The Baron's Betrothal (Dangerous Lords Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

  The last man in the room to be introduced was a Monsieur Delany, a short, dark-haired man with shifty brown eyes.

  Delany leaned forward and shook Guy’s hand. “Baron, it’s good to see you again. We met that memorable night before Napoleon escaped from Elba.”

  Every muscle in his body tense, Guy forced himself to smile and speak warmly. “Oui. It is good to see you again, Delany.”

  “Your contribution to Napoleon’s escape was the result of great cunning,” Delany said.

  Away from the halo of light cast by the candles on the table the rest of the room lay in shadow. Guy stepped back and turned his head to hide the absence of a scar. When had Vincent been wounded? Did these men know of it?

  “We are eager for you to lend your astute advice to this new plan, Baron.”

  “I am eager to do so.”

  Forney handed him a glass of French brandy. “Raise your glasses, gentlemen. We toast our future success.”

  Guy tossed back the liquor and welcomed the burn sliding down his tight throat.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about where we strike, and when,” Forney said. “We must learn from mistakes of the past. If Fawkes had been better prepared, King James, his family, and the aristos would be no more.”

  “That was because the schemer Francis Tresham gave them away!” Delany said, his gaze around the room ferocious.

  Forney rubbed at the deep grooves on his forehead. “Today, it is even more difficult, for the palace is searched by the yeomen of the guard before every state opening of parliament. We need the element of surprise like the successful assassination of Spencer Perceval in the lobby of the House of Commons.”

  “I vote we assassinate the cabinet when they’re all together and establish a Committee of Public Safety to oversee a radical revolution,” said the Frenchman, Robillard.

  “I should think many would thank us if we shot Liverpool,” offered Diprose, a fair-haired Englishman.

  A ripple of amusement passed through the room.

  “Which is why we won’t,” Forney said. He took Guy’s arm and pulled him into the light. “Baron, I want you to take charge of this mission. I place our future success in your hands.”

  “I would be honored,” Guy said. With growing dread, he stepped up to the table where detailed diagrams of a possible assassination plot were spread out over the surface. These men were not so amateurish after all. Details of the route taken by a carriage down Pall Mall, with times and access routes marked. Who would be where and what role they would take, was carefully detailed. Was it to be the Regent? And might it be a credible plan? He rose from studying them and caught sight of Delany staring at him with a puzzled expression. “Who is our target then, Forney?”

  “Princess Charlotte,” the count said.

  “The princess?” Guy suppressed a shudder. They were fanatical, and very dangerous because they did not care what risks they took.

  “As she recently announced she is with child, we need to act now. Her death removes the only heir to the throne before she gives birth. The public see her as a sign of hope, a contrast to her unpopular father and her mad grandfather. Her death will further destabilize the Regent. The princess is popular. Her death will throw England into deep mourning. The best time to strike is when she goes to church.”

  Guy struggled to keep his horror from registering on his face. He leaned over the detailed plan, then shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  Forney’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not, Baron?”

  “Because Napoleon wouldn’t. You must know that he counts on Princess Charlotte to help secure his release. She is sympathetic about his exile because of her distress for her mother, so badly treated by the English. Such an act would put the authorities on the alert, which won’t help our cause to free the general. We can do better than this. Let’s not rush in where angels fear to tread. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll come up with a better plan.”

  “But that is the genius of it,” Forney said. “Bonaparte is mistaken to look to the princess for help. He won’t get it. If we act on this, the English aren’t so likely to suspect Napoleonic sympathizers when searching for the culprit.”

  Guy’s fingers itched to pummel the man to the ground. “You would condemn Napoleon to exile by removing his last shred of hope. He would be very angry indeed. I’d hate to be the one to tell him.”

  “Yes, there’s that to consider,” said Jackman, a tall thin Englishman. The rest murmured their agreement. “There’s no saying the princess will survive childbirth. A better choice would be the Regent.”

  “That was recently attempted. The Regent’s carriage windows were broken.” The other Englishman called Simmons, pushed himself forward. “It could have been a gunshot, although no further evidence was found. But now Lord Liverpool’s government has reacted with force. The Habeas Corpus Act has been suspended, and anybody under the merest suspicion of conspiracy can be thrown into Newgate and kept there.”

  The majority in the room voted against the murder of the princess or the regent. Relieved, Guy released a breath, only to stiffen when Forney spoke again. “I have also considered Lord Bathurst, Secretary for War, and the Colonies. He would be a cruel loss to the government.”

  “Mm. An excellent idea. Give me those twenty-four hours. I’ll come up with a fail-proof plan,” Guy repeated.

  “Every hour we delay makes it more dangerous,” Diprose said, stalking up and down. “Whitehall will get wind of it.”

  “Still, we can’t go off half-cocked.” Forney folded his arms. “Baron, you have your twenty-four hours. Once the new plan is formulated, we will act.”

  As they moved toward the door, it opened. A burly man entered with a young lad struggling in his arms. “See what I found lurking outside.”

  Forney glared. “A stable boy, Smith?”

  Smith eyed the boy’s chest. “This boy has a fine pair of cat’s heads!” He whipped the lad’s hat off, and red locks fell to cover her shoulders.

  Forney’s mouth dropped open. “Qui est-elle?”

  Guy groaned inwardly as he met Hetty’s frightened gaze.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Smith’s hands cut painfully into Hetty’s arms. She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut when Guy’s warning gaze locked with hers. An overdressed Frenchman stalked before her, his arms behind his back. “Dressed as a stable boy? What game are you playing, mademoiselle?”

  Hetty raised her chin, praying it didn’t wobble and struggled to shake herself loose from Smith’s grip. “I followed my betrothed here. I believe he planned to betray me with another woman.”

  “Your betrothed?” The Frenchman’s heavy brow cleared. “You are the baron’s fiancée?”

  “I am. Even if he does not wish to admit it.” She cast Guy an indignant glance.

  Guy stepped forward. “The lady is correct, Forney. I am rendered almost silent with rage, Miss Cavendish. To follow me! Mon dieu! And dressed like that. Go home immediately!”

  Whatever was occurring here, Hetty’s presence would not help Guy. Strathairn was the man to assist him. She was quite happy to leave if only Smith’s ham-like hands would release her. She gazed down at her filthy stockinged feet, numb with damp and cold. Where were her shoes? That ruffian had pulled her right out of them. From the first she hadn’t wanted to take part in this escapade. And now, if she and Guy escaped with their lives, she doubted he would ever speak to her again.

  But first, they must find some way out of this dire situation.

  “Please fetch my shoes, my good man,” she said, determined they didn’t see how afraid she was. “As Lord Fortescue merely attends to a matter of business, and not a lady, I’ll be on my way.”

  The men laughed.

  “Will you, mademoiselle?” Forney asked, his gaze unsettling her.

  “Miss Cavendish is a little foolish, gentlemen,” Guy said. “You know how women are. They lack sense.” He laughed. “She won’t be of any bother to us.”


  Hetty stamped her foot then grimaced. “Well, really, Lord Fortescue! What a bore you’ve become, to be sure.” She twisted around causing Smith to drop his hands. “My shoes, if you please.”

  “Oui, get the lady’s shoes, Smith,” Forney said. “We don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  Smith nodded and left the room.

  “It might be prudent to detain Miss Cavendish until our work is done,” Delany said. “Don’t you agree, Baron?”

  “I must insist on a private word with my fiancée. This is a delicate matter; her father is a wealthy man with powerful friends. I should prefer not to annoy him. I’m sure you understand.”

  Delany took a step closer to Guy. “While I understand your reason behind this betrothal, Baron, in the circumstances, I cannot keep your secret. You must understand.”

  Guy turned to stare at him. “Pardon?”

  “Your marriage. Your French bride, the baroness.”

  “You have a… wife?” Hetty’s knees went from under her. The burly fellow reappeared with her smelly shoes in his beefy hands. He grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her onto a chair. Was this Vincent’s wife they spoke of? But he was not Baron Fortescue. Surely Guy hadn’t married and failed to tell her? What was he doing here with these bad men? Was he working for Strathairn, or was the earl after him? No! Genevieve would have told her, and she could never believe such a thing of Guy. She just wished she understood. Sagging with exhaustion, she blinked away the tears threatening to blind her. She attempted to put the shoes on, but the stuffing in the toes had gone, and they fell off again.

  “Damn you, Delany.” Guy glared at him. “I planned to make a haven for myself in England, where I can operate without fear of discovery.”

  “I’m sorry, Baron,” Delany drawled. “You should take better care of your women. Eugène, Baroness Fortescue, would be outraged.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “You should fear a knife in your back if you ever return to France.”

  Guy shrugged. “Encore Je suis embarrassé.”

  When Guy refused to look at her, Hetty leapt up from the chair. “I embarrass you? I demand you take me home.” She swallowed a sob. “I wish never to set eyes on you again.”

  “If you intend to retain your cover, Baron, I suggest we deal with Miss Cavendish,” Forney said coolly. “We are conveniently placed close to the river. Let the fishes remove the thorn in your side.”

  Horrified, Hetty gasped.

  “That would be madness, Forney.” Guy stepped closer to her. “You’ll have Bow Street down upon us in a minute. Her father is a friend of the Prince of Wales. The search would be directed at me.”

  “Close to the Regent, eh?” Forney studied Hetty and nodded.

  “But this girl has come here alone, dressed as the lowest of servants. Her father would have no notion of her direction,” Delany argued.

  “If you take such action, you can count me out of any further plans,” Guy said.

  “I believe you are fond of the girl,” Delany said, with an unsympathetic grin.

  Guy cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a crime, Delany?”

  “It is if it weakens you, as I see it has.”

  Guy’s hands curled into fists. He took a step toward the man he’d called Delaney. “I should like a chance to show you how weak I am.”

  Delany stared. He snatched up a candle from the table and thrust it close to Guy’s face. “Where is your scar, Baron?”

  “What scar?” Forney and the other men crowded around.

  “The baron had a scar on his cheek. It went from below the eye almost to the chin,” Delany said. “This man is an imposter.”

  “Sacré bleu!” Forney cried. “Could this be true?”

  “Delany lies. I never had such a scar,” Guy said. “I believe he is the charlatan here.”

  “The baron I met had a scar.” Delany appealed to the men in the room. “He suffered the wound fighting alongside Napoleon. I swear it!”

  Forney stood, his gaze fixed on Guy.

  “Kill the carroty-patted harridan. Kill them both I say,” the tall thin Englishman said, his clipped voice chillingly unemotional, his eyes like pale blue ice.

  “My hair isn’t red,” Hetty whispered. What had she done? Oh, what had she done!

  “Ridiculous! Who else might he be if not the baron we have urgent need of?” Forney said. “He has already uncovered a serious fault in our plan.”

  “I am the man Napoleon called La Renard!” Guy strode around the room looking every inch a dangerous spy. “Why do you doubt it?”

  The tall Englishman nodded. “The Fox! The baron must be he. How would he know this otherwise?”

  Delany scowled. “I tell you he had a scar.”

  “I need time to think,” Forney said. “To be sure.”

  Delany pointed at Hetty. “Let him prove his loyalty. The woman must die tonight.”

  “I need to prove nothing,” Guy said coldly. “But I can withdraw my support to your plans. See how well you do without me.”

  “Shall we put it to the vote?” Delany asked.

  “Oui.” Forney handed the big man a pistol. “Watch them both, Smith.”

  The men retired to the end of the room and spoke in low voices.

  Guy’s arm stole around her. She straightened her back, desperate not to give in to the urge to collapse against him. “When I tell you, run for the door,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Get away from her.” Smith shoved the pistol into Guy’s side.

  Hetty tried to quell her shaking. She did not want to leave him, French wife or no. But knew she must. Her presence here only complicated it for Guy.

  The men began to argue in loud voices, their ranks split by indecision. Forney asked for time to prove Delany’s theory. “If truth be told, the baron is more important than you, Delany,” the other, shorter Englishman said in a threatening tone.

  Delany cursed and leapt at him.

  “Stop this at once,” Forney cried as the men struggled to keep the two apart. “We must keep cool heads.”

  Smith became distracted by the fight at the end of the room, and his pistol wavered.

  “Run, Hetty,” Guy hissed. He leaped forward and administered a lightning kick to the gun in Smith’s hand. It clattered away over the floor.

  Hetty stumbled to the door, leaving her shoes behind. She hauled it open. It banged behind her as she ran blindly into the dark, straight into the solid body of another ruffian.

  A pistol shot echoed behind her. “Guy!” she cried with a sob. Strong hands picked her up and shoved her aside as several men rushed past her, kicking down the door.

  “Get right away from here Miss Cavendish!” There was a lethal note in Strathairn’s quiet voice.

  Hetty ran, stubbing her toe, her hand against the rough wall as she felt her way toward the glow of carriage lanterns at the top of the lane.

  The hackney was empty, the horse eating from a nose bag.

  “Pete?” she rasped, staring around her.

  Pete emerged from behind the vehicle, adjusting his breeches. “I’m mighty glad to see you, miss.” He paused and eyed her askance. “Although I don’t much want those feet of yours on me floor, that I don’t.”

  She looked down. Something revolting had attached itself to her stocking. “I’m frightened. I think my fiancé has been shot.” She yanked the wretched stockings off.

  “Best you climb inside, miss.” Pete exhibited admirable calm as he took her arm and gently coaxed her toward the step. “You look done in, you do.”

  She climbed into the carriage and sagged against the squabs, her gaze fixed on the halo of light radiating from the open warehouse door.

  “After you’d gone, I planned to go in search of the runners, miss,” Pete explained. “But I needn’t have. There was a dozen of ’em right here.”

  “Thank you, Pete. You’re a good man,” Hetty said with a gulp. “The Prince of Wales should give you a medal.”

  Pete grinned. “Zounds!”

>   Like a ghost, a stranger emerged from the darkness. “Take the lady home, jarvie.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  “But I need to wait.” Hetty pleaded. “Guy—”

  “Someone will send word.” The darkness swallowed him up again.

  “Walk on.” Pete slapped the reins and moved the horse on as she searched the dark for a glimpse of Guy. Shadows danced in the candlelight spilling over the road from the open warehouse door, the shapes impossible to discern.

  “You’d best tell me where you live, miss,” Pete called.

  Hetty shuddered and sucked in air. “King Street, Mayfair, thank you, Pete.” As they entered Fleet Street, the clocks chimed one. Would her father wait up for her? Her chest grew so tight she found it difficult to breathe.

  “Glad to see you ’ome safe, miss,” Pete said after he’d pulled up his horse in King Street.

  Hetty piled coins into his hand. “I wish I had more money to give you, Pete. I am so grateful to you for your help tonight.”

  “Can’t says I know what all that was about,” Pete said, removing his cap and rubbing his head. “But all’s well that ends that way.”

  But was it? Was Guy safe and well?

  Candlelight shone out from the downstairs windows as she entered the gate. The door was unlocked, so she slipped inside, hoping to scurry upstairs unseen.

  Her father stalked into the hall. His mouth dropped open, and his ears reddened. “Horatia!” he bellowed. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you dressed this way?”

  A hysterical giggle rose to block her throat. “Might we talk in the parlor, Papa?” She wished she could shed the smelly clothes but knew he would not be inclined to wait for her to do so.

  He clamped his lips into a thin line. “The servants have retired, and you shall not walk on the parlor carpet. Come to my bedchamber.”