuables beneath his mattress, so the removal of said valuables—deeds, an important account book, a purse of gold coins, a fine pocket watch, jewelry, and various other items of importance—to a place where the miserable old curmudgeon would never find them, would cause a monumental fuss! Rubbing his hands with vengeful glee. Bodkin hurried toward the mattress.
    Unfortunately for him, it had slipped his mind that there were other brownies in the world apart from Nutmeg and himself, and that they too had charge of houses, as he did of Horditall House. It was a cardinal rule that before entering a strange house, the resident brownie’s permission must always be sought. The moment he entered 1 Royal Crescent, Bodkin had broken that rule, and he was about to be confronted in no uncertain fashion, because resident brownie, an elderly but very spry fellow by the name of Ragwort, happened to be clinging to the top of Hordwell’s curtains, using a long-handled feather duster to clean the pelmet.
    Ragwort had looked after the house since it had been built, and before that had been one of the select band of brownies looking after Bath Abbey. Like Bodkin, he only communicated with one human, in this case Giles, the footman. Ragwort was on good terms with all the other brownies on the crescent and had many friends in Bath itself, so when an impudent stranger entered unannounced, the house brownie wasn’t at all pleased. Holding the feather duster aloft, he swung down the gold velvet curtains and dropped silently behind Bodkin, who was muttering impatiently under his breath as he felt beneath the mattress.
    Ragwort’s tail began