The Bargain of a Baroness

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Tom grinned and indicated he should join him in his office. Graham followed him into the elegant room, his attention diverted to the artifacts on display at one end of the carpeted and wood-paneled office. “I see you’ve made your fortune,” he muttered as he admired an Ancient Greek vase, a globe made entirely of Brazilian lapis lazuli, and a marble statue of Dionysus.

  “With a good deal of Father’s help,” Tom admitted. “He’s pretending to be retired now and rarely comes into the office.”

  “Got tired of funding railway lines?” Graham guessed.

  Tom chuckled. “I think he grew tired of the travel required,” he countered, “although these days he takes Mother with him. They’re in Yorkshire at the moment. A pleasure trip, he claims.” He paused as he moved to the credenza behind his desk. “Now that I have married, I’m of the same mind.” He waited for Graham’s reaction and wasn’t surprised at seeing his cousin’s look of shock.

  “Married?” Graham repeated. He stared at Tom as if he’d been shot. Then he glanced back toward the office door before turning his attention back to Tom. “Who are you, and what have you done with Thomas Grandby?”

  “It happens to the best of us,” Tom said with a sheepish expression.

  “Do I know her?”

  Tom indicated the chair in front of his desk, and Graham settled himself into the soft leather. “Lady Victoria,” Tom said as he poured brandy into two crystal rummers.

  Graham furrowed a brow. “Somerset’s daughter?” he finally guessed, referring to Jeremy Statton, Duke of Somerset. His eyes widened. “You married a duke’s daughter?”

  Grinning, Tom nodded. “We live at Fairmont Park, an estate just north of London. She trains horses. And of course me, at times.” He offered a glass to Graham, who took it with an appreciative nod.

  “I cannot believe you went off and got married,” Graham whispered, his expression having sobered.

  “I wasn’t looking to marry when I took her as a client,” Tom said in a quiet voice. “But now I cannot imagine...” He allowed the sentence to trail off. “Well, let’s just say I was smitten, and now I’m in love.”

  “Children?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not yet. We’ve only been married a couple of months, but...” He gave a shrug. “I expect to be a father before Christmas,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “You’ll make an excellent father. All that experience from having so many brothers and sisters,” Graham remarked. He knew because he had grown up in the same household at Woodscastle.

  Graham had nine other cousins besides Tom.

  “I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “What about your uncle, Henry?” Graham asked, referring to Henry Simpson. “Has he finally been caught in the parson’s mousetrap?”

  “Henry?” Tom repeated as he grinned. “No. And he’s not courting anyone, either, which has both my grandmother and Aunt Hannah vexed beyond measure.” He noted how Graham jerked at the mention of Hannah. Henry’s twin sister and Graham had been close growing up. Most thought the two would be a married couple before they reached their majorities. Instead, a whirlwind courtship had Hannah accepting an offer of marriage from someone else.

  “And you?”

  Graham settled back in his chair and finally took a deep breath. “No wife. No child. Despite the Boston matrons who insisted their daughters would be perfect for me,” he claimed with a roll of his eyes.

  “I hear there is a good deal of wealth in Boston,” Tom said, his brows waggling as if he referred to young ladies’ dowries.

  “That I can attest to,” Graham agreed. “Given how much I’ve brought back with me. In fact, is your older brother still a banker?”

  Tom nodded. “Roger is at Barclay’s, yes, but you’d be better off leaving it with Burroughs at the Bank of England.”

  “Lord Andrew is still a banker?” Graham asked in surprise. “He must be—”

  “Retired now, yes, but his son, James, has taken his place.” When Graham gave a start, he added, “He just returned to London at the end of December and married Emily in January.”

  Graham blinked. “Cousin Em?”

  Allowing a chuckle, Tom said, “She’s four-and-twenty, and Mother was over the moon happy she didn’t have to do anything for the wedding.”

  When suspicion clouded Graham’s expression, Tom added, “She wanted a quick wedding. Once she set her cap on poor James, there was nothing to be done for him.”

  “She didn’t marry for affection?” Graham asked, his brows furrowed with concern for his youngest female cousin.

  “Oh, she did. James adores her,” Tom replied. “Has since she was a child, I think. They are like two peas in a pod. Practically live in the library of their townhouse in Curzon Street.”

  Graham’s expression softened. “I am glad for her. I shall have to pay a call once I’ve finished with all the immediate requirements of my return.”

  Frowning, Tom put forth the next logical question. “Pray tell, what brought you back from Boston?”

  Not yet ready to admit the real reason for his return to British shores, Graham said, “It was time. I’ve got a trustworthy partner—and part owner—seeing to the business there, and I’m thinking from his recent letters that Father wants me to take over the business here. Which I’m happy to do.”

  His father, Thomas Wellingham, had inherited an import and export concern from Graham’s grandfather and then proceeded to build Wellingham Imports into a thriving business. Graham’s mother, Emma, was the head accomptant and had been overseeing a room full of clerks since before she had married his father back in 1802.

  “Have you been out to Woodscastle yet?” Tom asked, referring to their childhood home in Chiswick.

  “Haven’t made it that far.”

  “I don’t think your parents have been there in months. They spend their nights in the townhouse in King Street,” Tom explained. “But I’m sure your bedchamber at Woodscastle is still the way you left it.”

  Graham sighed. “At the moment, I would be happy sleeping on a floor,” he murmured. “Been sleeping in a hammock on the ship these past few weeks.”

  “No need to do that,” Tom countered, his brows furrowing. “Do you need a ride? In fact...” He glanced over the papers on his desk. “I will take you there. I have my phaeton, and there are still some things in my bedchamber there I haven’t yet moved to Fairmont Park.”

  Not about to turn down the offer of a ride, Graham said, “Much appreciated. Father isn’t expecting me—or the shipment I came with—until tomorrow, so I think it best I take a shower bath, shave, and get some sleep. Maybe go to Brooks’s later tonight in the event Father is there.”

  “Long night?”

  “Long month,” Graham replied. “I’m not much for sea travel. I never would have made it in the navy,” he added before sipping the brandy. He allowed a sigh of satisfaction. “This is heavenly. Do you get it from a French smuggler?”

  Tom grinned as he shook his head. “The same shop in Jermyn Street from which we all get the stuff,” he replied, referring to Berry Bros. His manner sobered as he leaned forward. “Is there perhaps another reason for your return to British shores?”

  Graham jerked upright, pretending surprise at hearing the query, but then he remembered who sat across from him. “Mother wrote to me.”

  “I rather imagine Aunt Emma writes to you frequently,” Tom hedged. With ships contracted by Wellingham Imports making the trip back and forth across the Atlantic at regular intervals, it was likely correspondence was included with the goods.

  “She does,” Graham admitted. He dipped his head and then drank more of the brandy.

  “So she told you about my Uncle Charlie’s death.”

  Glowering, Graham said, “He might have been your uncle, but he was my Achilles’ heel.”

  Tom winced. “He didn’t know you held a candle for Aunt Hannah—”

  “I know. And I didn’t fight him for her back when I had the chance.”

&nb
sp; The words settled like a stone between them, and Tom leaned back into his chair, as if he feared his cousin would take a swing at him. “I often wondered about that,” he prompted.

  Graham took a steadying breath. “We were both so young,” he murmured, referring to Tom’s aunt, Hannah Simpson. “And I needed the chance to make my way in life. A few years to prove myself at the business. Make some blunt. Buy a townhouse in Westminster or Mayfair.”

  Tom nodded his understanding. “Hannah always had a steady stream of admirers,” he countered. His father’s half-sister, Hannah, had been born in 1803 and was the same age as Tom and a year older than Graham. As the daughter of a duke’s daughter and her second husband—a man who at one time had been a butler—Hannah had straddled two worlds. She had embraced her aristocratic relatives as much as she did those of the working class.

  From the time they were children, Graham had been raised to believe Hannah would one day be his wife.

  He had counted on it.

  So when Baron Charles Harrington, heir to the Mayfield earldom, announced he would be taking Hannah as his wife and future countess at the third ball of the Little Season of 1821, Graham thought it was some sort of sick joke.

  A visit from Hannah two days later confirmed what the gossip rags had printed.

  She had accepted the baron’s offer.

  Despite the bargain she had struck when they were younger, she had agreed to marry another. Graham was on a ship bound for Boston the following week.

  Nearly eighteen years later, his mother’s letter with word of Hannah’s year of mourning nearly at an end had Graham turning over his duties to his partner, Benton Sinclair, at Wellingham Imports in Boston and returning to England on the next ship.

  “Will you fight for her now?” Tom asked in a whisper.

  Graham drained the brandy. “I shouldn’t have to,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.

  Tom gave him a quelling glance. “There are as many men anxious to wed her—or bed her—now as there were when she agreed to marry Harrington,” he warned.

  Wincing, Graham said, “But she made a bargain with me. And this turtle intends to collect.”

  Chapter 4

  An Heir Apparent Returns

  Meanwhile, at Harrington House in Park Lane, Mayfair

  The black town coach might have been glossy when it departed from Eton, but it was covered with splatters of mud and a little layer of dust by the time it covered the three-and-twenty miles to the Earl of Mayfield’s mansion in Park Lane.

  Baron Edward Harrington, son of the late Charles Harrington and now heir-apparent to the Mayfield earldom, stepped down from the coach and regarded the stucco-covered brick pile that stood before him.

  Until he had left for Windsor when he was twelve years old, Harrington House had been his home. At some point in the future, Stanley Harrington, Earl of Mayfield, would die of what would most assuredly be old age, and Edward would inherit not only the earldom, but also the house.

  When he had left Eton that morning, he thought he couldn’t wait.

  Now he was having second thoughts.

  Apparently, his grandfather was still spending his blunt on horses and stables rather than on the upkeep of the house. The gardener obviously hadn’t paid a call since the autumn before, and soot stained the stucco. At least the green wrought iron fence looked as if it were still in good repair, and the pavement in front had recently been swept clean.

  Edward gave a nod to the liveried footman who was seeing to his trunk as he took a deep breath and headed for the front door.

  The dark blue door opened even before he had a chance to use the lion head brass knocker. Potter, as ancient as he had been when Edward was but a tot, stood, stooped nearly in half, and actually displayed an almost toothless grin at seeing him.

  “Potter, you haven’t aged a day,” Edward said with a brilliant smile.

  “You lie like a rug, sir,” the butler responded, his aged laugh sending him into spasms of a cough that had been with the servant for over a decade.

  “Oh, that’s one I’ll have to remember,” Edward said as he entered the vestibule. He blinked as he surveyed the interior. “Let me guess. Mother finally convinced her ladyship a renovation was required.”

  “Truth be told, I don’t think she asked,” Potter replied in a hoarse whisper.

  “Is she in residence?”

  “She is. I’ll let her know—”

  “I’ll surprise her,” Edward said, knowing it would take the butler at least ten minutes to make his way up the stairs to the first floor parlor. “Any idea where I might find her?”

  “Right here, actually,” Hannah Simpson Harrington said, stepping from somewhere beyond the vestibule to regard her son with a mixture of surprise, happiness, and annoyance. “Did you... did you get expelled from school?”

  Edward’s jaw dropped at the same time his brows arched. “Mother! Easter is this Sunday. I have the week to attend the entertainments before classes resume,” he replied.

  Hannah let out a gasp of relief and hurried to pull her son into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I have lost track of time and of the calendar,” she claimed, right before she kissed his cheek and then stepped back to regard him. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Yes, Mother. But I could always do with more,” he replied as he patted his flat mid-section.

  Turning to Potter, Hannah said, “Tea in the parlor, as soon as it can be arranged. Just a couple of cakes. And let’s do have a luncheon in the breakfast parlor.”

  “A cold collation has already been arranged, my lady,” Potter replied.

  Blinking, Hannah regarded the butler a moment before she turned her attention to her son.

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t order it,” Edward said with a grin.

  “Potter, you’re not allowed to retire,” Hannah stated before she grabbed her son’s arm and pulled him into the hall. “Tell me everything,” she ordered as she led him to the curved staircase.

  Edward furrowed his brows, his gaze taking in his mother’s gown. “You’re still wearing lavender,” he said, censure apparent in his voice.

  “I haven’t yet paid a call on my modiste,” Hannah replied defensively.

  “I’ll take you on the morrow.”

  Hannah paused on the stair landing. “I rather doubt you’ll wish to spend your limited days in London at a modiste’s shop,” she said.

  “I’ll be spending time with you,” he argued. “Have you accepted all the invitations for this week’s entertainments?”

  Dipping her head, Hannah resumed her climb up the stairs. “It’s not as if I receive very many these days. I am a mere baroness, after all. A widowed baroness, barely out of mourning,” she added in a quieter voice.

  Edward pulled several missives from his waistcoat pocket. “You might not have received many for this week, but I certainly have,” he countered. “I’ve responded to every one saying I will be in attendance. I expect to escort you to all of them.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened at seeing the folded notes. “You’re only sixteen. And just how long will you be in London?”

  “Just the week, Mother. Before I leave, I want you to have invitations to ride in the park from no less than four gentlemen or a proposal from one.”

  “What?”

  “Father has been dead for a year,” he said. “It’s past time you find another husband. I won’t have you acquiring the reputation of a Merry Widow through no fault of your own.”

  Hannah regarded her son with a combination of shock and awe. “A Merry Widow?” she repeated in alarm. “Where is my son, and what have you done with him?”

  Only this past Christmas, Edward had put voice to a complaint that she might become a Merry Widow, flirting with younger men and possibly entertaining them in her bed. The mere idea of spending time in another man’s company had sickened her. How dare you? I loved your father, she had said in response, her voice filled with enough rebuke to silence her son.

  Silen
ce him, perhaps, but Edward wasn’t deterred from his mission to see to it his mother remarried.

  He had been doing some research.

  “I’ve grown up, Mother,” Edward stated, bringing Hannah’s attention back to the present. “I feel awful about what I said at Christmas. I only did so because one of my classmates claimed he would bed you should he ever have the chance.”

  Hannah had never fainted in her entire life, but at that moment, she understood how it could happen. “Edward!” she admonished him.

  “He is sixteen, and I think he has tupped every serving wench at The George Inn,” he said as they entered the parlor. He paused as he took in his surroundings. “Well, this is different,” he whispered, his gaze darting to the new furnishings that filled the parlor.

  Sure her face was bright red at hearing her son’s cavalier comments about one of his classmates, Hannah decided it was best not to dwell on the subject. “Your grandmother had it redone just after Christmas,” Hannah said, referring to Temperance Fitzsimmons Harrington, Countess of Mayfield. “It would have been done months ago, but the Chippendale furnishings took so long to be crafted.”

  “I like it,” he murmured. “Where is Grandmother, by the way?”

  “At the office of The Tattler,” she replied with an arched brow, the way she always responded to queries about London’s premiere gossip newspaper.

  Edward frowned. “She still edits that rag?” he replied in surprise.

  “She will until the day she dies, which won’t be for several decades,” Hannah claimed. “So be warned. Familial ties do not exempt you from a mention if you’ve done something scandalous. Such as being kicked out of school.”

  “Noted, but I was not expelled, nor will I ever do anything to earn that demerit.” Edward waited until his mother was seated on the room’s only settee. He took the chair opposite.

  A maid delivered the tea tray, the salver in the middle loaded with slices of cake as well as several flavors of biscuits.

  “Don’t fill up on sweets, darling,” Hannah warned as she poured him a cup of tea and watched as he helped himself to a slice of cake and two biscuits. “Potter is seeing to a cold collation for us.”