The Baron’s Dangerous Contract

by Archer, Kate

  “I do not mind it at all,” Kitty said with enthusiasm. “I quite enjoy viewing new scenery and I adore your house in Bath. In any case, the lure of Bath will likely encourage your aunt to acquiesce. How you shall persuade your father, on the other hand, I know not.”

  Penny smiled. “Do not fret on that score. I know exactly what to talk about that he never wishes talked about.”

  *

  The sun was beginning to set as Freddy finally gave up searching the wood for Miss Darlington’s groom. He wished to believe that the fellow had gotten to safety, but how could he be certain? He wished to believe the boy still had ownership of that arm, but how could he know? He was not at all comfortable with the idea that he might have to wonder about it forevermore.

  His ideas about self-preservation told him he ought to get far away from Newmarket. Mr. Farthingale would be looking for him even now, especially as he’d relieved the man of the money he kept hidden in a cleverly sewn pocket inside a boot in his room at the tavern. It wasn’t a fortune and had been risky to leave there, even in a locked room. But it had been even more risky to have it on one’s person at the races.

  Mr. Farthingale would know instantly that he’d taken it, and his fury would reach new heights. He’d be watching the road to London, hoping to come upon his feckless apprentice. What he would do if he found him, Freddy shuddered to think.

  A ruined man with nothing to lose might be counted on to do any outrage.

  He could slip by Farthingale’s net easily enough, of that he was confident. He might stay off the roads and keep to the fields and woods. After all, Mr. Farthingale could not be everywhere and so the chances of escape would run in his favor.

  He just must see with his own eyes how the boy got on.

  He set off across the farmer’s field, in the direction of Mendbridge Cottage.

  *

  Though Doom had not been enthused to have Rupert as his bedmate, or to share Mrs. Payne with the fellow, laudanum and a good dinner had gone some way to soothing his irritation. Rupert had equally been made comfortable and was not half as gruff as he’d been when he arrived.

  As the wind blew heavy outside and the soothing sounds of leaves and branches blowing drifted around them, they had a desultory conversation. They spoke low in the dark room. Though it was just after sunset, Mrs. Payne had ordered them both asleep and had taken the candle with her.

  Doom supposed it was the laudanum talking, as he was not usually known as a chatterer, but he’d gone and told Rupert the whole of what had occurred that morning. How a lad named Freddy had attempted to poison Bella and then broken his arm when he was chased.

  “The wretch,” Rupert said of Freddy, “he ought to swing for it.”

  “I reckon so,” Doom said, “though I don’t know why he done it. Was he after Zephyrus? Bella was not even to race, why bother with her?”

  “Maybe Zephyrus, maybe another,” Rupert said. “I’ll think a scoundrel such as that is none too quick in the mind. If he was, he’d be doin’ an honest day’s work.”

  Doom had not considered the idea that Freddy had not been after either of Miss Darlington’s horses. Was the fellow really that stupid to have made such a vast mistake?

  No. Freddy was not so stupid. If the fellow had made a mistake, it could only have been that he could not tell one horse from another. The two horses that looked most alike were…Bella and Bucephalus. They were so alike, that even Miss Darlington had once confused them. If one did not know to look for the five white hairs on her withers…

  And then, Bucephalus had been in the other field, not conveniently in a stall labeled with Lord Cabot’s name on it.

  And here was Rupert, with a bang on the head and no memory of the race!

  Had Freddy snuck up behind him and clobbered him?

  “Do you happen to remember anybody hitting you over the head?” Doom asked.

  Rupert was silent for some moments, the only sound the rushing wind outside. “No,” he said, “I remember making my tea, then I remember Miss Darlington standing over me and tellin’ me I won. First race I ever won without noticing.”

  The tea! Doom thought back to the vial in the pouch he’d recovered from the wood. The pouch Freddy had been so eager to get rid of. Maybe that brown substance was some sedative meant for the rider? Had it gone into Rupert’s tea somehow?

  But then, if Rupert had really been drugged, who had ridden Bucephalus?

  Like a horse pounding across the finish line, it came to him.

  Miss Darlington. Great blazes, Miss Darlington had ridden that horse. Nobody else could have stepped in and won so handily. That’s why she’d been standing over Rupert when he awoke. That’s why he couldn’t remember riding at all.

  Doom sat up, careful to hold his broken arm still between the splints. It was a remarkable conclusion, though he was certain he was right. He only did not know what to do with the information.

  Perhaps he ought to just keep it to himself. Sometimes buttoned lips were better than flappin’ lips.

  Doom heard scratching at the window. A face appeared, staring at him.

  It was Freddy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Penny had dressed for the ball and gone down early, assured that she would find her father in the drawing room. There was a sideboard stocked with wines and port in that room, and Lord Mendbridge was likely to be nearby it. It had always been his habit to indulge in a glass before they set off for any kind of party. He called it mankind’s great lubricant, and said it made people appear more pleasant and interesting than they actually were.

  She was sorry to have to discompose him while he engaged in that comfortable habit, but she must gain her aim. She’d already asked Petit to have the carriages ready at dawn. He would assume Lord Mendbridge knew all about the plan.

  “Penny!” her father said, surprised to see her down so early. “Do not tell me you have decided to join me in a glass?”

  “I have not,” she said. “Though I would speak with you on a particular matter.”

  Her father patted the seat next to him.

  “I found myself very out of sorts today,” she said.

  Lord Mendbridge nodded sagely. “I do not doubt it. I’ve had my own trials and tribulations when I could not run a horse. A terrible blow to people like us.”

  “Indeed it was, though my note earlier did not go into particular detail. Someone attempted to poison Bella with deadly nightshade. A grocer’s boy, in fact, though who hired him I do not know. Doom chased the boy and that is how he injured his arm.”

  Seeing the look of dire concern in her father’s expression, she hurried on. “Bella is well-recovered and Doom will heal right as rain according to the doctor.”

  “We ought to find the scoundrel, though,” Lord Mendbridge said. “We ought to speak to the club about it. These things cannot be tolerated!” The lord paused, and said quieter, “Though what can the scoundrel have wanted with Bella? She was not even registered to race.”

  Penny did not wish her father to examine the situation too closely, lest he seize upon the idea that Bucephalus had been the real target and began wondering about the story of that horse’s rider having a concussion.

  “I think it pointless to pursue, Papa,” she said hurriedly. “The boy will be long gone by now and we will never know his purpose. I think it best that we set our sights on prevention in future, more than anything else. Perhaps some burly guards for the stables?”

  “Yes,” Lord Mendbridge said, always happy to think of an action he might take. “The burliest, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “In any case,” Penny said, now coming to the part that would alarm her father far more than deadly nightshade could ever do, “I find the entire situation has brought on some…womanly problems.”

  At the mention of womanly problems, Lord Mendbridge fairly leapt from his seat. Penny bit her lip to stop a smile, the poor man looked as if he feared catching one of those womanly problems. He might not have the firs
t idea of what they were, but he could fear them all the same. She’d often wondered what on earth her mother had ever told him of it. Whatever it had been, she’d painted a terrifying picture.

  “Say no more, child!” he said. “Whatever it is you wish, you must have it. We need not speak of it further!”

  “Indeed, Father,” Penny said, pressing on, “the only thing that will help at all is to be home. I am sure my aunt will not mind and Kitty most definitely does not. I thought to set off on the morrow.”

  “And you think,” Lord Mendbridge said slowly, “that is the only solution?”

  “Oh yes, I know it. My aunt will agree, I am sure.”

  “Then it is settled,” Lord Mendbridge said. “We’ll say no more about it.”

  “What is settled?” Lord Cabot asked.

  Penny turned. When had he even come into the room? What was he doing, stealing into their drawing room like a panther?

  Lord Mendbridge turned very red in the face. “Did you not hear, Cabot? I just said we will not say any more about it!”

  *

  Doom could barely believe his eyes. It might well be the laudanum playing tricks. There was no possibility that Freddy was at the window. In fact, he had fairly convinced himself of it until Rupert sat up and said, “Who is that? What does he do, peering in here like that?”

  Doom was silent for a moment, not sure how he should answer. Had Freddy come to finish him off? Should he raise the alarm, or would that put Mrs. Payne in danger somehow?

  His ideas that Freddy might have arrived with some nefarious purpose dwindled to nothing as he noted the boy’s face. He was white as a sheet, shivering, and looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Whatever his purpose for coming, Doom did not think this shell of a boy could overpower him through a window, broken arm or not.

  “Sshhh,” he whispered to Rupert, and slipped out of bed. He cracked the window, the sudden influx of cool night air blowing his hair back.

  “What do ya do here, you villain?” Doom asked.

  Freddy handed a small pouch through the window. Doom took it with his good hand. He could feel through the fabric that it was coin.

  “That’s all I got in the world,” Freddy said. “I never did set out to break your arm, though I’m glad to see ya still got it. I never wanted to do nothin’ to horses neither. Mr. Farthingale’s got Lord Cabot tied up for three hundred guineas and he thought he’d make the horse lose and he bet against her to take an even bigger profit. He’s a scoundrel and I left him. Tell Mrs. Lowell I be heartily sorry over my part of it and she bakes the best cakes I ever tasted.”

  Doom saw in an instant how it was. He’d seen it a hundred times on the streets of London. A boy desperate for a protector, for a roof and a bed and hot food, took up with anybody that’d have him. The boy then finds he’s got to look the other way at any unsavory activities. Then the boy finds he’s doing the unsavory activities. He’d almost been drawn into that kind of situation himself. George Semple, that old rogue, had fed him a mutton chop and a glass of ale, and promised more to come. If only Doom would perfect his skill as a pickpocket.

  “So you was after Bucephalus and got Bella instead,” he whispered.

  “Yes, no, I don’t know who I got,” Freddy whispered back.

  “Ya got the wrong horse, you numbskull.”

  “Is she all right, though?”

  “Aye. Now what did ya do to old Rupert, there?” Doom asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

  Freddy stood on tiptoes and peered into the room, looking very surprised to see Rupert in the bed.

  “Laudanum in his teacup afore he got there,” Freddy whispered.

  Rupert, who now struggled to sit up, said, “Well? Who is it? What does he want? Why don’t he come in the front door like normal folk?”

  “Take your money and be off with ya,” Doom said, handing the pouch back to Freddy. “I won’t tell nobody I seen you. Be more careful on who you decide to work for next time.”

  Freddy smiled and disappeared from view. Doom shut the window just as Mrs. Payne came bustling into the room.

  “What’s all this noise I’m a-hearin’ when you’re meant to be asleep? Doom, what do you do by the window instead of tucked under the blankets?”

  “It blew open is all,” Doom said smoothly.

  “That dang window!” Mrs. Payne said. “It’s done that to me on occasion and what with the wind blowin’ I suppose it ain’t no surprise. Back in bed with ya, I’ll fasten her up tight.”

  “That’s all it was,” Doom said, staring at Rupert. “The wind.”

  “Course it was the wind, my little monkey,” Mrs. Payne said in all good humor. “Don’t be conjurin’ your imagination and thinkin’ up ghosts and ghouls a-tryin’ to get in.”

  “Absolutely not,” Doom said. “There was nobody at the window.”

  Rupert sank back on his pillow and stared at the rafters. “I really ain’t right in the head. I coulda swore…what in blazes am I gonna imagine next?”

  *

  Jarvis had dressed Lord Cabot with particular care. He was not privy as to why this ball was more important than any other ball, but his master had made clear that it was. The lord had been so persnickety over his neckcloth that Jarvis wondered if he’d somehow woken up and discovered himself in Lord Grayson’s employ.

  He supposed it had something to do with it being at the club and hosting every well-known horseman in England.

  Now, the valet had managed to get his lord on his way out the door and he took himself down to the kitchens. Jarvis would rather not visit that unwelcome place, but he would not get tea otherwise. As usual, the seats around the table were taken and a lone chair was placed in a corner, as far from the fire as possible. Mrs. Lowell would not outright refuse him his tea, but it would somehow be lukewarm when it reached him.

  The household regarded him sullenly. He sullenly regarded them back. Mrs. Lowell shoved a teacup at him.

  Miss Darlington’s maid, Dora, sniffed in his direction. She said, “We’ll all be glad to see the last of him, is all I say.”

  Jarvis was perfectly aware that he was the him in question, though Lord Cabot was not scheduled to leave the house for another week. The mongrels had been hinting at their delight at never seeing him again ever since he’d arrived.

  “The coach will be ready at six,” Mr. Montrose said gravely. Jarvis supposed now even Montrose was to join in the battering of his person. Was this some broad hint that he and his lord should be in the said carriage?

  “None too early, neither,” Dora said. “A lady what’s seen the true temperament of a particular gentleman don’t want the acquaintance to linger. Once that terrible temperament is known, well…it’s known.”

  Jarvis tightened his grip on his teacup. His true temperament, as she called it, was very good. Everybody said so. Except in this blasted house.

  And since when was Dora to be known as a lady? She might be a washerwoman for all her manners!

  “The worst of it is,” a kitchen maid said, “what he said not even be true!”

  “You are correct,” Dora said. “The gentleman has shown himself to be terrible and wrong! He injured a lady who is so good and she still suffers over it! A lady what is an angel still cries over it! He showed his true colors and he ought to be very sorry for it!”

  Jarvis pressed his lips together. He’d never been terrible and wrong in his life. As to injuring a lady? He rather thought not.

  While Montrose raised his hand to caution Dora, Jarvis decided he’d had just about enough of these people. He drained his tea and stood. “I am not terrible or wrong and you are no lady! Much less an angel! Whatever I have said, it was well-earned and you may keep your injured feelings to yourself! I don’t know who you think you’ve called a carriage for, but I will not be in it!”

  Jarvis strode out, feeling a sense of great victory. It had been a vigorous defense against their spurious attacks. Oh, he had launched some scathing comments toward them
before this moment, but now they felt the entire wrath of his true feelings!

  Behind him, the kitchen maid said, “Why’s the rube think we be talkin’ about him?”

  Jarvis continued walking. Let them try to backtrack if they would. Let them realize they’d gone too far and he’d cut them down to size. He knew they spoke of him, and he’d let them know he knew.

  Rube, indeed.

  *

  The season before, Penny had been surprised by the club’s ballroom. It was not more splendorous than other ballrooms she’d found herself in, in fact it was rather less so. It had taken her awhile to pinpoint why it seemed so different, until she had realized it was the manliness of it. A London ballroom was always the purview of the lady of the house. One could count on pale colors and airy lightness. This ballroom, with its dark-paneled walls and hint of tobacco and leather in the air, was all man. It felt as if one had tiptoed into a gentlemen’s club. She supposed they had done just that, as the ballroom was, on any other day, the coffee room. It would be the scene of cards and bets and raucous male laughter. It was only on this one night of the year that the tables and chairs had been taken away and dancing would be the preferred activity.

  Penny had been grateful that her aunt and Kitty had not delayed their departure from the house. She’d gone downstairs early to convince her father that she must be off on the morrow, and that had been speedily done. But then, Lord Cabot had come in at the end of the conversation and this had put her father out enormously. Penny was certain Lord Cabot had no notion of why he had been shouted at, but she did. Her father had deemed the matter settled. Lord Cabot had inquired over what had been settled. The notion of having to explain anything at all associated with womanly problems had pushed her dear father over the edge.