Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  Fredrick took his own seat as he studied the disgusting mixture. “Really? Perhaps I should speak with her about bottling them,” he murmured before forcing himself to take a swallow of the potion. A shudder wracked his body, his stomach revolting at the disgusting concoction. Christ. It was worse than drinking sludge. “Then again, perhaps not,” he groaned. “No matter how effective they might be, I do not believe that many will be eager to lay down good coin to drink something that tastes as if it came from the gutter.”

  “I shall expect a full apology once you begin feeling better,” she informed him, indifferent to his battle to keep from casting up his accounts. Callous wench.

  Ah, well. It was no less than he deserved after becoming bosky in her garden.

  “Actually, you shall have my apology long before I begin to feel better,” he said softly.

  Her brows lifted in confusion. “And why is that?”

  “I was not at my finest last eve—”

  “No, Fredrick, do not apologize,” she interrupted with that edge of command in her voice. “There is no need.”

  Fredrick resisted the urge to snap a salute. “At least allow me to assure you that I am not a gentleman who makes a habit of being deep in his cups.”

  “I did not believe that you were.” With an obvious attempt to change the subject, Portia pointed a finger toward the notebook still clutched in his hand. “What are you working upon?”

  With practiced ease, Fredrick flipped through the pages to tug out a sheet that was covered with a series of sketches. Placing the sheet on the table he covertly slipped his notebook back into the pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket.

  He was not yet prepared to share his reasons for being in Wessex. Not until he knew something more of his father’s secret.

  “Actually, I have a few notions that I believe you might be interested in,” he said.

  Studying the paper, Portia sent him a narrowed gaze. “What on earth is this?”

  “A series of block and tackle pulleys.” A smile touched Fredrick’s lips. “They would be a vast improvement over those you currently use.”

  She rolled her beautiful eyes even as a reluctant laugh tumbled from her lips.

  “You truly are impossible.”

  Fredrick shrugged. “I do try.”

  A silence descended as Portia studied him with a searching gaze. “Why are you here, Fredrick?”

  Caught off-guard by the abrupt question, Fredrick slowly lowered his gaze to study the worn wood of the table. He would not deliberately lie to Portia. Not when he sensed she had been deceived and manipulated by men her entire life.

  “I have business in the area,” he murmured evasively.

  “What sort of business?”

  “I am . . .” He slowly lifted his gaze to encounter her frown. “Seeking information.”

  “You are being remarkably mysterious.”

  “My business demands secrecy.” That at least was the absolute truth. He had learned early in his career that there were any number of unscrupulous cads among both inventors and investors. “You would be shocked by those who are willing to pay a small fortune to discover what I am currently working upon.”

  She gave a choked sound, as if she were attempting to swallow an impetuous laugh.

  “You believe that there are people who spy upon you?”

  “Do not laugh, it is not at all unusual.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I devoted the past month to seeking out which of my staff had been bribed to steal information on our design for a nail-making machine for a competitor.”

  Her smile faded, as if she sensed the distress it had caused him to discover that a man he had trusted for the past three years was no more than a traitor.

  “How horrible.”

  Fredrick shrugged. He had already come to terms with Richardson’s betrayal. The young man was not the first to have sold his soul for a few pounds, and he would not be the last.

  “The price of investing in dreams, I suppose,” he admitted wryly.

  “Dreams?” she murmured. “Is that how you think of your business?”

  “It was my father who suggested it first, but it does seem to describe my career well enough,” he admitted.

  Rising to her feet, Portia regarded him with a mysterious smile.

  “Actually I think it describes you well enough, Fredrick.”

  Before he could demand an explanation for her odd words, Portia had turned and was threading her way through the tables.

  Fredrick leaned back in his chair as he watched her retreat.

  What had been in that Madonna smile?

  A possibility? A promise? Dare he hope an . . . invitation?

  Fredrick rose to his feet, suddenly realizing the throbbing in his sorely abused head disappeared.

  It could, of course, be proof that Mrs. Cornell’s ghastly potion did indeed possess healing ingredients. It was believed by many that the nastier the taste of a medicine the better it worked. And he could not imagine anything that tasted any worse than the brown sludge.

  In his heart, however, he knew that it had been the smile of a Siren that had cured his ills.

  Chapter Ten

  The city of Winchester was a pretty town that was dominated by a Norman cathedral that contained a long Gothic nave. Astonishingly, the entire structure was built upon rafts that floated upon the peat marsh.

  Dunnington had taught Fredrick that the city had begun as a Celtic hill fort before the invasion of the Romans and had once been the capital of Wessex beneath King Alfred the Great.

  A city rich in history and tradition, although Fredrick would never travel through the narrow streets without recalling his years of misery spent beneath the roof of Mrs. Griffin, a pious woman who firmly believed that the son should suffer for the sins of his father.

  Passing through Kingsgate, Fredrick grimly kept the unpleasant memories at bay. It was already well past noon and he had no time to waste upon a past that was not worth recalling.

  Leaving his mount in the care of the local stables, Fredrick headed for the center of the city with its medieval shops that draped over the narrow street.

  He would begin his search in the center of the city and work his way outward.

  A fine, practical notion that unfortunately took far longer than he had originally calculated. No doubt because he allowed himself to be distracted by purchasing the necessary materials to replace the ancient pulleys at the Queen’s Arms.

  Dusk was already descending when Fredrick entered the narrow bookstore near Winchester College. Pushing open the heavy door he winced at the jarring sound of the bell that echoed through the musty silence.

  His eyes widened as he regarded the jumble of worn leather-bound books that were inexorably consuming the towering shelves, the small tables, and even the warped floor. There was barely room left to step through the door and make his way to the small counter.

  At his approach, a small, silver-haired man with a pair of thick spectacles perched on the end of his nose lifted his head from a book spread on the counter to regard him with a hint of impatience.

  “Yes, what do you want?”

  “I have a few questions that I hope you can assist me with.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  Fredrick conjured his most charming smile. “To begin with I wish to know how long you have owned this establishment.”

  “Near on thirty years. Why the devil do you want to know?”

  Fredrick hid a small smile at the gruff suspicion. It was little wonder the establishment looked as if it were about to tumble into a pile of rubble. The owner might be a genius when it came to books, but he possessed the charm of a hedgehog.

  “I am in search of a gentleman that I believe was a patron of your shop years ago.”

  The shaggy brows lowered in a forbidding manner. “What gentleman?”

  “His name is Dunnington. Mr. Homer Dunnington.”

  “Dunnington?”

>   “A slender gentleman with brown hair and eyes,” Fredrick prodded. “He made his living as a tutor.”

  “Bah. I’ve known a hundred tutors. Can’t remember them all.”

  “Beyond Dunnington’s love for history he possessed a weakness for lurid Gothic novels. I believe he lived in the area some twenty-five to thirty years ago.”

  “Gothic novels, you say?” As Fredrick had hoped Dunnington’s clandestine addiction to melodramatic romances managed to strike a memory. The bookseller pulled off his glasses and absently polished them with a grubby handkerchief. “It does seem that I once knew such a man. A sensible chap, although quite thick-skulled when it came to the superiority of the English.” The man gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Can you believe he actually argued that Chinese society was our equal? As if those heathens could do more than make vases and paint lacquer. A contrary sort.”

  Fredrick could not resist a short laugh. Dunnington had shocked more than a few with his belief that pagan societies could possess sophisticated and highly intellectual cultures.

  “Yes, that would be Dunnington.” With an effort he dampened his thrill of excitement. It appeared that he could at last connect Dunnington to Winchester, but it was still no more than a theory that he had encountered Lord Graystone during his time here. “Do you happen to recall if he lived in the neighborhood?”

  Astonishingly the brows managed to lower even further, the bristly hairs nearly hiding his pale eyes.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Thankfully Fredrick had rehearsed his story on the ride to Winchester. With a charming smile he moved to absently study a nearby stack of books.

  “He recently passed and he has left a small inheritance to his nearest heir.”

  “An inheritance, eh?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately he left few clues to any relatives he might possess.”

  “There, you see, he was just as I told you, contrary,” the bookseller retorted, as if pleased to have his opinion of Dunnington’s obstinate nature confirmed.

  Fredrick gave a small shake of his head. The jealousy between scholars never failed to astonish him. Anyone who considered intellectuals as timid and meek creatures had never encountered rivals in a full-scale battle.

  Far more frightening than any duel.

  “Did he live in the vicinity?” he demanded.

  The man gave a click of his tongue. “Lud, it must have been near on three decades ago, how should I know?”

  Fredrick glanced pointedly at the large ledger book that was visible at the end of the counter.

  “Do you write down the name and direction of your customers?”

  “Only those who I extend credit to.”

  “Would you still have records from Dunnington’s time?”

  The bookseller perched his glasses on his nose before glancing absently about the overcrowded room. “I suppose they might be in the attic.”

  Fredrick did not doubt for a moment they were either in the attic or stuffed among the other books. The man did not appear to have tossed away anything, including the rubbish, in the past thirty years.

  “Would it be possible for me to have a look at them?” As the man opened his mouth to deny the request, Fredrick smoothly reached beneath his jacket to reveal a leather purse. “Of course I would not expect to make such a request without compensating you for any inconvenience.”

  The bookseller glanced toward the dusty windows where it was barely possible to discern the growing shadows.

  “’Tis late. My housekeeper will have dinner awaiting me.”

  Pulling a handful of pound notes from the purse, Fredrick tossed them onto the counter.

  “Why do you not go enjoy your dinner while I take care of the search? It should take me no more than a few hours and you can return and lock up.”

  “Well, I . . .” The man wavered, caught between his suspicion that Fredrick was plotting some nefarious scheme and the unexpected windfall that was spilled across his counter. At last greed overcame good sense and he plucked the notes from the counter and stuffed them in his pocket. Then, with a hurried step he was rounding the counter and heading toward the door, no doubt worried that Fredrick might have a change of mind. “I suppose it would do no harm. The ladder to the attic is in the back of the store. I will return in two hours.”

  Fredrick grimaced as the bookseller shut the door and a cloud of dust swirled through the air. Dash it all, he could not begin to imagine the filth that awaited him in the attics.

  Still, if there was a remote chance that he could find information on Dunnington, then he could not allow a bit (or more likely, a choking deluge) of dust to stand in his path.

  Pulling out his handkerchief, he held it over his mouth as he headed toward the back of the shop.

  The truth could be a messy business.

  By half past ten that evening, Portia had come to an end of any legitimate tasks to keep her from climbing the stairs to her chambers. The guests were settled, the public rooms were nearly empty, and Molly was on duty to see to any guests who might make an appearance.

  Unless some disaster occurred there was no reason at all to linger in the front salon.

  So why was she here, peering out the window and pacing the floor as if she were expecting some momentous occurrence?

  Because she was awaiting a honey-haired gentleman with the face of an angel to return to the inn, a disgruntled voice whispered in the back of her mind. And there was absolutely no possibility that she would seek her bed until she had managed to catch a glimpse of him.

  Mercy, but she was in a mess.

  Giving a shake of her head, Portia moved from the window as she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The last thing she desired was to be caught wandering about like a lost soul.

  She was vigorously arranging a vase of dried flowers when Quinn entered the room and regarded her with a faint smile.

  “Good evening, Portia.”

  Portia regarded her groom with a lift of her brows. As a rule the elderly man preferred the solitude of his rooms in the stables after dinner. It was the one place that he could smoke his pipe without Mrs. Cornell chiding him at the nasty smell.

  “Quinn, is anything the matter?”

  His smile widened as he folded his arms across his chest. “I thought I recognized that pretty little nose.”

  Portia gave a puzzled blink. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was walking across the yard and I noticed a nose being pressed to the window.”

  Portia lowered her head toward the flowers as a heat stained her cheeks.

  “I may have glanced out the window,” she muttered.

  “Glanced?” Quinn gave a low chuckle. “More like a hound on the scent of a fox.”

  “Is there something you need, Quinn?”

  “I was about to ask ye the same question, luv.” Crossing the patterned carpet, Quinn halted directly beside Portia. “Ye have been pacing around here like Tolly the night before the carnival comes to town.”

  “That is ridiculous.” Lifting her head, Portia intended to slay her companion with a glare only to heave a sigh at his knowing expression. “Oh, gads. I do not know what is the matter with me,” she admitted, wrapping her arms about her waist. “I feel as if I am a top that has been wound too tightly.”

  “I vaguely recall such sensations.” Quinn smiled in a wistful manner. “Ach, I miss those days.”

  “I cannot imagine why,” Portia groused. “I just want peace.”

  Quinn gave a click of his tongue. “I suppose peace is well enough, but it is not what makes a person happy.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Nay, luv.” Reaching out a gnarled hand, Quinn lightly patted her shoulder. “Peace is merely an excuse to hide yerself from the world. Happiness is wading through all the messy, exciting uncertainty that is life.”

  Portia shuddered. Good God, she had spent most of her life battling her way through the muck life offered her.

  “I ha
ve endured all the messy uncertainty that I desire, thank you, Quinn,” she said.

  “Mayhaps.” Stepping back, Quinn regarded her for a long moment. “Do ye know what I like best about this inn?” he abruptly demanded.

  “What?”

  “I like to stand at the stairs in the morning as the children scramble down the steps, so eager to discover what wonderful adventures that the day holds for them that they can’t bear to remain abed.” A smile touched his lips. “We should all discover something in our lives that makes us rush down the stairs in the morning.”

  Portia’s breath lodged in her throat. Good heavens, that was precisely how she had felt the past few mornings. That delicious thrill of excitement that she had not felt since she had been an eager, young child.

  She regarded her friend with a suspicious frown. “You are not a mind-reader, are you, Quinn?”

  Quinn’s smile widened as the sound of the front door opening followed by a swift set of footsteps echoed through the near-silent inn.

  “Enough of a mind-reader to know when me presence is no longer needed.” With a wink the elder man headed for the door. “Sweet dreams, luv.”

  Portia took an impetuous step forward, a sensible part of her urging her to follow Quinn from the room and retire to her chambers. Surely it was bad enough her old friend had caught her waiting for Fredrick’s return like a . . . what had he said . . . a hound on the scent of a fox?

  The last thing she desired was to have anyone else speculating on her presence in the salon.

  Her brief bout of sanity, however, was swiftly overtaken by that lingering need to know that Fredrick was once again beneath her roof and that he was well.

  She was standing in the center of the salon when the footsteps slowed and Fredrick paused in the doorway to regard her with a heart-melting smile.

  “Good evening, poppet.”

  Her mouth went dry as faint candlelight brushed over the elegant features that never failed to steal her breath. And his eyes . . . they glowed like the purest silver.

  Reminding her heart to beat, Portia allowed her gaze to lower to the dark jacket and breeches that clung to his lean body. They were beautifully tailored, as were all his clothes, but tonight they were coated with a thick layer of grey dust.