The Baron’s Betrothal
Dangerous Lords Book One
By
Maggi Andersen
Copyright © 2018 by Maggi Andersen
Kindle Edition
Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Dangerous Lords Series by Maggi Andersen
The Baron’s Betrothal
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The Wicked Lady
The Wicked Rebel
The Wicked Husband
The Wicked Marquis
The Wicked Governess
Highland Loves Series by Melissa Limoges
My Reckless Love
My Steadfast Love
Clash of the Tartans Series by Anna Markland
Kilty Secrets
Kilted at the Altar
Kilty Pleasures
Queen of Thieves Series by Andy Peloquin
Child of the Night Guild
Thief of the Night Guild
Queen of the Night Guild
Dark Gardens Series by Meara Platt
Garden of Shadows
Garden of Light
Garden of Dragons
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books from Dragonblade Publishing
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
France, 1793
“Beat you to the river,” Vincent called.
Guy Truesdale rode with his twelve-year-old twin brother over the grounds of their father’s chateau. “If you ride that horse too hard, Papa will have your hide, Vincent.”
Vincent kicked his horse’s sides and forged ahead. “You’re just afraid I’ll win,” he called back. “And the steward’s daughter won’t gaze at you with calf eyes anymore.”
“Just to the giant oak, then.” Guy had stolen his first kiss behind that oak tree and wouldn’t mind repeating the experience. She was a pretty miss, older than him by two years. Said she might have married him one day if he hadn’t been born a baron’s son. Guy had laughed. Many years stretched ahead before he married, and he intended to live life to the full until then.
As Guy rode past him, Vincent swerved his horse into Guy’s mount, almost unseating him. Guy drew on the reins and trotted after his brother as he raced hell-for-leather over the meadow. He reached the tree and threw his hat in the air with a shout. It was always the same, Vincent had to win, had to be best at everything. As if he resented being born second.
When they returned home, pandemonium had broken out. Some of the staff had abandoned them, including the steward and his daughter.
Papa called them into the library, his forehead etched with deep lines. He placed his arms around their shoulders. “I don’t have to tell you that France faces troubling times,” he said. “I have ordered our trunks packed and our most valuable possessions removed from the chateau. It appears we may have to leave at any moment. There are bread riots in Paris, and the Sans Culottes are trawling the countryside wreaking havoc. I believe I’ve been a fair master and many of my servants will remain loyal, but I shan’t have them die for us, so best be prepared.”
“But Papa, you are English,” Guy said.
Papa shook his head. “But your mother is French, and my children are half French.”
Guy stared at Vincent, whose blue eyes dark with fear reflected his own. Shock at facing the guillotine sent icy water flooding through his veins. He could find no words.
During the night, Guy woke and sat up with a start, as the lick of flames engulfed the chateau walls. Smoke poured into the room. He threw back the bedclothes, coughing and struggling to breathe in the thick smoky air. “Vincent!”
His brother’s bed was empty.
“Mon dieu!” Guy fought his way to the window and stared out. The gardens flickered with flaming lights. Wild shouting reached his ears. Bands of peasants and those wearing the red liberty hats of the sans culottes, mostly workers and shopkeepers who despised the aristocracy, ran about the grounds with lighted torches. Paintings and furniture was dragged from the chateau onto the lawns and their horses led from the stables.
“Where is your brother?” His father appeared at the door with Maman, a handkerchief held to her face, her eyes enormous with panic as she held his sister’s hand.
“I don’t know, Papa,” Guy said, his voice tight with fear.
“I shall find h
im,” his father said grimly. “Look after your mother and sister.”
From the carriage hidden in the wood, Guy, with his sobbing maman and his younger sister, Genevieve, watched the west wing of the chateau crumble to the ground in a haze of sparks.
“The kitchens!” Genevieve gasped.
Guy’s father appeared, running through the trees. “Quickly, into the coach. We must leave now!”
“Vincent? Where’s my son?” Maman cried.
“I’ll find him, Papa!” Guy yelled about to spring forward.
His father grabbed his arm. “No, my boy, you will not. He is gone,” he said bitterly as he herded them into the coach. “Vincent was with the chef in the kitchen. No one has seen either of them.”
As the horses raced away along the country road, while his maman and sister wept, his father leaned across and placed a hand on Guy’s knee.
“When you are a man, you must return to England, my son, and claim what will be rightly yours at my death.”
Chapter One
London, 1816
He had waited so long for this. Guy Truesdale, the sixth Baron Fortescue, stood on the lawn verge of Golden Square and gazed at number twelve across the road with the bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth. The impressive size of the three-story townhouse was as he imagined, and the gardens in the square still well-ordered, but Soho was not as elegant as in his father’s time. It appeared to have changed considerably from the last century. The aristocracy had moved on to more salubrious areas. Back in those days, his father’s neighbor was a fashionable countess who held lavish balls. It was now a warehouse for musical instruments. The swell of an Italian aria emanated from an open window, sung by a tenor accompanied by the harpsichord and violin.
The door of Guy’s townhouse, now leased, opened to display peeling wallpaper and scuffed tiles. Two modestly dressed men emerged and walked across the square.
Glad the rain held off, Guy made his way back to his hotel. Tomorrow, he would leave London for Digswell. Perhaps what he found in the country might please him more. Any hope that his father’s loving descriptions of England would make him feel less a stranger, began to fade, as he continued through streets completely foreign to him. He straightened his shoulders. He’d come to England to claim his inheritance and claim it he would. There was no returning to France now.
Dusk fell, too early for the gas lamps, and ominous shadows crept across the footpaths. On impulse, he took a shortcut, a shadowy laneway which by his calculations, would lead into a main thoroughfare.
He was halfway along it when the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two men appeared out of the gloom and advanced toward him.
Guy moved back until his shoulder brushed the wall. “What is it you want?”
When neither of the men answered, cold sweat gathered on his brow. His glance flicked ahead to where the laneway joined a busy road. “Répondez-moi,” he demanded. His throat tightened in fear. Was he to meet his maker before he even reached Rosecroft Hall?
“’E’s the one all right,” one of them murmured. They separated, and each took a menacing step closer, blocking off any avenues of escape.
The moon sailed above the narrow gap between the buildings and shone on the knife held by one of the footpads.
Guy drew the sword from his cane. “Back away.”
At the sight of it, they stepped back, hesitated, and stood regarding him.
A feint might work. Once they were off guard, he’d run for it. He moved away from the wall and drew circles in the air with his sword. “Come on, you want to fight? I’m willing.”
“He can’t take both of us,” the tallest of the two muttered.
“Yer, but he might run one of us through,” the other replied. “And we weren’t paid enough for that.”
“Shut up, you fool.”
Surprised, Guy stilled, his heart thudding in his ears. “Who paid you?”
“Say nothin’,” the tall man warned. He then whispered something to his companion.
Guy watched them, his swordstick at the ready. Did they mean to kill him?
As the taller man raised his arm to throw the knife, Guy lunged to the left. A pistol shot blasted through the confined space, rattling the nearby windows as the knife hit the wall, and clattered to the ground.
The tall man shrieked. “I’ve been shot.”
“You there!” Highlighted by the light from the street behind him, a caped figure strode toward them from the main thoroughfare, a pistol in each hand, one smoking. “Next time I’ll aim to kill.”
The pair turned and ran back the way they’d come.
Guy picked up the knife. He would have liked to get hold of them and find out who sent them. He turned to face the man who’d likely saved his life.
As their footsteps faded into the night, the gentleman tucked the pistols into the pockets of his multi-caped greatcoat and came over to Guy. “Saw them follow you. I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster, but I turned the corner and wasn’t sure which direction you took.”
With a swell of gratitude, Guy sheathed his sword, shelved his suspicion that he’d been followed for later, and bowed. “I am indebted to you, monsieur, one obviously needs to be well armed in London.”
“It is wise to be on your guard. Footpads will tackle an unarmed man.”
Guy clutched his cane. He’d been armed, but it hadn’t deterred them.
“We’d best get out of this dark place.” The man led the way toward the lit street. “New to London? I don’t advise you to walk alone around these parts at night.”
“Oui. I arrived from France this morning.”
“You can’t think much of us then, an attempted robbery on your first day.”
“It seemed more personal.” Guy studied his rescuer. He was of a similar age to himself, somewhere in his early thirties with an air of solid confidence about him. Whatever reason brought him here, Guy could only be grateful for it.
The large, fair-haired man raised his eyebrows. “The war might be over, but not all the English can forgive and forget.”
A grim smile tugged at Guy’s mouth. “I’m sure that’s so, mon ami.” He remembered the footpad’s words, he’s the one. It was him they were after. Who would want him dead here in England?
“Where are my manners?” His rescuer held out his hand. “John Haldane, Earl of Strathairn.”
Guy shook his hand. “Guy Truesdale.”
The earl’s brows met in a perplexed frown. “I know that name. Truesdale? Why, that means you’re a…”
Guy nodded. “Fortescue, oui.”
“A relative of the baron?”
“I am Baron Fortescue.”
“Why this is grand news! Your father and mine were close friends.” John frowned. “But it also means that your father is dead. I’m sorry. Not by the guillotine one would hope.”
“No, not directly.” They crossed the road. Beneath the halo cast by an oil lamp, Guy’s gaze sought the earl’s. “Thank you for what you did tonight. I hope to repay you should we meet again.”
The earl slapped him on the back. “Nonsense, Fortescue. Where do you stay?”
When Guy told him, Strathairn said, “Not one of our best hostelries. You must come home with me.”
“I couldn’t presume…”
“Not another word. Father, if he still lived, would have been justifiably angry if I failed to offer you hospitality. We reside in Berkley Square and have plenty of room. I’ll send a servant around for your luggage. Feel free to stay as long as you wish.”
“Bon, but I’m riding into the country tomorrow.”
“Your seat is to the north, Hertfordshire, I believe.”
“My estate borders Sherradspark Wood in Digswell.”
A hackney appeared around the corner, and Strathairn stepped into the road to hail it. As the jarvie pulled the horse to a stop, the earl gave directions and whipped open the door.
Guy settled on the squab beside him. “I am most grateful.”
<
br /> Strathairn dismissed the sentiment with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense, Baron. It’s been my pleasure. But once my sisters get a look at you, I may change my mind.”
“I’m not sure of your meaning.” He’d been proud of his English heritage, but since he arrived in England, he’d felt terribly French.
“My dear fellow. If you aren’t used to ladies fighting over you, you soon will be.”
Guy shook his head with a grin.
*
Malforth Manor, Digswell
With the thrill of expectation, Hetty Cavendish removed the clothes she kept hidden in the back of her clothespress. The maids’ work done, they’d gone downstairs, so she would not be disturbed. She’d discovered these men’s clothes in a cupboard after they moved into the house. Although she’d intended to give them to the church, she’d tried them on instead.
The buckskin breeches slipped over her thighs and hugged her hips like a second skin. Men were fortunate. Breeches offered so much freedom of movement. But then, men had much more freedom than women to enjoy. She pulled the cotton shirt over her head and shrugged into the gray wool coat. The loose cut disguised her breasts without the need of binding. A black ribbon secured her chestnut hair in a queue while the knitted green scarf concealed her throat.
Hetty settled the shabby, square-cut, wide-brimmed black hat, rifled from the back of her father’s armoire, over her hair and pulled the brim low to shadow her face. Glad for once that she’d inherited a tall boyish figure, she sat to pull on the boots.
She stood and considered her reflection in the mirror, narrowing her brown eyes and lowering her eyebrows as a man might.
Confident she could be taken for a man, an exhilarating sense of independence stole over her, a rebellious, guilty pleasure. No longer did Miss Horatia Cavendish, spinster daughter of Colonel Rupert Cavendish, appear before her in the glass. She’d been replaced by a young man, able to go anywhere unaccompanied. But she must still be careful, for they lived a mere few miles from the village, and a stranger in these parts stood out like a cuckoo in a dovecote.
Her father planned to spend the night with Aunt Emily in Mayfair. Since he’d retired from the army, he’d developed an intense interest in his finances and visited his solicitor every week. She hated to deceive him, but every time he was away from home, she felt compelled to ride his stallion, The General. It was after Papa refused her Aunt Emily’s invitation to chaperone her for a London season, that it became necessary for Hetty to have a secret life of her own.
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