A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  She swung her arm in a casual mannish gesture of farewell and rode on. Instead of the expected relief, she found herself saddened, as if she was saying goodbye forever to a friend. How odd. Lord Fortescue wasn’t a friend, and now would never be.

  Guy watched Simon disappear. He’d been off balance in the groom’s company but regretted seeing him go. What was wrong with him? He’d been unsettled the whole of last night and this morning, and he was damned if he knew why. Perhaps the head injury had more of an effect on him than he’d realized. It still ached a little. He walked up the steps and entered the paneled great hall. Dust had faded the fine woodwork, and the ceilings were stained with smoke. The damask drapes at the long windows were threadbare, almost in tatters.

  Guy tried to suppress his anger and disappointment as he pulled off his gloves and handed them, along with his coat and hat, to the butler. “Merci…” His brows rose in query.

  “Hammond, your lordship.”

  “Is Mr. Fennimore at home, Hammond?”

  “Yes, my lord. He is in the library.” Hammond snapped his fingers, and a footman led the way up the wide, carved oak staircase.

  Guy could have found the library by himself. He had discussed the house so often with his father he knew his way around as if he’d lived here.

  The footman scratched at a set of double doors, and a man’s faint voice answered.

  Guy walked in to find Fennimore in a green velvet chair by the fire, resting his foot on a fringed footstool. The room smelled musty. The green silk at the windows was faded. The bookshelves and the cedar furniture were thick with dust. Long windows looked down over the terraced Tudor rose-garden. Through the murky glass panes, he glimpsed woody roses grown out of shape. Mildewed statues wearing a mantle of snow rose like ghosts from the tall grass.

  “Bonjour, Eustace.” Guy walked over to shake his relative’s hand. Eustace’s plentiful ginger hair was streaked with white. He had an attractive cast to his face and must have been good looking in his youth, despite a receding chin. His faint smile failed to banish the bleakness in his eyes.

  “So, Guy, you have arrived at last.” When he failed to rise, Guy leaned down and shook his limp hand.

  “I expect you wondered what had happened to me.”

  “I did, my boy. I did.” Eustace nodded towards the window, where a watery sun broke through the clouds, turning the snow a luminous white. “I daresay the storm was fierce. You’ll need a good breakfast.”

  “Merci. I’m as hungry as a bear.” Guy watched him carefully. The man looked as if he suffered from ennui. Guy wondered if he had contracted a malaise. Simon might have been right. It seemed a logical reason for the estate to be in such a bad way.

  As if reading Guy’s mind, Eustace said, “I’m afraid I have a touch of the gout. Forgive me if I remain seated.”

  Guy nodded. “Je regrette.”

  Eustace waved a languid hand towards the damask chair opposite him.

  Guy declined and gestured to his clothes. “I need a bath and a change of clothes. I trust my trunk has arrived?”

  “Yes. A strange horse turned up at the stables during the night. Would that be yours?”

  “Oui. I’m glad my horse found shelter.” Guy frowned. “Did they bring in my portmanteau?”

  “No. There was nothing on the horse bar the saddle.”

  Guy groaned. “Then it is gone.”

  “I expect so.” Eustace dabbed at his mouth with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. He was far better dressed than the house, wearing an elaborately patterned banyan over a fine linen shirt and well-cut pantaloons. “I expect you’ve brought evidence you are who you say you are?”

  “It was in my portmanteau. Lost somewhere out there where the horse and I parted. I shall have to go and search for it.”

  Eustace eyed Guy’s wounded forehead. “You fell from your horse?”

  The man’s yawn behind his hand outraged him. “I was set upon by bandits. As I outrode them, I collided with a low branch and was knocked out. A man from the village came to my aid.”

  Eustace leaned forward in his chair. “You were lucky to find anyone on that road. Who was it?”

  “Simon Rawlings, a groom in the employ of Colonel Cavendish of Malforth Manor.”

  “You were lucky.” Eustace picked up a bell from the table next to him and rang it. “A servant will show you to your chamber. We have much to talk about. I’ll join you in the breakfast room after you’ve bathed.”

  Guy followed the footman to his bedchamber, noticing further evidence of neglect. He had been given one of the lesser suites in the east wing. Eustace had not felt the need to vacate the famous blue suite where royalty had once slept. It had been Guy’s father’s bedchamber and his grandfather’s before him. The room had not been cleaned for many a long year. Guy rang for a servant and gazed at his room’s dull paneling and faded yellow brocade. It appeared that Eustace resented him being here, despite the house remaining at his disposal if he wished to stay. Guy had made that clear in his missive, and he was more than little annoyed at the man’s casual attitude.

  Over breakfast, Eustace didn’t see fit to question where Guy had spent the night, so Guy didn’t offer the information.

  “I plan to leave for London when the season begins.” Eustace raised a tankard of ale to his lips.

  “This house will remain your home should you chose to live here,” Guy said, making sure Eustace understood.

  Eustace’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, but Parliament opens soon, although London’s a bit thin of society until spring when everyone returns to open their houses. The lease of your London house does not expire until the end of the year, as I informed you. Then it will take considerable time for the rooms to be made fit for your use.”

  “I saw enough of it to know I can’t take my bride there. I expect I shall sell it and buy a townhouse with a better address.”

  “You have chosen a bride?”

  “No. But I intend to begin looking for one.”

  “You’ll wish to do that in London. You’ll reside with me, of course.”

  “I am grateful for your kind offer, but I don’t plan to return to London for a while. There is much to do here,” Guy said with a careful glance at Eustace. “We could do with more servants and the house and grounds are in need of repair.”

  Eustace’s salt and pepper eyebrows snapped together. “I did my best.” His shoulders stiffened. “The whole country is in a bad way. There’s revolutionary talk in the air, and the servants prefer the large towns over the country. It has been very hard to find suitable staff.”

  “London appears to be filled with homeless soldiers and sailors, and the half-starved unemployed,” Guy agreed. “I wonder if I might find some suitable servants among them.”

  Eustace shook his head. “Untrained and unscrupulous men are worse than none.”

  “Then I shall write to a London employment service.”

  “The cost to keep an estate this size has become crippling in recent years.”

  It was Guy’s turn to frown. “What about the tenant farmers?”

  “England is in a very poor state after years of war,” Eustace reiterated. “There’s little money to be made on the land. Once you’ve recovered, I’ll instruct the office manager to show you the ledgers.”

  His nostrils pinched, Eustace rose and excused himself, leaving Guy to eat alone. He chewed on a piece of bacon. Things must change and fast. He beckoned to the lone footman standing against the wall in his threadbare livery.

  “Moody, isn’t it? What is the estate manager’s name?”

  “Mr. Ellis, my lord.”

  “Find him and inform him I shall expect him in the library with his books at eleven o’clock.”

  The footman bowed and left Guy to plan his day, despite a persistent headache. If the weather permitted, he would ride out and search for his portmanteau. He hoped to visit some of the tenant farmers. He needed more information before he accepted Eustace’s exc
uses. His relative had been given a very generous allowance for the upkeep of the estate. Throughout the years in exile, his father had found a way to send money.

  Guy threw down his napkin and rose. There was much to do here, and the quicker the workmen and gardeners began, the better. He must get on with his life. He hoped the local society would prove good company. He needed to learn more about English ways.

  The butler handed him his hat and gloves and assisted him into his coat. Guy walked out into fragile sunshine along the graveled lane to the stables. Perhaps his future wife was to be found here in the English countryside. He pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. The extraordinary happenings of the past few days troubled him, but when he tried to replay them in his mind, instead of the attack on his life, his mind returned to Simon. He gritted his teeth, which made his temple throb.

  “Zut!” he muttered, startling the groom who hurried to greet him.

  With a sinking heart, Horatia spied her father’s carriage standing in front of the house. She rode straight to the stables where Simon rushed out to greet her. “We’ve been very worried, Miss Horatia.” He helped her down. “The storm was so wild we couldn’t look for you until this morning. Joseph and I went out at dawn; we’ve just got back.”

  Horatia felt a stab of remorse. “I’m so sorry, Simon. Please thank Joseph. As you see The General and I are safe and sound. I had to spend the night in the old Fortescue hunting lodge when the weather turned nasty. How long has my father been home?”

  “His carriage has just arrived. I’m so relieved you’re here. I was wracking my brains for a way to tell him.”

  “Before you tend to the carriage horses, could you see to The General, please? He is very hungry.”

  “At once, Miss Horatia.” He led the horse away.

  At the relief on Simon’s face, prickles of shame climbed Horatia’s neck. She ran through the kitchen garden. Entering by the back door, she flew up the servants’ stairs and arrived at her bedchamber to hear her father’s voice in the hall below.

  “Are you there, Horatia? Where is that girl? Doesn’t she wish to greet her father?”

  Horatia rushed into her room and threw off the offending clothes, tucking them back into their hiding place in the clothespress. She glanced at her bed, which not been slept in. Sally would say nothing to give her away. Hastily buttoning her morning gown, she left the room. She hurried down the corridor, hearing her father’s purposeful tread on the stairs.

  “Why does no one know where my daughter is? I have news. Horatia?”

  She met him on the landing. “Here I am, Father. What’s amiss? Did you have a good trip?”

  “My trip was satisfactory. I’ve been home for fifteen minutes. Why did you not come to greet me? Have you been in your chamber all morning?” He sat his pince-nez on his nose to study her. Through them, his magnified grey eyes looked suspicious. “And I smell wood smoke! Have you had your fire lit again? I don’t like that unhealthy bloom in your cheeks.”

  “I was reading.”

  “Reading? I hope it’s not that fellow Byron’s poetry again. I’ve heard distressing rumors...oh well, never mind that. Why don’t you read Pope? Now’s there’s a poet. But I digress. We have been invited to dinner this Saturday evening!”

  “How nice, Father, where?”

  “Lady Kemble.” He beamed and tucked his thumbs into the plaid waistcoat that strained over his stomach. “I’m sure you’re as pleased as I am. She always puts on a magnificent dinner.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  He held up a finger. “Wait until I tell you all. Lady Kemble plans to invite Lord Fortescue to attend. The sixth baron, that is. At long last, he’s arriving from France to set his estates to rights.”

  Horatia chewed her bottom lip. “I see.”

  He rubbed his hands. “She plans to kill the fatted calf in his honour.”

  She followed him down the stairs. “I’m not sure if I’ll be well enough by Saturday. I think I must be coming down with a cold; my head aches.”

  “What? But you always wish for more society! Of course you have a headache, reading all morning in that over-heated chamber of yours. Come and have a cup of tea. I’ll tell Mrs. Bentwood to make you a tisane.”

  Short of being on her deathbed, Horatia realized her father would not take no for an answer. She sighed and followed him into the breakfast room.

  “Wear that gown the color of a new penny, which suits your lovely hair, just like your mother’s,” he added in a wistful tone. He eyed her askance. “I’m not sure I like the way you’re wearing it today.”

  Horatia put her hand to her hair. Drat. She’d forgotten she’d dragged it back to wear under the hat. It must look like a fright. “It was an experiment, Father, a new style in a magazine.”

  “Hmm. Don’t care for it. Well, there’s naught that can take away from your looks, Horatia, but you should embellish them, my dear.” He put his hand to the fringe of greying hair that clustered around his ears. “A few curls, you know, the way women do.”

  “Very well, Father. I’ll tell Sally to arrange it like that.” Horatia settled at the table. She buttered a piece of toast and forced it down with a sip of tea, almost choking at the thought of meeting the baron again, but she had to admit the prospect was exciting. He was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met, although, by his own admission, he had certainly been a rake like his father. He intended to find a suitable wife, but would that put an end to his rakish ways?

  He might break other women’s hearts, but he would not break hers. She had the advantage of being forewarned.

  Chapter Five

  Even though Horatia hoped Saturday would never come, it finally did. Her stomach churned every time she thought of the evening ahead.

  In the afternoon, Fanny Kemble arrived in her carriage and hurried up the steps in her fur-trimmed blue pelisse and bonnet, her hands thrust into a fur muff.

  Horatia rushed to greet her. She drew her into the parlor. “Fanny, how nice. I’ll ring for tea.”

  “I had to promise to be home by four; otherwise, Mother would not have let me come. But to tell you the news,” Fanny said. “We had a visit yesterday from Lord Fortescue.”

  Horatia’s stomach turned another revolution. “How did you find him?” She had never told Fanny about riding The General, aware that she would think her mad. And she thought it wise not to mention it now. Dear Fanny couldn’t always be relied on to keep a secret. Not that she would deliberately hurt a living soul, but her inherently honest nature made it impossible to keep things to herself.

  Horatia envied Fanny for being one of those domesticated women who would be content to discuss menus with the cook and immerse herself in the running of her household. She couldn’t wait to find a husband and since her emergence from the schoolroom had gazed at every single male under five and thirty with that aim. Fanny’s Aunt Caroline was to chaperone her for the London season, which was only weeks away.

  “Oh, Horatia, the baron is so handsome.” Fanny clasped her hands at her breast. “And so charming. What is it about the French accent? It makes even the most prosaic words quite romantic! The whole village talks of nothing but the prosperity his return will bring to the area. He told us of his plans to improve the house and grounds. I thought Rosecroft Hall was in need of refurbishment when last there.” She trilled with laughter. “Mama is beside herself!”

  “He sounds interesting,” Horatia said.

  “Interesting? Is that all you can say? Dear Horatia, if you won’t take your nose out of a book, I declare you’ll end up a spinster. And you are far too pretty for that.”

  “I don’t have a particular wish to wed,” Horatia said. “Husbands have such power over their wives. As a single woman I may inherit, buy, sell, and own my own property. If I marry, I lose my independence.”

  “Oh, pooh.” Fanny crinkled her pert nose. “No woman would pass up someone like the baron for spinsterhood. And why would you want to worry abo
ut all that when a husband takes care of it for you?”

  “And become devoted to the idle graces? Married to a nobleman, my life would consist of visits to the dressmaker, card playing, and formal visits. Not like my grandmother who lived a useful life and managed my grandfather’s estate after he died. Why, today, noblemen even have a way to prevent women having children once they have their heir and a spare.”

  Fanny’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Horatia. You put me to the blush. Where do you learn these things?”

  “I heard it discussed in India. On a hot night, after a long protracted dinner, all manner of things were considered.”

  Fanny giggled. “Your poetry won’t warm you at night. But I’m sure the baron would.”

  “He was born in France. Not all the villagers will put out the welcome mat for him.” Horatia knew she sounded like a mean-spirited old spinster. What was wrong with her?

  “He is an English nobleman by birth. And Mama has learned on good authority that, although property was seized in France by the government, he is still quite wealthy.”

  “I suppose he will be of benefit to the village,” Horatia said grudgingly.

  “Oh my, you are like a bear with a sore head today. What has happened?” Fanny didn’t wait for a reply before rushing on. “What are you wearing tonight? I have the most exquisite new gown. It has been made especially for my come-out, but Mama told me to wear it.”

  “Father wants me to wear the bronze with the figured lace.”

  “What? That old thing? Buttoned up to your chin? Finish your tea and let’s go up to your chamber. You must have something better.”

  “If I had something better, I would wear it.” Horatia wished her father’s economizing didn’t extend to her wardrobe.

  “We have hours to spare. Come on, let’s see.”

  In the bedchamber, Fanny pulled out all Horatia’s dresses and threw them on the bed. None were particularly alluring. There hadn’t been much call for glamour in this quiet place, but Horatia had a sudden urge for it.

  “All right, it’s the russet silk,” Fanny said with a moue of distaste. “We might lower the neckline. Do you have any spare lace?”