The Baron's Betrothal

by Maggi Andersen

  There was much in Guy’s past, too, that he’d rather forget. After downing his third whiskey, Guy relaxed enough to talk of his years spent on the Continent before coming to London.

  “In Paris in ’08, I had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was arrested and thrown into the Conciergerie.” He threw down the last of his drink to obliterate the bitter taste in his mouth. “Most don’t emerge from that prison alive, but for some reason, I was released. I didn’t wait to find out why. Over a million men, women, and children died in France during that time. Many in that prison. I left France, sick to my very soul.”

  “And you took up arms against Bonaparte.” John raised his glass to him.

  “Another million souls perished under Napoleon. Spain was in an even worse state than France. The land was scattered with the corpses of dead soldiers and horses. Villages ransacked and burned. The women raped and murdered. Stock and grain destroyed leaving those left to starve to death.” He took a deep breath. “I ended up at Girona, with such anger I wanted to kill, but instead, I acted as aide and secretary to Colonel Anthony O’Kelly from Roscommon, preparing dispatches, and translating documents into English, and working with the women. I refused to kill my countrymen. My hatred for Napoleon didn’t extend to the men who served him, although I was ashamed of their atrocities in that country.” He sighed.

  “But in Girona, I witnessed so much foolish bravery, against enormous odds. Some six thousand French troops of Napoleon’s army laid siege to the fortress of Monjiuch, demanding the surrender of the Ultonia Regiment. Colonel O’Kelly refused. The blockade went on for eight months.”

  To speak of it tightened Guy’s throat. The words took him back to that grim time in his life when, as a despised aristocrat, he’d tried to help desperate people, but there were so many and so little he could do. Before the Revolution, his father had helped all those on his estates. Guy had helplessly witnessed these people being overrun and dying where they stood. And he reached a point where he didn’t know or care what would become of him.

  “Those were troubled times, my friend.” John broke into his thoughts as he refilled Guy’s glass from the crystal decanter.

  “I grew fond of those whose lives I shared. Mrs. Lucy MacCarthy, wife of Colonel Patricio Fitzgerald MacCarthy, sought permission from the Spanish Army High Command to organize a women’s unit. The Company of St. Barbara, they came to be called. They carried ammunition to the troops and risked their lives to care for the wounded.”

  “Yes, they were indeed admirable.” John lit a cheroot and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air.

  “Heroines to the last.” Guy looked down at his glass, as his thoughts took him back there, amid the thunderous barrage and the confusion, the groans of the men, their blood running over the stony ground. He aided the women. “They ran the gauntlet of shells raining down, bombs and grenades, carrying the wounded in their arms to the hospital.” His voice broke, and he took another deep sip from his glass. The whiskey rolled over his tongue, thick and smoky with a hint of peat, warming the chilled knot in his chest. “When thirty-three thousand more French troops arrived and demanded O’Kelly surrender, he allowed the citizens a democratic vote.” He gave a hopeless shrug. “They voted no.”

  “Brave, but foolish.”

  A long, heartfelt sigh escaped Guy’s lips. “Over six hundred soldiers, along with Colonel O’Kelly, perished.”

  “How did you get out alive?”

  “After Lucy died by her husband, Fitzgerald’s side, I organized an escape with those civilians left. We slipped away at night amid the chaos.”

  Guy had walked for miles despite the wound in his thigh where a bullet had grazed him. After parting company with the others who wished to make their way farther west, he found a tiny hamlet untouched by Napoleon’s forces. A peasant family took him in and cared for him until he was well, generously sharing their few provisions.

  “As soon as I was able,” Guy told John, “I returned to offer them aid. The house was a smoldering ruin. Soldiers had taken their livestock and destroyed the crops, they had murdered the farmer, stripped, and violated the wife. She’d been taken in by relatives and was like a ghost.”

  Guy left what money he had. “I ended up in Barcelona, where for a time, I lost myself.”

  There was a long silence as they stared into the flames remembering lost comrades.

  John stretched. “Tomorrow, we need to make a plan.”

  Guy raised his brows. “Oui, tomorrow.” He hoped those days in Spain had helped him hone his instincts for danger, and to trust his gut feeling. He would need those skills now.

  “It might be wise if I move into a hotel, John.”

  John nodded.

  *

  When she woke in the morning, Hetty gasped and curled her toes, remembering. Sarah entered with her hot chocolate, as the bells rang out over the city, calling people to church. “It’s a beautiful day, Miss Hetty. Listen, you can hear the booming bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral.” She drew back the damask curtains to reveal puffed white clouds in a patch of delph blue sky.

  Hetty stretched her arms over her head, more aware of her body, her breasts, her nipples, and that vulnerable spot between her thighs. It was as if Guy’s lovemaking had changed her and left her yearning. She finished her chocolate and sprang out of bed.

  “What a lovely day! I fancy a walk in the park after church.” With a sad pull of disappointment, she remembered Guy was not to visit her today. He had urgent business to attend to. How adroitly he’d evaded her questions as to what that business might be.

  After church, Hetty strolled back to the house with Sarah beneath the trees as she recalled the time Guy had taken her to the park. The memory tugged at her heart. She wanted to see him. Wanted to be sure he was safe, though why she couldn’t convince herself of it, puzzled her.

  She sat down to a hearty luncheon of soup, bread rolls, and a large helping of custard tart. After a careful look, her aunt requested a description of the house. Hetty concentrated on the food and tried to avoid her aunt’s penetrating gaze as she described in detail the impressive size and layout of the rooms. “It’s situated in a nice street in Mayfair where new houses are being erected,” she concluded.

  She was relieved when her aunt made no comment, but instead discussed wedding gowns. Princess Charlotte was to be married in May. “Her wedding gown is said to have cost over ten thousand pounds,” Aunt Emily said. “I read that it is to be of silver lama on net over a silver tissue slip with flowers and shells embroidered in silver at the hem.”

  “That sounds very lovely,” Hetty said. “I shall want something simpler.”

  Her aunt nodded enthusiastically. “No time like the present to search for the fabric.”

  Hetty wished she could give it her full attention, but the unease she felt still clouded her mind.

  The next morning, the duchess was admitted, dressed in another exquisite costume of cornsilk yellow, which made her eyes appear very green.

  “How divine you look, Your Grace,” Hetty said, much struck.

  “Merci, mademoiselle. I must speak to you!”

  “Of course.” Surprised by her urgency, Hetty showed her through to the parlor. “Please sit, Your Grace. May I offer you coffee?”

  “Non, merci.” A tiny frown marred Genevieve’s normally smooth brow. She patted her breast. “I am not how you say… quiet, in here.”

  Hetty’s pulse throbbed as she met the duchess anxious gaze. “I’m sorry. What worries you?”

  “Gee. He called last evening but stayed only a minute before he left again. He is not himself.”

  “Oh?” Guy had been less than forthcoming about his plans, leaving her wondering herself what worry consumed him. “What makes you think it?” she asked uneasily.

  “You sense it, too,” Genevieve said. “Gee said he was unable to visit me for several days.” She pushed out her bottom lip. “He said he’d be delighted to see me if I came to London, and n
ow, poof!” She waved a hand in the air. “He says he has calls to make today and then disappears again! His behavior is most odd.”

  “I did wonder,” Hetty confessed.

  “I followed him this morning.”

  Shocked. Hetty widened her eyes. “You followed your brother?”

  The duchess nodded. “Gee visited a gun shop, Manton’s Gallery in Davies Street. He was inside for over an hour. I saw him go upstairs and heard him practicing.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could smell the gunpowder.”

  “Well, I find that entirely—”

  “When he came out, he carried a box under his arm.”

  “For hunting?”

  “Non.” The duchess shook her head. “It was not a hunting rifle. Smaller. A pistol.”

  Hetty stared at her thunderstruck, her head filled with wild thoughts. Why would Guy need a pistol? Did he think himself in danger? Or did he just want to arm himself after all that had happened?

  The duchess edged forward on her chair, looking ready to rise. “He has an appointment at two. If we start out now, we can follow him this afternoon.”

  Hetty blinked. “But Your Grace! I cannot follow him. Guy trusts me.”

  Genevieve’s fine brows lowered a frown. “What of that? If Gee is in trouble, we must help him.”

  “But what trouble would he be in?” Hetty considered she’d done enough to unnerve him yesterday. “Surely with Vincent dead, it is at an end. What if he sees us? He will be so angry.”

  “Leave that to me.” Genevieve nodded sagely. “I will handle Gee.”

  “Are you sure?” Hetty found herself unable to resist another woman who preferred action to talk.

  “I am. Send the maid for your things. My carriage waits outside.”

  Hetty informed her aunt she was riding in the park with the duchess.

  When they were assisted inside the coach, Genevieve gave instructions for Berkley Square, and they moved off down the street at a fast clip. They arrived within minutes, for it was but a pleasant walk from her aunt’s house. Hetty swallowed, her throat dry. She could visualize Guy’s scowl when he caught sight of them.

  They left the groom to walk the horses in Berkley Street and followed the graceful curve of the footpath to where the row of mansions faced onto the park. Unsure quite what to do next, she and Genevieve huddled down behind a tree. Minutes passed.

  “He has a two o’clock engagement, so he must leave soon,” Hetty said, half wishing to give the idea up.

  Another five minutes passed. They were discussing whether to leave when the door to number eight opened. Genevieve pulled Hetty down the servants’ steps of the house opposite. Through the railings, they watched Guy, dressed in a brown coat and fawn trousers, walk along the pavement swinging his cane.

  “It is as I suspected. He calls on someone,” Genevieve hissed. Guy reached the corner and disappeared behind a stone wall.

  “Is that a bad thing?” Hetty began to question the duchess’ sanity as the women hurried back to the carriage.

  “Drive around the corner and follow the man in the brown coat,” the duchess instructed the startled coachman. “Don’t lose him whatever you do, but don’t make us conspicuous. I shall reward you if you succeed,” she added.

  With eager agility, the footman jumped onto the box, and the coachman moved the horses on.

  They caught sight of Guy in Berkley Street. He turned left into New Bond Street. They followed and arrived to find him hailing a hackney.

  The coach trailed behind at a discreet pace as the hackney wove through the London streets. It pulled up in Cavendish Square, and Guy alighted. He looked neither left nor right but climbed the steps of an impressive residence to knock at the door. Minutes later, a butler admitted him.

  “This square bears your name, mademoiselle. Surely it’s a family connection?”

  “A distant one,” Hetty said.

  “I wonder who my brother might visit here,” Genevieve said. “Do you know?”

  “No.” Hetty studied the four-storied townhouse. “It might be best if we get out and let the coachman walk the horses.”

  “Make enquiries as to who lives here, Jacque,” Genevieve said to the groom.

  “Oui, ma dame.”

  He hurried to knock at the servants’ entrance of the neighboring house.

  Moments later, he returned. “A Corsican gentleman, ma dame. Count Forney.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “I do not know him.”

  A lady entered the pretty park at the square’s center and with a smile, left the gate open for them. Hetty and Genevieve chose a seat facing the house and opened their parasols. Hetty hoped it would afford them some disguise if Guy should walk past them.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Guy was relieved when Count Forney’s butler admitted him. At least he wouldn’t fall at the first fence. And with time to consider, he was eager to succeed in his mission.

  He was shown into the grand salon where the count greeted him in surprise. “I did not expect to see you again, Lord Fortescue.”

  “It is my practice to be careful, Count.”

  Guy pulled back his coat to better display the bronze eagle pin nestled in the folds of his cravat. “The days grow long, and I find I miss the countryside, the charm of the wood.”

  Forney’s eyes widened when he caught sight of the pin. He gave an oily smile and shook Guy’s hand. “Then I wasn’t wrong. You are one of us.”

  “I had to be sure about you, Count. You understand?”

  “Oui, indeed I do. We cannot be too careful.”

  “The stakes are too high to be careless.”

  “Bon. I shall take you this evening to meet the others. They have long since wished to meet you. Your exploits are legendary.”

  Guy bowed. “You are too gracious.”

  “We require your expertise in our quest to rescue Bonaparte. We must act with great speed before the English have him killed.”

  “I should be happy to offer all the assistance I can. Where do we go to meet them?”

  “My carriage will call for you. Where do you stay?”

  “At Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street,” Guy said.

  “At ten of the clock, then.”

  Guy emerged into the square. He glanced at the two women in the park who chatted beneath their parasols and continued. He must report to John. Tonight would put an end to the whole infernal scheme. He had no real faith in these so-called spies, for they appeared more like mischief makers. A plan to free Napoleon was bizarre. Their idolatry of Vincent seemed amateurish to him. Had the Home Secretary been ill informed? Yet, he surmised, amateurs they might be, but obsessed and determined they were, nonetheless.

  He crossed the juncture of Henrietta and Margaret Streets and began to walk down Holles Street, making his way to Oxford Street, where he had a better chance of finding another hackney. The streets were busy with horsemen, and vehicles of all kinds. Many people walked the pavements visiting the shops. Guy cursed and stopped suddenly causing a peddler selling pies to give him a hopeful glance as he wandered past. A grand aqua carriage waited on the next corner, the four matched gray horses held by a liveried groom. Not only did this fit Hetty’s description of his sister’s carriage perfectly, it was surely the purple and blue of the duke’s livery. He was sure of it. He walked up to it. “Where is the Duchesse la Châteaudunn?”

  Learning of her direction, Guy swiveled abruptly. The two women in the park, hidden behind parasols… Could it be? “Zut!” he muttered and strode back to the square. Had he not been so angry, he would have laughed at their stricken expressions. It was one thing for him to be in danger, but he would not have two of his favorite people in all the world drawn into the arena.

  “And what might you be doing here?” he asked in glacial tones.

  “I took the duchess to meet a friend of mine, but she is not at home.” Hetty’s face flushed crimson, and she refused to meet his gaze.

  “You are a very bad liar, Hetty,” Guy sai
d. He raised his brows at his sister. “Who is behind this absurd notion?”

  “I am,” Hetty blurted.

  “Non. ’Twas I.” Genevieve revealed a sisterly lack of fear at his wrath. “You are in trouble. We wish to help.”

  He ground his teeth. “You can help enormously.”

  Two sets of pretty eyes looked at him in fascination. “How?” Hetty asked in a breathless voice.

  “By going home and staying there.”

  “Oh.” She looked at Genevieve, who made a moue with her lips.

  “Then you don’t deny you are in trouble?” Genevieve asked.

  “I do deny it. You are being absurd. Allow me to escort you both to your carriage.”

  “But where do you go? Why don’t you come with us now?”

  “Because I have a prior engagement. You are both outrageous. Must I tell you every detail of my life?”

  When his sister began to object in a flood of voluble French, Guy held up his hand. “Assez!”

  The unmanageable pair climbed into the carriage. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Hetty asked with a sweet smile.

  “No!” He slammed the door. “I shall call on you both tomorrow.”

  “Why not call this evening, Gee?”

  Guy ignored Genevieve’s question. He instructed the coachman to take them directly home.

  Hetty stared back at him from the window with a worried expression as the carriage trundled away down the street.

  *

  Hetty watched Guy stride away. “He’s very angry,” she said. “Will he ever forgive us?”

  “Pooh! He was bluffing. I know my brother.”

  “But you believe him to be in danger?”

  “Oui. His eyes are evasive. When he was a boy and up to no good, he looked just like that. And what other reason would he have for not coming to visit one of us this evening?”

  Hetty studied Genevieve. She had no way of knowing if the duchess’s opinion could be relied upon. Guy had been very angry. She shivered, his eyes had pinned her in place. But… He was worried and tense, otherwise he would have recovered his good humor, laughed, and joined them. She recognized the way he’d clenched his jaw, and he had avoided her eyes when questioned. “There is nothing we can do.”