To Bed the Baron
Girls Who Dare, Book 9
By Emma V. Leech
Published by Emma V. Leech.
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2020
Cover Art: Victoria Cooper
ASIN No.: B082MQRLX4
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.
Table of Contents
Members of the Peculiar Ladies’ Book Club
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
To Ride with the Knight
Want more Emma?
About Me!
Other Works by Emma V. Leech
Audio Books!
The Rogue
Dying for a Duke
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Acknowledgements
Members of the Peculiar Ladies’ Book Club
Prunella Adolphus, Duchess of Bedwin – first peculiar lady and secretly Miss Terry, author of The Dark History of a Damned Duke.
Mrs Alice Hunt (née Dowding)–Not as shy as she once was. Recently married to Matilda’s brother, the notorious Nathanial Hunt, owner of Hunter’s, the exclusive gambling club.
Lady Aashini Cavendish (Lucia de Feria) – a beauty. A foreigner. Recently happily, and scandalously, married to Silas Anson, Viscount Cavendish.
Mrs Kitty Baxter (née Connolly) – quiet and watchful, until she isn’t. Recently eloped to marry childhood sweetheart, Mr Luke Baxter.
Lady Harriet St Clair (née Stanhope) Countess of St Clair – serious, studious, intelligent. Prim. Wearer of spectacles. Finally married to the Earl of St Clair.
Bonnie Cadogan – (née Campbell) still too outspoken and forever in a scrape alongside her husband, Jerome Cadogan.
Ruth Anderson– (née Stone) heiress and daughter of a wealthy merchant living peacefully in Scotland after having tamed a wild Highlander.
Minerva de Beauvoir (née Butler) - Prue’s cousin. Clever and resourceful, madly in love with her brilliant husband.
Jemima Fernside – pretty and penniless.
Lady Helena Adolphus – vivacious, managing, unexpected.
Matilda Hunt – blonde and lovely and ruined in a scandal that was none of her making.
Chapter 1
Dearest Bonnie,
I am in such a lather I cannot tell you. Minerva came home today in a flurry and I am worried out of my wits. She was seen at Mr de Beauvoir’s house by Mrs Tate, of all women! She swears that de Beauvoir has silenced her for now and, praise be, he has told Minerva he will see my brother tonight to ask for her hand in marriage. The problem is, she does not seem pleased about it. She won’t talk to me and there is nothing I can do. I cannot beg Robert to accept the proposal until after it happens, for she has sworn me to secrecy, and I must go to a stupid musicale this evening, and you know how I detest keeping still for any length of time. I shall spend the entire evening sat upon thorns in a misery of anxiety. I only pray there will be a happy resolution by the time I get home.
―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Adolphus to Mrs Bonnie Cadogan.
25th January 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
The cottage was everything Jemima had dreamed of, but far more spacious than she had been expecting. When first she’d seen it, the thatched roof had been in shocking disrepair, the whitewashed walls were flaking, and the woodwork was in a sorry state. Early this morning, she had left Matilda’s comfortable town house full of apprehension, but now her heart swelled at the sight of her pretty new home. It had been years since she’d lived in anything but sparsely furnished rented rooms. Of late, those rooms had been damp and dingy and so cold in the winter that it was a wonder her poor aunt hadn’t succumbed sooner than she had. In comparison, this was a dream come true. The thick new thatch settled heavily like a cosy hat upon half-timbered walls of brick and freshly painted lime mortar. Some hardworking soul had brought the tangle of weeds and dead briar that had been the garden back into meticulous order, and the neatly pruned limbs of rose bushes were visible, stark and vulnerable on such a freezing afternoon. Box hedges bordered the front, meeting at the gate and cut with military precision, while the handkerchief-sized lawn on each side of the path perfectly trimmed.
“He’s made a fine job of it,” Mrs Attwood remarked with approval.
Jemima turned to regard her companion. She still didn’t know quite what to make of Mrs Attwood. Originally from Yorkshire, she was a woman in her early fifties, with a good figure. She was elegantly dressed in a dark pink velvet carriage dress with ebony buttons, and matching bonnet with stylish black and pink ribbons. It was a remarkably frivolous outfit for a woman Jemima thought rather intimidating. Her hair a rich mahogany, though shot through with white, was still thick and lustrous. A handsome woman rather than beautiful, her dark eyes missed nothing, and she had a brisk, no-nonsense manner, which was daunting to one who’d been brought up by her fragile maiden aunt. Though Jemima could not complain that Mrs Attwood had been anything but respectful to her, she was plainly spoken and had put Jemima to the blush several times already. This was the first time she’d ever referred directly to the fact that Lord Rothborn was paying Jemima for her company, however. Or that he was responsible for her new home, all the work that had been done to it, and the entirety of the contents, not to mention every stitch Jemima was wearing. Though all work had been overseen by Jemima’s man of business—Mr Briggs, ostensibly using the legacy she’d been left by her aunt—Mrs Attwood knew the truth. Jemima’s aunt had died without a penny to her name, and Jemima had been desperate enough to accept the baron’s scandalous proposal.
Mrs Attwood had been employed by Baron Rothborn as Jemima’s companion, there to lend her respectability, when they both knew Jemima was anything but respectable. Not anymore.
“Yes,” Jemima agreed, a little of the pleasure she felt dimming as she remembered how she would pay for the privilege of living in this lovely home. “A very fine job.”
“Well, let us get inside and out of this wind. I’m fair nithered and in dire need of a cup of tea. Bessie, leave that,” Mrs Attwood said, waving a hand at their maid of all works, who was struggling to hoist an overstuffed
carpet bag. “The men will bring the bags in. Go and get the kettle unpacked and make us a brew.”
The girl, originally employed by the baron at The Priory, cast wide, anxious eyes at Mrs Attwood and scurried away to the back door, where the men were carrying the luggage. Jemima gave herself a shake, reminding herself she was the lady of the house, and that she ought to stir herself into getting things done.
“Come along, then,” she said, striving to sound calm and in control as she took Mrs Attwood’s arm and walked up the neat paved path to the front door.
Happily, the cottage had no near neighbours, being a good five-minute walk from the village proper. However, Jemima didn’t doubt that curtains had been twitching as her carriage had come through, and it was only a matter of time before the first of the villagers descended upon her. She needed to be ready for them.
Not only for them.
That made her heart skip, which was most unsettling, and Jemima concentrated on retrieving the heavy door key from her reticule. They stepped through the shiny black painted front door into a tiled hallway, which led directly through the house to the back door, and out to the garden. On either side of the hallway, at the front, was a good sized room: a formal receiving room on the right, and a comfortable parlour on the left. Beyond that was to be found the dining room and staircase, and then the kitchen and scullery. There were four bedrooms, and two small garret rooms.
Jemima went first to the sitting room, finding it impossible to hide her eagerness.
“Oh!”
Despite the circumstances, she could not hold back her delight when she saw the transformation inside. Though she had chosen all the furniture herself and had dreamed of how it all might look, to see it before her gave her a little thrill of pleasure.
A fire blazed merrily in the large fireplace, and the room was blessedly warm after the chill wind outside. The walls were freshly painted white, the oak floorboards scrubbed, and the dreadfully extravagant rug she’d bought was thick and luxurious beneath her kid half-boots. One thing she had to say for the baron, he was no nip cheese. He had encouraged her to furnish her new home with every comfort, insisting that she buy quality and never balking at the bills. As she looked around, however, she noticed items that she had not bought, small items of décor that she had thought too frivolous to spend the man’s money on. These included a pair of elegant china candleholders on the mantelpiece, beside two porcelain figurines. A lump rose to her throat as she also noticed several lovely framed watercolours, and that the recessed arches on either side of the fireplace had been fitted with shelves and filled with books. Jemima moved closer, finding the titles blurred, forcing her to blink hard as she discovered a wonderful selection of novels and poetry. Good heavens. How thoughtful he was. A rush of warmth surged through her and she scolded herself for it. That way lay danger.
Jemima knew her own weaknesses. She knew she had a heart only too susceptible to romance, too easily led into tender feelings. As a girl, she had often lost herself in romantic poetry or tales of heroes who rescued their lady loves from wicked villains. Too long she had dreamed of her own knight in shining armour, of the one who would fall instantly in love with her and carry her away from all her troubles. Reality had crushed her dreams and brought her back to earth with such a painful jolt that she could not allow herself to indulge in such fancies again. The baron had made his position very clear. He could not offer her that. He wanted an intelligent companion to alleviate his solitude, and a woman to… to….
A blush swept over her and Jemima stood closer to the fire, hoping Mrs Attwood would attribute her heightened colour to her proximity to the flames.
“Well, this is splendid,” the woman said with obvious approval.
Jemima turned to find her companion stripping off her gloves and untying the ribbons on her bonnet. She put the gloves in the bonnet and set them down on an elegant chair upholstered in cream damask silk.
“You have excellent taste, Miss Fernside, though I could tell that the first time I looked upon you. I think we shall be very comfortable here. Such a perfect location, too. Private enough not to be overlooked by the gossips, and yet so convenient for the village.”
Jemima’s scalding cheeks burned hotter and the lady tsked, shaking her head. She moved forward, taking Jemima’s hands in her own. It was such an intimate, friendly gesture from a woman she barely knew that Jemima was too startled to react.
“Why don’t we call a spade a spade, my dear? You’ll be more comfortable with me if you do. You are to be the baron’s mistress. There’s no getting away from it.”
Jemima gasped and moved to tug her hands free, shocked by this forthright manner of speech. Mrs Attwood held on tight.
“No,” she said, her dark eyes intent. “You’ll hear me. There’s no shame in surviving, Miss Fernside. We all do what we must, and those who would condemn us can go to the devil if you ask me. Better a good man’s mistress than to serve an army on your back. You chose right, and you’ll find no condemnation from me, nor that little maid neither. She talks of yon baron like he’s God almighty and he’s told her to keep mum. You’re safe here, with us, and I’ll not have you come home by way of the weeping cross once you’ve done what you must and there’s no turning back. You’ve made your bed, so you may as well enjoy the comforts of the mattress. At least he’s a handsome devil, so it ought be no hardship.”
Jemima stared at her, robbed of speech for a long moment. Then she drew in an unsteady breath and let it out again in something resembling laughter. She gave a slight nod, the most she could manage, and the hands that held hers tightened slightly.
Mrs Attwood gave her a warm, approving smile.
“That’s the way, lass. Now, let’s have a look at the rest of the place, shall we?”
***
Solo Weston, the sixth Baron Rothborn, took out his pocket watch and checked it against the mantel clock in his study. Ten minutes before five o’clock. Miss Fernside ought to have arrived some time midmorning. He limped to the window, cursing the cold, wet weather that made his blasted leg so damned painful. Outside, a dismal day greeted him. Nothing but drizzle, with a low misty cloud that clung to the treetops and offered a sodden outlook upon the ancient and beautiful gardens that surrounded The Priory. The view from every window of the building was picturesque, and though Solo was biased, even now on such a miserable day as this, it was still the loveliest place in all of England.
It was also inconvenient, draughty, horribly expensive, and more demanding than any mistress. He went to the chair behind his desk and sat heavily, kneading the knotted muscles in his thigh with one hand, and wondering if it would be beyond the pale for him to call upon Miss Fernside today. Surely he ought to give her a day or two to settle in?
Yes. Two days would be prudent.
Except… perhaps two days was too long. He did not wish to insult the lady, or for her to believe him indifferent to her arrival. So, tomorrow, then.
He reached for the book he’d been reading, taking out the bookmark and finding his place. It was less than five minutes before he gave up, realising he’d read the same paragraph three times without comprehending a word. The devil take it. He’d call on her today, now, before it got dark. Just briefly. Just to see she had everything she needed. He’d not stop. Not take up her time. He’d simply reassure himself all was as it ought to be, and arrange a time to call again when she was settled. Decided upon this plan of action, he headed for the front door.
The staff who remained at The Priory had worked there all their lives, as had their parents before them. Not that there were many. When the previous baron, Solo’s father, had died, they had shut up the house whilst the son was away at war. On his return, half mad with grief and pain, it had been more than he could bear to have people around him. He had asked only those who’d known him since childhood to return, those who could be trusted not to gossip about the wreck of a man who had come home to lick his wounds in private. The most important of those was Mrs
Norrell, the cook and housekeeper. Previously, The Priory would have had an army of staff, the kitchens alone bristling with people, but Solo could not stand the scrutiny of strangers and, with only him in residence, it seemed pointless. So Mrs Norrell ruled the roost with only a handful of staff under her dictatorial command. She was a tiny woman who barely reached higher than Solo’s elbow, was as wide as she was tall, and ruled The Priory in a manner the Iron Duke would have approved of.
She tsked and shook her head as she came across Solo in the great hall, shrugging into his heavy greatcoat and picking up his hat.
“’Twill do that leg of yours no good to be out in this cold, my lord. You’d do best to sit by the fire. The lady will still be there tomorrow, when the rain has gone.”
Solo turned an icy expression upon the woman, which didn’t have the least effect, as he’d known it wouldn’t. Having once been his nurse, she well remembered changing his clouts and smacking his arse for cheeking her. It was hard to act the high and mighty lord of the manor before a woman who had tanned his hide and sung him to sleep as a snot-nosed boy.
“Mrs Norrell, I know you find this hard to remember, but I am a grown man and in complete charge of my own mind and person.”
“Aye, and with less sense than you was born with,” she said, with an impatient huff. “Ah, well. Do as you will; you always did. I’ll have water heated and ready for when you get back and commence blustering about your poor leg.”
Solo opened his mouth to object. He never blustered— let alone about his leg, confound the woman! —but Mrs Norrell had stalked off back to her sacred domain in the kitchen.
“Interfering old termagant,” Solo muttered as he put on his hat and headed for the door.
“I heard that,” Mrs Norrell yelled, before the door that led to the kitchens banged shut.
Hell and the devil, the blasted woman had the hearing of a bat! There was something supernatural about her, he was certain of it. Solo was not the least bit fanciful. He did not believe in ghosts, despite some of the odd things that had happened in The Priory. There was always a reasonable explanation for such things, even if he couldn’t think of one himself. Yet Mrs Norrell had an uncanny knack for knowing things, for knowing him. He’d never outmanoeuvred her as a boy, and it was a beyond humiliating to discover nothing had changed. As Lieutenant Colonel of the 15th King’s Dragoons, he was known for his brilliant military strategy, and yet his blasted housekeeper ran rings around him.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 1
