Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  “No doubt he is satisfied with the opinion of his fellow coxcombs. Hardly surprising considering the lot of you possess the same appalling habit of attiring yourself like molting peacocks.”

  The man’s countenance darkened to the same shade of cranberry as his velvet jacket. “Why, you worthless bastard . . .”

  His arm pulled back, as if he were contemplating the perilous notion of taking a swing at Fredrick. At the same moment there was a stern, decidedly feminine voice slicing through the air.

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  As one the gentlemen turned to regard the woman who stood like a diminutive general surveying her disorderly troops.

  “Well, well.” The velvet-coated jackass smiled in a far too familiar manner as he took in the stunning beauty of Mrs. Portia Walker. “There is without a doubt any number of things you can do for me, my sweet. But for the moment I will settle for having this . . . piece of filth thrown into the nearest gutter.”

  The magnificent blue eyes snapped with disapproval as Portia folded her arms and glared at the gentleman.

  “Mr. Smith happens to be a guest in this inn and if anyone is to leave it will be you and your friends.”

  The man gave a small jerk at the obvious rebuff. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I do not, and in truth, I am not particularly interested.”

  Fredrick would have been amused by Portia’s ready defense if he had not been acutely aware of the attention they were attracting. The last thing he desired was to have her business disturbed by an ugly brawl.

  “We shall see about that,” the man growled as he stepped toward Portia.

  With a swift motion, Fredrick had placed himself in front of the seething gentleman, his expression cold with warning.

  “Portia, there is no need to trouble yourself,” he drawled. “I am certain that this can be resolved without creating a fuss.” His gaze narrowed as he studied the three intruders. “Perhaps we should step outside to finish our conversation?”

  Typically, Portia was not satisfied to leave matters in his hands. She was a woman who very much preferred to be in command of every situation.

  Grasping his sleeve she tugged at his jacket until he reluctantly turned to meet her glittering gaze.

  “This is my inn, Mr. Smith. I will decide whether or not to trouble myself.”

  He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I am accustomed to dealing with such arrogant pests, poppet. The more attention that the idiots draw to themselves, the more satisfied they will be. It is far better that I escort them from your establishment and sort this out in private.”

  “No, Fredrick,” she hissed. “There are three of them. You will be hurt.”

  “Good God, has no one taught you not to question a man’s fighting prowess?” he demanded with a low laugh. “You might as well question my very manhood.”

  She pulled back to stab him with an annoyed frown. “This is not the time for jests, Fredrick.”

  There was a rude sound from behind him as the dandy gave his shoulder a slight shove.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a bastard is hiding behind the skirts of his trollop . . .”

  The word “trollop” was still hanging on his lips when Fredrick spun about and connected his fist with the man’s weak chin.

  There was a low grunt and then the peacock tumbled backward to land on the flagstone floor with a pleasing thud. Fredrick peered down at the fool, a violent flare of satisfaction racing through him.

  He would endure any number of insults with a smile on his face if it would avoid unpleasantness in the middle of the public rooms. But he would be damned if he would endure one insult directed toward Portia.

  With a rather childish spite, Fredrick prodded the unconscious lump with the tip of his boot, fully appreciating the sight of his handiwork. His moment of distraction, however, nearly proved to be disastrous as the injured man’s friends managed to gather enough courage to rush him.

  More concerned with making sure that Portia was kept safely out of the fray than the bumbling attack of the pathetic fribbles, Fredrick was preparing to shove the two backward when a dark, well-built gentleman stepped through the doorway and grasped the two charging men by the scruffs of their collars.

  “Bloody hell,” Ian Breckford drawled. “I never expected to find such good sport when I came in search of you, Freddie boy.”

  Perfectly stunned by the unexpected arrival of his friend, Fredrick could do no more than gape at him in shock.

  “Ian? What the blazes are you doing here?”

  Oblivious to his astonishment, Portia grasped his hand and lightly touched his knuckles that were scraped and bleeding.

  “Fredrick, you have been hurt,” she exclaimed.

  “It is nothing,” he muttered absently.

  Ian lifted his brows, the eyes the exact shade of antique gold shimmering with a dangerous fire.

  “You allowed these slow-tops to hurt you?”

  Recognizing that expression, Fredrick stepped forward. “Ian . . . no,” he commanded, but too late.

  With one smooth motion Ian had managed to jerk his two captives toward one another, cracking their heads with a sickening thud. The sharp blow managed to knock both of them unconscious and with a pleased smile Ian dropped them onto the floor and calmly dusted his hands together.

  There was a loud round of applause for Ian’s theatrics, but Fredrick was far from pleased. Stepping forward, he grasped his friend by the arm and dragged him out of the room.

  “Damn you, Ian.”

  “Fredrick, have you lost what few wits you once possessed?” Ian protested as Fredrick tugged him ruthlessly down the corridor.

  “Very likely,” Fredrick readily agreed.

  “Bloody hell, do you know how many hours I spent at the gaming tables to pay for this jacket you are determined to ruin?”

  “We both know that you now have an ample amount of money to pay for any number of jackets.”

  Ian made a rude noise. “That is not the point.”

  Reaching a private salon, Fredrick pulled Ian into the empty room and closed the door. He ignored the recently refurbished sofa and overstuffed chairs that Portia had taken such care to choose for the darkly paneled room. All that mattered was that they were away from the curious onlookers.

  “We should not be interrupted here,” he muttered.

  Wrenching his arm from Fredrick’s grasp, Ian smoothed his hand over the fabric of his champagne superfine jacket.

  “Really, Fredrick, is this any way to treat an old friend who has not only traveled a considerable distance to be with you, but also just managed to vanquish your enemies with a single blow?”

  “I did not ask that you vanquish my enemies, Ian.”

  “Ah, so that is the trouble.” A sudden smile lightened the dark features, revealing a straight row of startling white teeth. “You were hoping to impress that raven-haired beauty I glimpsed at your side by slaying a few dragons. Forgive me, I did not intend to steal your glory.”

  Fredrick swallowed a sigh. “I was hoping to deal with the ridiculous buffoons without creating a disturbance that will be the talk of the neighborhood.”

  “What does it matter?” Reaching beneath his jacket, Ian pulled out a silver flask that was always filled with top-notch whiskey. “It seemed to me that the neighbors were pleased enough to watch the mincing peacocks knocked onto their backsides.”

  Fredrick winced at the memory of the smattering of applause as Ian had tidily dealt with pinks of the ton. It was all very amusing for the guests, but it was not their livelihood that was being threatened by the unpleasant encounter.

  “Those peacocks have powerful families who might very well cause trouble for Portia,” he said with an edge in his voice.

  The golden eyes narrowed as Ian took a deep sip of the whiskey. “Portia?”

  “Mrs. Walker, the owner of this establishment.”

  A smile of pure male appreciation curved Ian�
�s full lips. “Ah, the raven-haired beauty.”

  Fredrick abruptly turned to pace toward the fine bay window that overlooked the stables. Why bother attempting to convince Ian that an ugly brawl with the local dandies was a poor notion? The rogue’s favorite sport was humiliating the upper crust.

  “What the devil are you doing here, Ian?” he at last demanded.

  With a nonchalance that did not entirely hide the hint of wariness on the dark, beautiful features, Ian took a deep drink of his whiskey.

  “I came to visit an old friend. Surely that is not so strange?”

  “How did you know I was staying at this inn?”

  Ian shrugged. “Your father was gracious enough to give me directions.”

  Fredrick gave a strangled cough as he stepped toward his friend. “You spoke to my father?”

  “Yes.” The dark, smoldering gaze flared over Fredrick’s near delicate form. “You know, you look a great deal like him. Much more so than that squishy, sallow-faced boy I saw in portraits ad nauseam throughout the house. Oh, and before I forget, Lord Graystone requested that I offer you an invitation to dine with him tonight, and I of course, am included in the generous invitation.”

  “Dammit, Ian, this is no time for your games,” Fredrick rasped. For some reason the thought of Ian calmly chatting with his father was more than a trifle bothersome. Perhaps because he had always managed to keep his life in London so completely separated from his painful existence at Oak Manor. “Why are you in Wessex instead of Surrey where you belong?”

  There was a thick silence before Ian gave a sharp laugh. “Actually, I did leave London with every intention of visiting Surrey.”

  “And?”

  Ian drained the last of the whiskey and shoved the flask back into the inner pocket of his jacket.

  “And somewhere along the road I managed to end up in Wessex. I never did have much of a sense of direction.”

  A wave of sympathy flooded through Fredrick. Ian would skewer himself on a hot poker before he would admit that he had lost his nerve on the road home.

  “Ian, there is no need to travel to Surrey, you know,” Fredrick said gently. “Return to London and enjoy your fortune. It is what we would all do if we had any wits.”

  “I have the feeling that you are attempting to rid yourself of my presence, Freddie boy,” Ian drawled as he moved to settle himself in one of the gold and ivory striped chairs. “Is it just a general dislike for my companionship or does it have something to do with that lovely little angel that was so concerned for your wounds?”

  Fredrick ignored the hint to reveal his relationship with Portia. He never spoke of the women who caught his interest. And certainly not one who was beginning to mean a great deal more to him than a passing fancy.

  “I am always pleased to have your company, Ian. You know that.”

  The cynical expression that Ian wore like a mask softened at the unmistakable sincerity in Fredrick’s words.

  “Thank you.” He templed his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Fredrick with a curious gaze. “Tell me what you have managed to discover.”

  “Precious little thus far, I fear.” Fredrick gave a frustrated shake of his head. “At the moment, the only thing I have to go upon is the fact that Dunnington and my father both resided in Winchester for a brief time.”

  “Winchester, hmmm.” Ian considered a moment. “It is at least something.”

  Fredrick was struck by a sudden thought. Ian was already aware of his reason for being in the neighborhood, so there was no need to hide his search for Dunnington’s boarding house. And in truth, he could use a measure of the man’s indecent luck.

  “Actually, I intend to visit Winchester later this afternoon if you would be interested in joining me?”

  “Why not?” Ian stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “While I am there, I can see about renting a room for the next few nights.”

  Fredrick gave a lift of his brows. “Why not remain here?”

  “For once you appear to have enough sense to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful woman.” Ian flashed his wicked dimples. “I would not desire to steal away her heart.”

  “You fear that your charm is irresistible?”

  “Of course,” Ian agreed with a casual arrogance. “I am known as Casanova, after all.”

  Fredrick chuckled at his companion’s blatant confidence. He was not at all concerned at being cut out by his more dashing friend. Although most women were captivated by the dark, restless passions that smoldered about Ian, Fredrick was confident in Portia’s unwavering dislike for well-practiced rakes.

  “Somehow I am quite certain that Portia would be indifferent to that practiced charm,” he murmured with a faint smile. “Still, it might be best if you stay in Winchester. I do not desire any unnecessary questions as to the reasons for my stay in the neighborhood.”

  “What excuse have you given?”

  “Business.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. “Predictable.”

  “Which means that it is believable,” Fredrick pointed out in reasonable tones.

  Ian smiled wryly, his long fingers tapping a steady tattoo on the padded arm of the chair.

  “Your father was quite . . . delighted when I appeared at his door,” he said without warning, the golden eyes watchful. “In fact, he refused to allow me to leave until I had tasted of his particularly fine brandy and he had managed to ply me with a dozen questions.”

  Fredrick stiffened. “What sort of questions?”

  “About your life in London. If you are happy.” His smile widened with a taunting amusement. “If you have a particular female you have shown an interest in. If you have need of anything. He did not appear nearly as indifferent to you as I expected him to be.”

  Fredrick grimaced. “I will admit that he has been behaving in a distinctly odd manner since my arrival. If I had to guess I would say that he is feeling guilty for forgetting my existence during the past ten years.”

  Ian caught and held his gaze. “Are you so certain that he forgot you?”

  “How could he not?” Fredrick paced across the room, his emotions tightly coiled as he refused to consider the notion of his father giving a bloody damn. “Lord Graystone has not bothered to so much as scribble me a note in the past decade. Not even when he was staying in London. Hardly the behavior of a devoted father.”

  “Perhaps not, but—”

  Fredrick held up a warning hand. “It does not matter, Ian. I am not here to win my father’s affection. I am here to discover why he willingly paid Dunnington twenty thousand pounds for his silence, nothing more.”

  The golden eyes twinkled with a sudden fire. “And to seduce a certain innkeeper?”

  Portia.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, Fredrick headed directly toward the door. Dammit, he had allowed Ian to distract him. He needed to get rid of the unconscious noblemen before they awoke and created difficulties.

  “Remain here,” he commanded in stern tones. “I will return in a moment.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Portia kept her composure firmly intact as she commanded Quinn to seek out the unconscious gentlemen’s servants. With a minimum of fuss the three noblemen were carried to their waiting carriage and the public rooms were returned to a semblance of normality.

  Inwardly, however, she was battling a most astonishing fury toward the idiotic fools. How dare they enter her inn and insult and attack Fredrick? Could they possibly believe that they were superior to a gentleman who had managed to build a vast business with nothing but his own wits? That they possessed any redeeming value just because of their name?

  What had they ever accomplished beyond drinking and gambling and whoring?

  Gads, Fredrick was worth a dozen of the worthless fribbles.

  Managing to smile and chat with the lingering guests, Portia was wise enough to move toward the door as she caught sight of Fredrick marching down the hallway.

  “Where are the bodies?” he d
emanded, his eyes dark with a shimmering emotion.

  Threading her arm through his, Portia calmly turned him away from the public rooms and toward the kitchens. Although Fredrick was blessedly above the stupidity of most males, he was clearly still in a temper. It seemed best to conduct their conversation in privacy.

  “I had them dropped in the nearest well,” she teased, futilely hoping to lighten his dark mood. “I do not believe the magistrate will search for them there.”

  He frowned, clearly not amused. “What?”

  Portia heaved a faint sigh. “I had their servants collect them and sent them on their way. It is hardly the first occasion I have had to deal with loutish guests or a boxing match over breakfast.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw as he struggled to hide his seething anger. “No, I do not suppose it is. Still I regret being the cause of such an ugly encounter in your establishment.”

  “It was not your fault, Fredrick.” Coming to a halt, she turned to confront him. “Men such as that will always find some means of causing difficulties. As you said, they must have attention constantly drawn to themselves.”

  “Yes, but these buffoons were friends of my . . . brother,” he gritted. “And I suspect that they deliberately chose to come to the Queen’s Arms because they had learned I was staying here.”

  A hint of unease trickled down her spine. His expression held a grim hardness that was not at all like him.

  “So what if they did?”

  “Portia, perhaps it would be best if I went to stay at another inn.”

  “No.” She clenched her hands at her side. “Fredrick, that is absurd.”

  “Actually, it makes very good sense.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “If Simon’s friends desire to create difficulties for me I will not have you and your establishment caught in the mess. They could do your business a great deal of harm.”

  Did Fredrick mean to leave her inn and never return?

  No. It was unthinkable.

  Never to see his elegant, beautiful countenance again? Never to have him interfering in matters that were none of his business? Never to feel those clever, wicked fingers skimming over her skin?