The Wild Baron

by Catherine Coulter

  He reached out his hand and lightly traced his fingertips over her cheek.

  “Is that man alive?”

  “Yes, but he’s still unconscious. Dr. Foxdale doesn’t know if he’ll ever wake up. He said head wounds are tricky. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “He wants a map.”

  Rohan said nothing, merely took her arm and led her back to her bed.

  “Please, not yet. I was growing mold lying in that bed. How are Marianne and Toby?”

  “Marianne carried on until I wanted to throw her out of the breakfast parlor window, but I knew you would be distressed if I did. Luckily for me and my poor ears, she managed to exhaust herself in time and fell asleep on me, madly sucking her two fingers.”

  She could only stare up at him. “You tried to feed her? You didn’t leave her with Lottie?”

  “Don’t sound so astonished, so incredulous. There was no one else to take her. Well, actually it didn’t occur to me to ask anyone else. Next time I will. If I see Jamie I will beg him to come sing her a limerick. It certainly works with the horses—why not the little pumpkin? Toby did volunteer—brave lad—but I knew he didn’t stand a chance with Marianne. She would have had him lying toes cocked up, pleading for the hereafter. She’s fine now, sound asleep. I had no idea so much noise could come out of such a little mouth. I promised her she would see you early tomorrow morning, so prepare yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised if she escaped Lottie and came in here at the crack of dawn.”

  She was gaping at him. He’d done all that, yet he was jesting about it. But still, it was unbelievable. There was no belief at all in her voice when she asked, “You are saying that you put Marianne to bed?”

  “I didn’t give her a bath, or put her in her nightgown, but I must confess that I did tuck her up, pull her fingers out of her mouth, and tell her not to snore. I also gave her a baron kiss since she couldn’t have a mama kiss. She really likes the cleft in my chin. Now come with me before you fall over.”

  There were two chairs in front of the fireplace, two elegant ladies’ chairs, covered with a flower brocade. He led her there. When she was seated, he brought a blanket and covered her legs. Then he himself sat down. The chair groaned a bit, but held, thank God. She was still staring at him. He, a man, had taken care of a little three-year-old girl? It froze the mind. It made her head hurt when it hadn’t before.

  There was a knock. Rohan just looked toward the door, resignation clear on his face. It opened and Charlotte came in. She was carrying a tray and smiling, a beautiful smile, one that could light up the darkest of rooms.

  “Good, my dear, you’re awake. You will have a bit to eat, then we will talk.”

  At that moment Susannah’s stomach growled. Rohan grinned, then laughed at the flush on her swollen cheek. It added a fourth color.

  “You see,” Charlotte said easily, “it’s time. You’re hungry, aren’t you? Oh, your poor little face. My dear, is the pain dreadful?”

  “No, ma’am. Truly, it’s not bad. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell me how bad I look. I don’t want to be cast into severe melancholy. But the food, goodness, I could eat a boot, I think, if it were well boiled, with perhaps a dash of salt for flavoring.”

  “Here you are,” Charlotte said as she placed the tray on Susannah’s lap. “Now, you are to call me Lady Mountvale or Charlotte. My preference is for Charlotte. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel dreadfully frail. ‘Ma’am’ makes my teeth feel loose.”

  “Yes, Charlotte.”

  Rohan gave his mother a brooding look. She looked exquisite, her thick blond hair hanging free down her back, tied loosely with a pale blue satin ribbon that matched the outrageously frothy confection she undoubtedly called a dressing gown. She looked delicious. She did not look like his mother. Of course, she had never looked like his mother—anybody’s mother, for that matter. She had birthed four babes, yet it hadn’t made any difference. He sighed. He wished she would go away, but he knew she wouldn’t. There was no hope for it. He rose and fetched another chair.

  He said without preamble, as he watched Susannah take a spoonful of chicken broth, “Susannah said the man is after a map. Presumably it is the same man who broke into Mulberry House three times and once before here at Mountvale House. All this effort, for a map?”

  “A map?” Charlotte repeated, as she examined her perfect fingernails. “Now surely that is odd. You’re absolutely right, dearest, to be incredulous. Why all this bother for a map?”

  Susannah said nothing, merely spooned the chicken broth into her mouth. Rohan said, “It’s not really all that strange. George has loved maps of all sorts since he was a boy, you know that, Mother. As I recall, when he was only nine years old you gave him a map that was supposedly a sultan’s harem quarters with secret passages. You prayed at the time that it would prove beneficial.”

  “Yes, but it didn’t, more’s the pity. Well, perhaps it did, given Susannah and Marianne. But, dearest, no one ever tried to steal one before. It must be a very special map. Do you think it could be a treasure map? Now, wouldn’t that be exciting. Could George, my darling staid and proper and boring George—who just might not be all that staid and proper—possibly have come across a treasure map?”

  Susannah choked on her broth. “Oh, that would be ever so exciting, but I don’t think so, Charlotte. If it were some sort of treasure map, then surely George would have said something to me about it. Well, maybe not. I swore to the man that I had only a few of George’s belongings and that I had looked. I told him honestly that there was no map.”

  “Naturally he didn’t believe you,” Rohan said. He was standing in front of the fireplace, leaning easily against the mantelpiece. “What things of George’s do you have?”

  The door burst open and Fitz nearly fell through. He managed to straighten. “My lord! Quickly!”

  “Oh, dear, what now?” Charlotte said and bounded after the two of them.

  “Wait! I will not be left out,” Susannah yelled and staggered after them, dizziness nearly sending her to her knees. Rohan turned back, saw her weaving toward them, cursed loudly and fluently, ran back, picked her up in his arms, then raced after Fitz.

  “You deserve any headache you get from this,” he said. “I will not wring out a damp cloth and lay it across your sweaty brow.”

  “I never asked you to do that in the first place. Surely it is my right to see what is happening.”

  They came to an abrupt halt at the top of the wide staircase. At the bottom stood the man, a thick white bandage around his head, his arm in a sling. He was waving a gun wildly and screaming, “Go away, all of you mealy little bastards, go away!” He waved the gun toward two of the footmen who were trying to sneak up on him. They backed off.

  “I want the bloody map. It’s mine!” He looked up to see the baron holding the woman in his arms, George’s woman, the damned woman who was beautiful, the damned woman who had lied to him, who had slammed a hay fork into his gut. He wanted to shoot her, but it wouldn’t gain him much at all.

  “Damn you!” he yelled. “Give me the damned map! Tell me where it is or I will begin shooting all these mangy little bastards.”

  Carefully, Rohan eased her to the floor. He leaned her against Fitz so she wouldn’t fall. Then he began to walk slowly down the stairs.

  “What map do you want?” he called out, all calm and conversational. “You must be specific or I can’t get it for you. She has told me everything. She is confused. But I’m not confused. I can help you. Is this map you want the one George had of that craggy cave in the northern part of Cornwall, near to St. Agnes?”

  “No, the one in Scot—no, no, you won’t make me spill my innards! You bloody sod! I don’t need you, just her!” He pointed the gun at Rohan and fired. Susannah tried to jerk free of Fitz, but he held her tight. She watched all of it in horror. An eternity passed, but it must have been only the tiniest of moments. Even as the man aimed the gun, Rohan crouched down and lurched sideways. The bullet struck
a portrait of a sixteenth-century Carrington, a very handsome gentleman with a wicked look in his dark green eyes, like every other Carrington in the history of the family. The portrait hung there, swinging back and forth, banging heavily against the white wall, until its weight brought it crashing down. But the heavy gold frame didn’t crack and break. Instead it hit the stairs and bounced downward until it skidded across the Italian marble tile entrance hall. The man stared at it as it came sliding toward him, as if it were alive, as if it were coming for him. He shot at it, but there had been only one bullet in the gun.

  He screamed, trying to run away, but two footmen grabbed him.

  Rohan walked to the man, now being held between his two men. The man looked dreadful—wild-eyed and white as death. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. The baron said very gently, “What is your name? If you will but tell me, perhaps I can help you.”

  The man spit on him full in the face.

  Slowly Rohan wiped the spittle on his sleeve. “Perhaps I can guess your name. Are you Theodore Micah?”

  The man’s face turned even whiter, if that was possible. “How do you know of him?” His eyes—cold gray eyes—rolled in his head. There was an odd gurgling sound. Without warning, he slumped to the floor, catching the footmen off guard.

  Rohan leaned down and pressed his fingers against the pulse in his neck. It was slow and thready.

  He looked over at the portrait, lying face up, his sixteenth-century ancestor looking smug. No, this was silly. It was just a stupid portrait. He frowned. The man had simply collapsed, for no good reason. “Well, our fellow here is still alive. Have Dr. Foxdale fetched again, Fitz. Mrs. Beete, have one of the maids bring some blankets. I don’t think we should move him.”

  “Gullet him is what I’d like to do,” Mrs. Beete said, shaking a fist at the unconscious man.

  “My lord,” Fitz said, his face whiter than that of the man at their feet, “did you see the portrait attack him? It was your great uncle Fester Carrington. Oh, my.” Now everyone was staring at the painting, which lay harmlessly not a foot from the fallen man.

  Rohan picked up the portrait and handed it to Fitz, whose face spasmed as he took it. Then he looked from one footman to another. “How did this happen? How the devil did he get out of his room and have a gun?”

  It was Augustus who stepped forward, shoulders back, chin high. “It is I who am responsible, my lord. I looked at him every half hour or so, since he was still unconscious. I guess I finally dozed off. It is entirely my fault.”

  Rohan gave him a very long look, then said, “I will speak to you in the morning, Augustus.”

  12

  IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT.

  “You should go to bed now, Susannah.”

  “Not yet. I would have nightmares. How could he have just collapsed like that, Rohan? It happened so quickly. You didn’t even hit him. Nobody touched him.”

  “Probably that head wound did him in. At least Dr. Foxdale believed that to be the case when he examined him just a while ago. Don’t worry, we’ll find out what’s behind all this even if the fellow doesn’t wake up again.”

  “He’s not Theodore Micah.”

  “No, but he knows who that is. You were right to tell me about those two men with George. I had rather hoped they were involved, since we needed names, but I really didn’t credit it until tonight. Yes, they are involved, up to their hairlines.”

  “I hope he wakes up. I’d like to help Mrs. Beete gullet him!”

  “I would rather like to see that. Now, if you don’t want to go to bed yet, then keep eating the broth that Mrs. Horsely heated for you and tell me the rest of it.”

  There was a light knock on the door.

  Rohan rose, saying over his shoulder to Susannah, “I expected her sooner, truth be told. I suppose she was comforting poor Augustus for his guarding lapse. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

  “He is handsome,” Susannah said. “Those snapping black eyes of his—they simply make me shiver.”

  Rohan grunted and she giggled. She thought she heard him snarl, “Women.”

  Charlotte was subdued. She took the chair beside Susannah’s. “Have you told Rohan anything yet, my dear?”

  “We were just beginning, Mother. Now, Susannah, before we were interrupted you were telling me what belongings you have that belonged to George.”

  “A vest, some books. I didn’t tell him about the locket. It’s very small, there couldn’t be a map in it.”

  “Where are the books and the vest?”

  “I left them at Mulberry House. But I had already searched them, Rohan. I’m not entirely without wits, you know, and I decided it must have something to do with George, so I thoroughly examined the three books and tore the lining out of the vest. There was no map there. He had left nothing else at Mulberry House.”

  “All right, then, where is the locket?”

  “But—”

  “Bring us the locket, Susannah.”

  “I’m wearing it.” She lifted her hair to let Charlotte unfasten the clasp.

  Charlotte gently undid the clasp. She was on the point of opening the locket when she paused, looked at her son, who had his hand out, sighed, and handed the locket to him, the thin gold chain hanging down between her fingers.

  “I know that was difficult for you, Mother, but thank you for the consideration.”

  Charlotte sighed. “It is most depressing to have to give you the locket, particularly since I wanted to find the treasure map.” She looked at Susannah. “One must compromise when one is a woman.”

  “Surely this is the first time you’ve ever been required to do anything remotely resembling compromise,” said her son as he toyed with the locket. “Father did always say, though, that compromise was the very devil.” The locket was shaped like a heart, not at all original but the quality was acceptable.

  “If you two would cease your recriminations, I could show you how to open it. You’ll see it’s much too small to hide anything.”

  It took her only a moment. “There’s this small catch at the bottom, here. There, see, there is a miniature of George on one side and one of Marianne on the other.”

  Why not of Susannah? Rohan wondered, taking the locket back from her. Very carefully, he removed Marianne’s portrait, smaller than his thumbnail. He held the locket close to the candle and gently pressed against the gold, but there was nothing there. It was perfectly flat. Then he pulled out George’s small portrait. George couldn’t have been more than twenty when it was painted. He was smiling. His shirt had very high points. His hair seemed just a bit longer. He looked stiff, uncomfortable. Rohan shook his head. His memory had simply rearranged itself. George was George, and he’d died, damn him. And he’d left a mess behind. What else had he done?

  He laid the small portrait on the table and held the locket close to the light. He felt the gold back. It wasn’t flat, as was the other side.

  “Well, well,” he said slowly, “what have we here?”

  Charlotte nearly tripped over her chair to get to him.

  Susannah dropped her soup bowl and yelped when the soup splattered on her bare feet. “Goodness, what have you found? Tell us! Don’t just stare at it as if it were a snake to bite you. I’ll bite you.”

  Rohan merely toyed with the barest hint of a gold ridge at the edge of the locket. Then, quite suddenly, without his knowing what he had done, it snapped open. He handed the locket to Susannah. “Pull out the paper. It’s too small for me to grasp. Be careful, Susannah.”

  Charlotte sighed and crowded closer.

  Susannah managed to press the small square of paper hard enough against her finger pad so that it stuck. Slowly she pulled it away. The paper fell to the tabletop. On top of it landed a very small golden key. Rohan picked up the key. “How could something so tiny fit a lock?”

  Charlotte took it from him and laid it flat on her palm. “I believe there’s some writing on it, dearest. But that can wait. Is that a map?”

  �
��Unfold it,” said Rohan.

  Flattened, the paper was only about half the size of Susannah’s palm. It was indeed a map—a map that was blurred and faded and very hard to make out. Rohan said slowly, “When I tricked the man, he started to spit out ‘Scotland.’ Do you remember?”

  “I remember, dearest. It was very well done of you. Not only are you delightfully profligate and wicked to a fault, you are of a brilliance that rivals the sun itself.”

  “I shall surely be ill,” Susannah remarked to no one in particular.

  Charlotte ignored her. “Your dear father sometimes agreed that you had my brains. I think that you’ve now proved it conclusively. Bravo, dearest.”

  “I think I will be ill again,” Susannah said. She looked at Rohan, who was paying no attention to either of them. “If you know so much, Rohan, since you are so terribly clever, just where in Scotland? And what does this key belong to?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he said, clearly distracted, “on either count, at least not yet. Now, be quiet, both of you. Mother, have one of the footmen—Augustus, if you like—fetch my magnifying glass from the estate room. It should be in the top left drawer of my desk.”

  His mother raised a perfect blond eyebrow at him, saying, “I am amazed that you would know the location of such a mundane sort of article, dearest. Surely a man of your reputation wouldn’t retain memory of something like that. It is something a good servant would know, but not you, not the master, the baron, the . . .”

  “Please, Mother, we need the magnifying glass.”

  Seven minutes later, Rohan was closely studying the small yellowed piece of paper. “It is a map,” he said, more to himself than to the two women. “But unfortunately it’s only half a map. Now I can see the clean cut along this side. I can make out a body of water by these squiggly lines, and they continue off the paper. See these lines here? They must be paths branching away from the water. Perhaps these blocks are meant to represent houses. And yes, here are words, tiny words, but I can make them out.”