A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  She eyed a rat scuttling across the ground intent on its own pursuits. “You can leave me here, Pete.”

  “You shouldna go after ’em, miss,” Pete said. He removed his hat to scratch his head. “Don’t like the looks of this ’ere place at all. They might be ark pirates, being so close to the river as they are.”

  “What are ark pirates?”

  “Those who rob an’ plunder on the river, miss. Anyways, there’s something smoky goin’ on behind that door.”

  “If you’d rather leave, then please do so.” She reached into her pocket and drew out some coins for him, dismayed to see how much her hand shook.

  “Hold on a bit,” Pete said, deep furrows forming in his brow in the light from the lantern he held. “I didn’t say I’d leave, did I? You might be a bit dicked in the nob, but you ain’t short of pluck, and I ain’t about to cast you to the birds of a feather in that there place. “I’ll stay ’til your friends show up, that I will.”

  Relieved, she looked back at him. “Thank you, Pete. I’ll just go and see if I can hear what is being said.”

  “Then you be careful, miss.”

  “I will.”

  She picked her way down the lane towards the warehouse, edging around a stinking and rotten animal corpse on the ground. The mist thickened, and the night turned pitch black. She faltered, unable to see the way. Distant sounds reached her, echoing through the fog. Was it a carriage? She stood still, unsure whether or not to return to the hackney, if the noise wasn’t the sound of Pete leaving. Ahead, a glow of light shone around an ill-fitting door. She crept forward and placed her eye to the crack of the warehouse door but could only make out blurred movement in the flickering candlelight and a low hum of voices within.

  Suddenly, an arm stole around her waist and pulled her off her feet. A big hand covered her mouth and nose, clamping down on her shriek of protest.

  Guy was convinced they had lost Strathairn when he and Forney left by the hotel’s rear door. He looked around at the dozen men who stood to greet him in the bare candlelit warehouse. They had been sitting around a table drinking brandy. Heavy curved wooden ribs marched across the ceiling like the inside of a whale’s belly. An anchor propped against a wall where fishing nets were piled and the smell of rotten fish lingered in the air.

  “Please take off your coat, baron,” Forney said, hanging his on a peg near the door.

  Guy did the same ruing the fact that his new gun was in the pocket. He fought to appear calm as he greeted each man around the table. So far, none had asked awkward questions. Whenever a man eyed him too closely, however, saliva dried in his mouth and his heart banged against his ribs. He felt naked, so poorly prepared was he for this dangerous gamble. One question could strip him bare.

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

  Delany leaned forward, a deferential light in his dark eyes. “Baron, it’s good to see you again. I am sure you must recall when 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 remarkable planning,” Delany said.

  Glad that the light was dim, Guy turned slightly to hide the side of his face that lacked the scar that had marked Vincent’s.

  “We are eager for you to help us with this new plan, Baron.”

  “And I am eager to do so.”

  Forney handed him a glass of golden liquid. “Raise your glasses, gentlemen. We toast our success.”

  Guy drank the French brandy, welcoming the burn in his throat slicing through his chilled body.

  “I’ve thought long and hard about where we strike and when,” Forney said. “We must learn from the past like the failed Gunpowder plot to assassinate King James by blowing up the House of Lords during the State Opening of Parliament. If Guy Fawkes had been successful, it would have killed the King his family, and most of the aristocracy.” He rubbed at the deep lines 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.

  “Then there’s the successful assassination of Spencer Perceval, shot and killed in the lobby of the House of Commons.”

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

  A ripple of amusement passed through the room.

  “Which is why we won’t,” Forney continued. “But we shall use this successful assassination as the outline for our plan.” 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 moved closer to the table where there were detailed diagrams of a possible assassination plot, drawn on sheets of bond. They 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?” he asked.

  “Princess Charlotte,” Forney said.

  “The princess? Mais Pourquoi?” Guy suppressed a shudder. They were indeed mad, and mad men were very dangerous, for they were fanatical and 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 people see her as a sign of hope to the people, a contrast to her unpopular father and her mad grandfather. Her death will destabilize the prince regent, who is already unstable. Recently married, the princess is popular. The people will be thrown into deep grief.”

  Guy grappled to keep the look of horror from registering on his face. He studied the plan and shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  “We will strike when she goes to church. It is the best time.” Forney’s eyebrows shot up. “Why not?’

  “You must know that Napoleon looks to Princess Charlotte as a hope for his release. She is sympathetic about his exile because of her distress for her mother, so badly treated by England. Such an act would put the authorities on the alert, which won’t help our cause to free Napoleon. We can do better. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll come up with an alternative.”

  “That’s the genius of it,” Forney said. “They won’t look to Napoleonic sympathizers when searching for the culprit.”

  Guy’s fingers itched to punch the foolish man in the eye. “You would make Napoleon 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. “A better choice would be the regent.”

  “That was recently attempted. The regent’s carriage windows were broken,” the shorter Englishman said. “A neat hole like a bullet hole they say. Lord Liverpool’s government has reacted with force. The Habeas Corpus Act has been suspended, and anybody under suspicion can be thrown into gaol and kept there.”

  The majority in the room dismissed this idea. Guy let out his breath, only to stiffen when Forney said, “No sense in biting off our nose as the English say. I have a preference for Lord Bathurst, Secretary for War and the Colonies.”

  “Give me those twenty-four hours to think of a 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 twenty-four hours. Once the new plan is formulated, we must act.”

  As they moved towards the door, it opened. A burly man entered with a young lad struggling in h
is arms. “Look what I found lurking outside.”

  Forney glared. “A stableboy, Smith?”

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

  Forney’s mouth dropped open. “Quoi?”

  Guy groaned inwardly as he met Horatia’s wild gaze.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Horatia opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut when Guy’s fierce gaze locked with hers.

  “Who the devil are you?” A swarthy Frenchman pushed his way through the men crowding around her.

  Horatia raised her chin, praying it didn’t wobble. She tried to shake herself loose from the man who held her arm. Taken by surprise, his fingers slackened their grasp, and he released her. “I followed my betrothed. I believed he planned to betray me with another woman.”

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

  “Yes. Even though he does not want to announce our betrothal.” She cast Guy an indignant look.

  Guy stepped forward. “The lady is correct, Forney. I am silent with rage, Miss Cavendish. To follow me! Mon dieu! And dressed so appallingly.”

  Horatia looked down at her filthy stockinged feet, suddenly aware of the 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. Her stomach knotted. Determined that they didn’t see how afraid she was, she said, “Please fetch my shoes, my good man. As Lord Fortescue merely attends to a matter of business, I’ll be on my way.”

  The men laughed. “Will you, miss?” Forney cocked his head.

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

  Horatia stamped her foot then grimaced. “Well, really, Lord Fortescue! What a bore you’ve become, to be sure.” She swiveled to face the man behind her. “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?”

  Guy raised his arms palms up and shrugged. “Je suis embarrassé! I must insist on a private word with my fiancée. This is a matter of the utmost delicacy; I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Delany took a step closer to Guy. “I can’t imagine what your reasons are behind this betrothal, Baron. But in the circumstances, I cannot keep your secret. You must understand.”

  Guy turned to stare at him. “Quoi?”

  “Your marriage. Your French bride.”

  “You have a… wife?” Horatia’s knees went from under her. The burly fellow reappeared, with her odiferous shoes in his beefy hands. He grabbed her by the elbow and pushed her onto the chair. Was this Vincent’s wife they spoke of? Or could it really be true that Guy had married? She sagged with exhaustion and blinked away the tears, which threatened 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 cursed. “I planned to make a safe 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 that is, would be outraged.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “You should fear a knife in your back if you ever return to France.”

  Guy glared at him. “If she learns of it.”

  Guy refused to look at her, so Horatia leapt from the chair. “I want to go 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, Horatia gasped.

  “That would be madness, Forney.” Guy moved closer to her. “You’ll have Bow Street down upon us in a minute. Her father is a wealthy man with excellent connections. The search would be directed at me.”

  “Wealthy, eh?” Forney studied Horatia 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 raised a brow. “Is that a crime?”

  “It is if it weakens you.”

  Guy’s hands curled into fists, and he took a step forward. “Would you like me 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 a wound fighting alongside Napoleon. I swear it!”

  Forney stood silent.

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

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

  “Ridiculous! Who else could he be, if not the baron we have 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 the aristocrat. “Why do you doubt it?”

  “The Fox! It must be he. How would he know this otherwise?” the tall Englishman said.

  “I tell you he had a scar,” Delany said.

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

  Delany pointed at Horatia. “Well, the woman must die tonight.”

  “Non!” Guy yelled.

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

  “Très bien.” 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.

  All her instincts urged her not to leave him, French wife or no. But her presence made him vulnerable.

  The men began to argue in loud voices, their ranks split by indecision. Forney asked for time to make sure Delany was right. “If truth be told, the baron is more important than you, Delany,” the shorter Englishman said in an aggressive 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, Horatia,” Guy hissed. He leapt forward and administered a lightning kick to the gun in Smith’s hand. It clattered to the floor.

  Horatia stumbled to the door and whipped it open. It banged behind her as she ran blindly into the dark, straight into the solid shape of another ruffian.

  A pistol shot echoed behind her. “Guy!” she cried with a sob. Strong hands picked he
r 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.

  Horatia stumbled forward 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 its way through a pile of straw.

  “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 sock. “I think those bad men shot Guy.” She hesitated, unsure what to do next, and hopped about on the rough damp ground as she pulled her stockings off.

  “Best you climb inside, miss.” Pete exhibited admirable calm as he took her arm and gently coaxed her towards 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,” Horatia said with a gulp. “Lord Strathairn should give you a medal.”

  “Zounds!” Pete grinned.

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

  “Right you are, sir.”

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

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

  “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 were impossible to discern.

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

  Horatia 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.