A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  “Do you have any ale?”

  Vincent nodded and went into the next room. He returned with a tankard. As he put it down on the table, Guy jumped up. He threw the plate of food at Vincent’s head.

  Startled, Vincent put his hand to his head dropping the pistol, and Guy rushed him. He punched his brother’s solar plexus and met hard muscle, bruising his knuckles. Vincent fell to his knees and groped for the pistol, which had skidded under the table.

  Guy kicked Vincent’s rear end and knocked him flat to the floor.

  “Bastard!” Vincent cried, scrabbling for the gun. He was between Guy and the weapon and would reach it first.

  Guy turned and bolted through the door into another large storeroom. Vincent had made a bed for himself there. Through another door, beyond it, he found himself in a dim rock-walled tunnel where only one candle flickered in a wall sconce. He fled down it. When the tunnel branched into two, he took the right fork. Around a corner, he skidded to a halt at a dead end. This didn’t make sense, it must lead somewhere. If this lead into the room below the solar, where was the door? Cursing at finding himself cornered, Guy ran his hands feverishly over the wall as he searched for any protrusion. There was no time to retrace his steps to the left fork which would surely lead him to the garden. Somewhere behind him came the rumble of his brother’s untroubled laughter. Vincent was confident he had him. “You can’t escape, Guy,” he called. “Surrender. Don’t make me shoot you. I don’t wish to carry a dead weight all the way to the curricle again. But I will if I have to.”

  Gasping, Guy’s searching fingers alighted on a button-like protuberance. He hit it hard. A click sounded, and the door swung open. He heard Vincent curse. The passage brightened. Vincent had snatched up a candle and was coming fast.

  With a grim smile, Guy leapt through and put his shoulder to the door, closing it behind him. He swung around in the pitch dark. Which way out? He trailed his hand along the wall, searching for a doorway. From the shape of the room, he became confident it was the long chamber under the solar. He paused to orient himself then stumbled forward to where he thought the steps leading up to the kitchens and solar were, and fell onto them, barking his shins. Gaining his feet, he took the stairs two at a time. His heart hammered, and his breath came in large gasps. He cursed that his strength was deserting him.

  In the main house, he passed the solar, a tired dusty room where the family gathered and not used for a very long time. He could hear the clatter of plates and the chatter of the servants in the kitchen. Not wishing to endanger them, he ran to the next flight of stairs. On reaching the upper corridor, he made his way to the east wing. The butler walked towards him along the passage.

  Hammond stopped dead. His cool persona dropped away, as his mouth dropped open and shut again.

  “Come with me, Hammond!” Guy pushed the astonished man backwards and ran towards his chamber.

  Performing a swift about-turn, Hammond huffed behind him as they raced through the house. On reaching his chamber, Guy took out his pistols and loaded one, expecting Vincent to burst through the door at any moment.

  “M-my l-lord,” Hammond stammered, his cheeks crimson.

  “My twin brother is here in the house. He is armed and extremely dangerous.”

  “Your brother, my lord?” Hammond’s eyes widened with bewilderment. Guy couldn’t blame him, but he had no time to explain further.

  With both guns loaded, Guy opened the door and peered into the corridor, surprised to find no sign of Vincent. “Take care. He intends to kill me. Keep the servants out of the way and send a footman for the magistrate.”

  “Right, my lord.” Hammond scurried away towards the servants’ stairs.

  With a firm grip on the pistol, Guy edged along the corridor, listening for any movement.

  A servant girl emerged from a chamber. She squeaked at the sight of him in his dirty clothes and bloodied hair.

  “Go and find Hammond.” He jerked his head back, indicating the way he’d come. She rushed away.

  When Guy reached the main staircase, he found Vincent in the hall below, and saw the reason he had not been right on Guy’s tail. He looked up at Guy his lips stretched in a manic grin, blood dripping from his chin. He had freshened the wound on his face with the knife he held in his left hand. “Foolish of you, Guy. You should have run.”

  Vincent raised his pistol.

  “Your plan to kill me has failed, Vincent. The servants know.”

  “I’ll make them believe I’ve killed the imposter.”

  Guy leaned his shoulder against a carved timber post, which offered little protection. “Shall we both die here?”

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  Guy was inclined to agree with him. He had no wish to have his brother’s blood on his hands.

  The explosion echoed hollowly around the huge hall. Chips of wood flew off the pillar and peppered Guy as he leapt back.

  Vincent climbed the stairs, slightly off balance as he reloaded his pistol.

  “I have a gun, Vincent.”

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  Guy took his chance and rushed him. He leapt onto Vincent, and they both tumbled down the stairs, landing hard at the bottom.

  Bruised and winded, Guy retrieved his pistol and approached Vincent, where he lay crumpled and still.

  Hammond and the rest of the staff appeared from different parts of the house as Guy crouched to examine him. He took his brother by the shoulders and called his name. Vincent’s head lolled, all the strength and fierce determination gone from his body. Guy lost his breath, and his throat closed. “The fall broke his neck,” he said, his voice an anguished growl.

  “He looks so like you, my lord,” Hammond said in a hushed tone.

  Sadness engulfed Guy like a dark shroud. He sat on the step with his head in his hands.

  Two of the maids began to wail and were ushered away by a footman.

  “Did you send for the magistrate, Hammond?” Guy asked, lifting his head.

  “I did, my lord, he should be here soon.” Hammond opened the front door.

  A horse galloped up the gravel drive.

  The rider dismounted and ran up the steps.

  Guy rose to his feet. “John!”

  “So you are here.” Strathairn walked into the room. “What has happened?”

  Strathairn stared down at Vincent. He lay on his back, the intensity in his blue eyes dimmed. “Your twin.”

  “Oui. My brother, Vincent. We fought and fell down the stairs. His neck is broken.”

  John nodded. “See to Vincent’s body first. We’ll discuss how to deal with the situation, later.” He knelt beside Vincent and drew a tiepin from his cravat. It was of a bronze bird its wings outstretched.

  “What are you doing?” Guy asked with a gasp.

  “We might have need of this.” John handed the tiepin to him. “An eagle. A Napoleonic symbol. Like those that sat at atop regimental flag poles.”

  “To lose an eagle would bring shame to a fighting unit,” Guy said. “Vincent told me he was very close to Napoleon.” Hating to have the thing in his hands, he gave it back to John and turned to the butler. “Hammond, get two footmen to move my brother into one of the bedchambers. Wait for me in the salon, John.”

  Guy went to oversee the laying out of his brother. He gazed down at the face he’d longed to see again since he was ten years old. He sat for a moment in the still room staring at nothing, his mind grappling with the horror. When he finally left the room and returned to John he was barely aware that his body ached for the pain in his heart was so intense it almost brought him to his knees. He walked to the drinks table. “Whiskey, John?”

  Guy sloshed amber liquid into two tumblers and handed one to John. He sat and took a large swallow, feeling the warmth hit his cold insides. It failed to remove the hollow pain and sense of loss. He doubted anything ever would.

  “So we have the spy Whitehall has been looking for,” John said.

  Guy nodded,
his shoulders slumped.

  “He was a murderer. I believe he would have killed you, Guy.”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  “The authorities will have to be informed.”

  “The government?”

  John shook his head. “Lord Parnham is handling it, as it’s seen as a military matter. Lord Castlereagh doesn’t wish to involve the government in these matters.”

  “I see.”

  “But Parnham will be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed? I should think he would be relieved.”

  “Vincent was to lead us to the rat’s nest.”

  “You have found nothing from following the count?”

  “He’s been keeping close council. Vincent would have drawn him out. He approached you believing you to be Vincent. He must have been surprised at your reaction.”

  Guy gingerly touched his head. “Perhaps.”

  A curricle ratted its way up the drive.

  “See to that wound while I attend to the magistrate. We’ll need him to officially view the body. After that, we must return to London.”

  Guy searched his friend’s sharp blue-grey eyes. He was bone tired and didn’t have the strength to argue. “As you wish. I won’t leave until Vincent is decently buried in the family crypt here in Digswell, though.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Guy sighed. “What must Horatia be thinking?”

  “I visited Miss Cavendish. She is concerned, naturally.”

  “Tiens.” Guy rested his head in his hands. It had taken quite a battering of late. “I must get word to her.”

  “Sorry, Parnham expects us at Whitehall,” John said. “Send a note to put Miss Cavendish’s mind at rest. But say no more.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Horatia stalked around the house until she earned a rebuke from her aunt. She had barely slept after the trip to Hampstead. Calling at Berkley Square, she and the duchess were told Lord Strathairn had not returned. They could do nothing but go home and wait. Horatia had never found waiting easy, and now it was a torment.

  Fanny sent a note. She planned to call at two o’clock. Horatia groaned. “Oh not now. I can’t see her now!”

  She hadn’t seen Fanny since she’d come to London. She guessed that Fanny’s season had been carefully orchestrated by her mother. She was to be presented at court and most likely had attended Almacks. Fanny would be bubbling over with news. Horatia only wished she was in a fit enough state to enjoy hearing about it.

  As the clock struck two, Fanny swept in, dressed in a very smart half-dress of striped blue sarcenet, richly trimmed around the hem. She looked plumper and had developed quite a confident air. Pleased to see her looking so at home in her new surroundings, Horatia went forward to hug her as Lady Kemble followed her in, the color of her Turkey-red gown and puce turban clashing with Fanny’s.

  “Almacks is quite the thing,” Fanny said, ignoring her mother’s frown as she selected another tart from the cake stand. “You need a voucher to attend the dances.” She giggled. “I danced with so many different partners I can’t remember their faces let alone their names.”

  “No one was of particular interest to you?” Horatia commented as her aunt refilled Lady Kemble’s cup and added a dash of milk.

  Lady Kemble took the flowery china cup and saucer with a nod in Aunt Emily’s direction. “I believe Viscount Rothwell was enamored of Fanny. As were several other men.”

  Fanny wrinkled her nose. “Rothwell is too old.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Kemble said. “He’s a mere six and thirty and has a large estate in Dorset.”

  “He seems old.” A mulish expression tugged Fanny’s mouth down at the corners. “I didn’t care for him.” She replaced her cup in its saucer. “I prefer Mr. Bonneville.”

  “Bonneville is known to be in dun territory and is in the market for a rich wife. Your dowry will not please him, Fanny. He merely toys with you.”

  “I’ve met Mr. Bonneville,” Horatia said. “He has big, sorrowful brown eyes like a puppy I once had.”

  Fanny gave a trill of laughter. “That’s him precisely! Such a dear face.”

  Lady Kemble turned her frown on Horatia. “You do look peaky, Miss Horatia. You must make sure you get your sleep. A young lady in search of a husband needs a good complexion.”

  Horatia cringed.

  “Horatia is a little tired. Her social life has been such a whirl.” Aunt Emily looked fondly at Horatia. “But, I’m glad to say, she is very fashionable.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Horatia strained her ears for any activity in the street outside.

  “Do you know if Lord Fortescue is in London, Horatia?” Fanny asked.

  “I’m not sure where he is at present,” Horatia said, careful to modulate her tone. She rubbed her bare finger. It distressed her, but she had decided to remove her ring earlier. News of her betrothal had not reached Fanny, and Horatia didn’t think it prudent to mention it now. She fought to maintain her composure, but her hand shook and her cup rattled in its saucer.

  “You’re very fidgety, Miss Horatia,” Lady Kemble said with a sharp-eyed stare. “I was surprised to learn your father allowed you to come to London.”

  “Is it so very surprising?” Aunt Emily’s eyes glittered. “My brother loves his daughter and wants the best for her.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Lady Kemble put down her cup and saucer. She rose from her seat. “We must go. We have many calls to make, and then Fanny needs to rest before the ball this evening.”

  Fanny gave Horatia a sympathetic look as she hugged her. “I do hope you are enjoying your time in London. We must get together for a coze soon.”

  Horatia returned the hug. “I’d like that, Fanny.”

  After they left, Aunt Emily breathed a sigh of relief. “Mrs. Kemble is a spiteful woman.”

  Horatia shrugged. “I don’t think she likes me.” It seemed unimportant now.

  “That’s because you’re prettier and more intelligent than her daughter,” Aunt Emily said with a fond smile.

  “Prettier than Fanny? Come now, Aunt.” Horatia kissed her cheek.

  “You have had little chance to shine. When you are a baroness, you will, my dear. See if I’m not right.”

  But I may never get that chance, Horatia thought. If Guy was all right, she’d accept whatever happened.

  Later that afternoon, a footman came to the door to deliver a letter. Horatia pounced on it. Seeing it was from Guy, heat flooded Horatia’s face.

  The note was appallingly brief. He was at Rosecroft Hall and would call on her when he returned to London. Exasperation fought with relief as she hurried upstairs to tell her aunt.

  The morning after Guy saw Vincent buried in the family crypt in the Digswell churchyard, he and John traveled to Whitechapel in Vincent’s curricle, with John’s horse tied behind.

  At the Horse Guards, Lord Parnham, a man in his fifties with thinning grey hair, put a plan to Guy. “You could lead us to those we seek.”

  “And just how could I do that?” Guy already had an inkling and dreaded the thought of what Parnham would suggest. Bruised and saddened, he just wanted to go home with Horatia at his side. Lord Parnham’s words broke into his thoughts.

  “Your brother adopted your name while working to free Napoleon. You can continue where he left off. No one will suspect you.”

  “But I don’t believe Vincent intended to join them. He wished only to take my place at Rosecroft Hall.”

  “They are not to know that,” Parnham said. “But it confirms the view that he has not been in contact with them.”

  “But I neither know any of these conspirators nor what they plot.” Guy held out his hands palms up. “This is madness! Vincent had a scar on his cheek. I would give myself away immediately.”

  Lord Parnham leaned his arms on his desk. “Forney has seen you without a scar. It’s unlikely the rest of them have ever met Vincent. And you are so like him if they have they wo
n’t immediately think of it. It will give us time. One of Lord Castlereagh’s lads got close enough to learn the secret code they go by.”

  “Couldn’t he learn more?” Guy asked with frustration.

  Parnham shook his head. “He got too confident and they grew suspicious. They slit his throat and threw him in the river. Never fear, this will work. If you call one wolf, you invite the pack. Once you have entered their midst, we will pounce.”

  “But they’ll know you’re on to them.”

  Parnham shook his head. “They haven’t been arrested, so they must think they’re safe.”

  Guy eyed him. “I’m not trained in espionage.”

  “We’ll help you with that.”

  Guy’s eyebrows shot up. “Qu’est-ce? Un cours intensif?”

  “Lord Strathairn will assist you with the finer details.”

  Guy had had enough of the violence that men do to one another. He huffed out a breath. He was spent. “I must see my fiancée. Miss Cavendish will be concerned.”

  Lord Parnham shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible until this is over.”

  Guy leapt from his chair. “Then I won’t do it.”

  “Sit, please, Baron.” Lord Parnham motioned him down again. “You can send word that you are ill.”

  Guy shook his head as visions of Horatia banging on Strathairn’s door swam into his head. “That wouldn’t keep Miss Cavendish away.”

  “I’m afraid my orders come from the Home Secretary, Viscount Sidmouth. I must insist,” Parnham said. “The future of England far outweighs the demands of Miss Cavendish.”

  “This is preposterous. You can’t insist.” Guy swung around to look at John. He shifted in his seat and wouldn’t meet Guy’s eyes.

  Parnham asked with a frown. “These saboteurs plan to strike here in London. Would you prefer to allow them to continue to work against England? Stirring the masses to riot and work against the Crown?”

  “I would not,” Guy said with heat. His father’s love of England was instilled in him. “Are these men French? What do they hope to gain by this?”

  “There are a few souls who still hold out hope that Napoleon will rise again,” Parnham said with a tight-lipped smile. “It must now be a very faint hope. But destabilizing England will aid them in their cause to free Napoleon. The present mood plays into their hands. There’s revolution in the air and some English gentlemen express the preference for England to revolt instead of – in their opinion – remaining enslaved. They hate Liverpool’s Tory government. They hate the regent and his reckless spending and intend to ferment trouble wherever they can. There are organized societies with the same aim.