Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Somehow, gentle comfort had become passion and he’d found himself consumed by a fierce, overpowering tenderness. Their kisses had become more urgent. He hadn’t noticed Lavinia opening his breeches—he’d been too lost in her mouth—but he’d sure as hell noticed her hand on his cock. He’d released her abruptly, jerking back as if scalded, cracking his head painfully against the wall.

  Please, she’d whispered, tear-stained and achingly beautiful. Please, Barnaby. I know you won’t hurt me. And tears had welled again in her eyes, and he’d been lost. Lost and doomed.

  If he’d thought about it, he would have known that Marcus had never hit her. But he hadn’t thought. He’d accepted her lies, had seen himself as her savior, her protector.

  Lavinia had been the one to unfasten his breeches, but it had been he who’d gently pushed her gown up to her waist. He who had settled himself carefully between her thighs. He who had fucked her.

  He’d wanted to protect, to comfort, to love—and instead he’d destroyed. Destroyed Marcus’s marriage. Destroyed the most important friendship he’d ever had.

  Lavinia had sighed and trembled in his arms, and clung to him, and whispered that she loved him, and in that moment, he’d loved her, too, so fiercely, so protectively, that if Marcus had walked into the folly, he’d probably have killed him.

  But Marcus hadn’t.

  Once Lavinia had gone, the reality of what he’d done had sunk in. And on its heels had come shame. Shame, like ashes in his mouth. Shame so intense he’d almost vomited. He’d retreated to his study and got thoroughly drunk and he had vomited, had spent half the night vomiting. It had emptied his stomach, but done nothing for the shame.

  “Fuck,” Barnaby said, under his breath. He flung back the bedclothes, padded barefoot to the window, and opened the shutters. Daylight flooded in. He leaned his hands on the windowsill and gazed out at Woodhuish and sighed.

  What am I doing here?

  Barnaby sighed again, and pushed away from the windowsill. He turned to the cheval mirror and looked at himself: red-brown hair standing on end, tired hazel eyes. That afternoon in the folly had turned him into someone he didn’t recognize. I don’t know who I am anymore.

  He raked his hands through his hair and rang for hot water.

  * * *

  The day limped past. Marcus didn’t inflict another excruciating tête-à-tête on him. Miss Merryweather didn’t skewer him with her astuteness. Everyone was polite, friendly, tactful. He had a sense that Marcus and Lady Cosgrove and Miss Merryweather and even the servants were tiptoeing around him, waiting. Waiting for him to leave or stay or jump off the damned cliff.

  Barnaby couldn’t decide whether it was worse to be young Charles’s godfather or not. Worse to stay or to go.

  He rode as far as the River Dart with Marcus, ate luncheon at the abbey in the open gallery that had once been the monastery cloister, strolled the grounds with Lady Cosgrove and Miss Merryweather, and then suddenly dusk was drawing close, and he was in the entrance hall, waiting for the carriage to take them to the ball.

  Barnaby fidgeted with his cuffs. Why did I let Miss Merryweather talk me into this? He felt like Robespierre headed for the guillotine. All that was missing was the tumbrel.

  Marcus strolled down the stairs and took a moment to check his neckcloth in the mirror, adjusting the knot fractionally.

  Barnaby scuffed one shoe on the polished flagstones. “Are you sure you want to be seen in public with me?” he said, in a low voice.

  Marcus didn’t look away from his neckcloth. “I’m not going to bother answering that.”

  Barnaby blew out a breath and tugged at his cuffs again.

  Marcus turned away from the mirror. “I think you’ll enjoy it,” he said, leaning his shoulders against the wall. “Sir Anthony’s interested in improving his land. I told him to talk to you. Sang your praises, actually.”

  Land improvement? Barnaby scuffed his other shoe on the flagstones. He could talk about land improvement for hours. Crop rotation. The new grasses. Animal husbandry. But it was hardly a topic for a dinner party.

  A clatter of hooves came faintly from outside.

  “The tumbrel’s here,” he said glumly.

  Marcus laughed—and Barnaby found himself almost smiling back.

  “It’s not as bad as that.” Marcus pushed away from the wall. “The Ances are nice people, and so are the Tuckney-Smythes. Ask Merry; she’ll dissect their characters in detail for you. She has a very keen eye.”

  I’d noticed, Barnaby thought dryly, and then he said, “Miss Merryweather mentioned a fiancé yesterday. I’m guessing . . . he’s dead?”

  “Accident at sea, several years ago. He was in the navy. Merry did tell me his name. Henry . . . Henry Marlow. Lieutenant Henry Marlow.”

  Barnaby nodded.

  Marcus glanced at the clock, and the staircase. “The Woottons should be there tonight, too. I can guarantee they’ll be delighted to meet you. Five daughters.”

  Barnaby’s head jerked back, as if he’d been slapped. “Jesus Christ, Marcus! You haven’t been touting me as a bridegroom? I’m the last person any woman should marry!”

  Marcus snorted. “If you believe that, you’ve got a maggot in your head.” Then, his eyes narrowed. “You do believe it.” He took a step towards Barnaby and lowered his voice and said fiercely, “For crying out loud, Bee, let it go.” He shut his mouth and turned away as the butler bustled into the entrance hall, his shoes slapping briskly on the floor.

  “The carriage is ready, sir.”

  “Thank you, Yeldham.”

  The countess and Miss Merryweather chose that moment to descend the stairs. A smile lit Marcus’s face when he saw his wife. The countess wasn’t pretty, but she was a very attractive woman, slim and elegant in a gown of amber silk shot with gold. Spectacles perched on her nose, and behind the lenses, her eyes were dark and intelligent. Barnaby thought, not for the first time today, that the gossips who’d labeled her plain must be blind.

  The countess wasn’t pretty, but Miss Merryweather most definitely was. Barnaby blinked, and took a second look at her. Flaxen ringlets, laughing eyes, dimples peeking in her cheeks. In that gown she was very definitely not a young girl. Short and slender, yes, but with a woman’s breasts.

  He tore his gaze from her, cleared his throat, and made his leg to both ladies.

  Miss Merryweather crossed to him, almost bouncing on her toes. Her gown was the exact shade of blue as her eyes. “The minuet and a country dance. You promised.”

  “Indeed, I did.”

  That promise no longer seemed such a grave mistake.

  Chapter Seven

  Merry kept a watchful eye on Sir Barnaby. He pokered up splendidly when they reached Brompton Court—she practically saw him don invisible armor as they climbed the steps to the front door—but when no sidelong glances or sly whispers came his way, he lost his stiff self-consciousness. Serendipity seated her across from him at the long, gleaming mahogany dinner table, and a fortunate gap in the flower arrangement afforded her a good view of him. During the first course she watched him gently and kindly draw out Sir Anthony’s shyest daughter, seated on his right. When the second course arrived, he turned his attention to Sir Anthony’s mother, stout in her widow’s silks on his left. Sir Barnaby made the dowager laugh twice.

  The meal drew to its close, the other guests arrived, the musicians tuned their instruments, and finally came the moment she’d been looking forward to for weeks: the ball.

  “I believe this is the first of our dances,” Sir Barnaby said, offering her his arm.

  “It most definitely is.”

  Merry walked out onto the dance floor with him and inhaled a deep, joyful breath.

  “I should warn you, it’s been a while since I last danced,” Sir Barnaby said diffidently. “I may forget some of the steps.”

  “You won’t.”

  The musicians played the opening bars. Sir Barnaby bowed, Merry curtsied, and the minuet began.
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br />   Sir Barnaby danced just as she remembered. Not flashily, not showily, but with beautiful simplicity. He was slightly stiff to start with, but after the first dozen bars, his tension evaporated and he became the man she’d seen at Vauxhall. The man who danced as naturally as he breathed. He met her eyes and grinned.

  Merry almost missed a step.

  A voice whispered in her ear: This man.

  * * *

  A country dance followed the minuet, and after that came a reel. Merry made her way through the figures, but her attention wasn’t on the dancing. She felt almost dizzy with astonishment, with wonder.

  Have I fallen in love with Sir Barnaby?

  When Henry had died, she’d thought she could never love another man, but her heart was telling her she loved Sir Barnaby, and her head was telling her she loved him, and she knew—knew—it was true.

  She had fallen in love with Sir Barnaby Ware.

  The speed of it dazed her—she’d met him only yesterday—but her parents had fallen in love within an hour of meeting each other, and their love had lasted the rest of their lives. As her mother had said, sometimes you just knew.

  Merry followed Sir Barnaby with her eyes. He’d clearly forgotten he was a villain. She watched him escort the eldest Wootton daughter onto the dance floor, watched him lead her through the steps, smiling, talking, making her laugh. The girl lost her anxious stiffness. By the end of the set, her jeté assemblé was almost graceful. Sir Barnaby returned her to her mother, and said something that made Mrs. Wootton look gratified and her daughter blush. The girl’s gaze followed Sir Barnaby as he walked away. Oh, dear, she’s lost her heart to him.

  And why not? Sir Barnaby was every young country girl’s dream. Wealthy, single, and if not a nobleman, the next best thing: a baronet. His face was attractive, his shoulders filled his coat admirably, his calves needed no padding—and most importantly of all, he was nice. Simply and genuinely nice.

  Merry watched him approach. He was as tall as Marcus, but lankier. It was easy to see that he’d be a better swordsman than a pugilist.

  Sir Barnaby halted in front of her. His hazel eyes were smiling. “Our country dance, Miss Merryweather.”

  Her heart squeezed in her chest. She found herself blushing as bashfully as Miss Wootton.

  * * *

  Dancing with a superb partner sometimes made Merry’s blood hum. Tonight it wasn’t just her blood that hummed; the marrow in her bones seemed to hum, too.

  With Henry, she’d felt deeply comfortable. With Sir Barnaby, she felt not only comfortable, she felt alive, as if every part of her were conscious of him: blood, breath, bones. She felt alive—and at the same time, shy.

  The shyness was disconcerting. Merry had danced with hundreds of men and never once felt shy, and yet tonight she did. So shy that she almost found herself tongue-tied.

  They made their way down the set. Sir Barnaby held her gloved fingertips lightly. Merry was intensely aware of the warmth of his hand. This man, the voice repeated in her head, with utter certainty—and the emotions washed over her again: astonishment, joy, shyness.

  She’d not been shy with Henry, but she’d felt the same certainty, and for the same reason: here was a man she could love forever. Not because of his face or his skill at dancing—although those were certainly things she liked about Sir Barnaby—but because of who he was beneath those things: open-minded and compassionate, patient and good-humored, a man who valued trust and loyalty highly.

  A man who was struggling to forgive himself.

  Merry stole a glance at Sir Barnaby. His hair gleamed in the light from the chandeliers, neither brown nor auburn, but something harmoniously in between.

  He caught her glance and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  Merry’s heart gave a loud thump. Shyness swept through her again, and with the shyness was certainty. I want to spend the rest of my life with this man.

  Chapter Eight

  Before the ball, he’d had the notion that the carriage was a tumbrel and he was Robespierre headed for the guillotine; upon leaving the ball, Barnaby felt that he was the main character in Perrault’s Cendrillon. When the clock struck midnight, the enchantment would be broken. The carriage would turn back into a pumpkin, the horses into mice, and he would revert to who he’d been before his godmother had cast her spell: a ragged cinder maid. Except that he didn’t have a Faerie godmother, he wasn’t female, and the rags and the cinders were of his own making.

  Barnaby snorted under his breath. Idiot.

  But the feeling of enchantment persisted in the warm, swaying darkness of the carriage. It felt as if the clock had turned back, as if that afternoon with Lavinia had never happened. Barnaby rested his head against the upholstery, stifled a yawn, and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

  He woke with a jolt when the carriage arrived at Woodhuish Abbey. He blinked, sat up, and peered out the window. There were an uncommon number of servants waiting on the front steps. Not just the butler and three footmen, but the housekeeper too, and several men in the garb of stablemen and gardeners. Torches burned outside the great arched door, casting writhing shadows, turning human faces into gargoyle masks. The masks all had the same expression: desperately anxious. The housekeeper looked as if she’d been weeping.

  Barnaby’s tiredness evaporated instantly. Something’s wrong.

  Marcus jerked the carriage door open and jumped down, not waiting for a footman to let down the steps. “What’s happened?”

  “Two of the young boys are missing, sir,” the butler said. “They didn’t come home for their dinner.”

  “Which two?”

  “Clem, sir,” a gardener said. “And Harry.” He was twisting his cloth cap in his hands, wringing it. Was he one of the boys’ fathers? “We’ve searched the cliffs. Can’t see nothing.”

  Miss Merryweather scrambled down from the carriage. “I think they found a cave. Over by Woodhuish House.”

  Marcus swung to face her. “You do? Why?”

  “Sir Barnaby and I met them in the woods there, yesterday. Clem had a shovel.”

  “A cave?” The gardener’s expression was torn between relief and fear. Was a son buried in a cave better than a son fallen off a cliff? Yes, because the one in the cave may survive.

  “Can you show us where you saw them?” Marcus asked.

  “We both can,” Barnaby said.

  Marcus turned back to the servants and gave rapid orders. Men ran to fetch shovels, ropes, lanterns. “Owens, saddle horses for us. Mrs. Thatcher, as many candles and tinderboxes as you can find, please. And some blankets.” He turned to Lady Cosgrove and Miss Merryweather. “I know you’d like to help, but I ask you to stay here. If you can, sleep. There’s no point in you staying awake all night.”

  “Are you certain I can’t help?” the countess said, and there was an odd tone in her voice, as if her words were more than just a polite offer of assistance.

  “I don’t think so,” Marcus said. “If I’m wrong, I’ll send for you.”

  * * *

  Barnaby flung off his dress coat and skinned out of his satin knee breeches. He yanked on buckskins and boots, snatched up his riding gloves, and ran down to the stables, dragging on his Benjamin coat. Marcus joined him half a minute later. Men, shovels, ropes, lanterns, and blankets were loaded on to the hastily saddled horses. They rode up the valley at a canter. Barnaby counted ten servants, plus himself and Marcus, and his own groom, Catton. A pearly almost-full moon hung in the sky, casting enough light for him to see the hands of his pocket watch. Twenty to one.

  They left the horses at Woodhuish House and entered the woods on foot. Beyond the reach of the lanterns, the shadows were ink-black.

  The woods looked quite different in the dark. The trees seemed to crowd together, the shadows multiplying their branches. Barnaby was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t recognize the spot, when he saw it. “I think it was here.” He stepped off the path and held his lantern close to the ground, found scuff
marks in the dirt. “Yes, here.”

  * * *

  They climbed the hill slowly, laden with shovels and ropes, casting for a trail. The noise they made seemed huge in the darkness—undergrowth crackling and snapping, men panting, grunting. Shadows darted with each swing of the lanterns. “Here. Footprint,” someone said.

  Fifty yards further on, they found a narrow hole in the hillside. The hole was part natural, part chipped out by shovels. Fresh dirt lay scattered, and trodden into the dirt were child-sized boot prints.

  “This is it,” Marcus said, grim satisfaction in his voice.

  The gardener with the cloth cap—Clem’s father—thrust his lantern into the hole. “Clem!” he shouted. “Harry!” His voice echoed hollowly.

  No reply came.

  It took two gardeners five minutes to widen the hole, chopping at the dirt with their shovels. The largest groom, the ex-pugilist Sawyer, levered out a limestone boulder the size of a small sheep, and heaved it aside. “That should do it, sir.”

  Marcus turned to his men. “No one goes inside without a lantern and spare candles and a tinderbox. Is that understood?”

  A ragged chorus of “Yes, sir” came out of the darkness.

  Barnaby shouldered his shovel, picked up his lantern, and followed Marcus into the hole.

  The hole led to a rocky fissure, which in turn opened out into a cavern. Barnaby raised his lantern and looked around. Spires of rock pushed up from the floor and hung down from the ceiling, and behind the spires was darkness. His ears told him the cavern was huge.

  “Christ almighty,” he heard someone say in awe behind him.

  One of the stablemen pushed past Barnaby. “Harry!” he bellowed.

  The name echoed loudly, reverberating off walls and ceiling before slowly fading into silence. Barnaby watched the stableman’s face, saw his hope, saw his anguish.