The Bad Baron's Daughter

by Laura London

  “Not a word. His attention was only for the girl. When the surgeon was done, Nurse shooed us out, Lesley and me, that is, so the poor child could sleep. She’ll recover safely with proper nursing, Dr. Carr says.” She looked sideways at her handsome young cousin and said, rather shyly, “Nurse thinks Katie (I believe that’s her name) can’t be a day over eighteen. Such a baby. She’s… she’s not in Linden’s usual style, is she?”

  “Ho,” said Drew, with a censoriousness reserved for young female relatives. “And what do you know of Linden’s usual style, may I ask?”

  “One hears things, Drew. Now that I’ve been a married lady, people don’t scruple to repeat the most scandalous things to me,” she said, intimidated by his tone. “ ‘Twas Lady Jersey, you see, when I rode in the park with her and Grandmère a few weeks ago. We passed Linden in his phaeton, looking, oh, dashing, as he does, and he tipped his hat to us.”

  Drew resumed his study of the ceiling. “Such adventures you have, Suzanne,” he drawled.

  “You don’t need to sneer, because I was coming to the point, which was that Linden was accompanied by… by a lady, though Grandmère would only call her a creature, with the most lustrous long blonde hair which she wore right down her back, not styled. Lady Jersey said that Linden favors ladies who are quite up to snuff, which I don’t think Katie is at all. Grandmère says that he should never have acknowledged us when he’s accompanied by one of his, I believe you’d call them, Lights of Love?”

  “What I’d call ‘em ain’t in the least germane, Suzanne,” he said with youthfully pompous disapproval. “You can’t call ‘em that. Can’t call ‘em anything, not even supposed to know about ‘em. I think you’ve gotten devilish loose at the aft.”

  They were interrupted by Linden, who let himself into the room and dropped into a heart-backed armchair.

  “Has she?” he said with a sarcastic assumption of interest. “I was wondering when she was going to drop to the standard of the rest of the family.”

  Drew strolled to the demilune sideboard. “You’ve had a difficult day, Lesley. Please,” he said, “don’t bother to maintain that benign facade on our account.”

  “Go to hell. But first, give me the brandy. Not in that damned glass, either. I want the bottle.”

  Drew handed it to him. “Guzzle to your heart’s content, my dear.”

  Lord Linden had just lifted the slender bottle to his lips when Fawnmore appeared at the door to announce Her Grace, Lady Brixton. Her Grace wasted not a glance on Drew or Suzanne, but crossed directly to her least tamed grandson. It was a pity, in Drew’s opinion, that the duchess had entered in time to see Linden drinking straight from the bottle.

  “His Grace, my late husband,” the duchess majestically informed her erring grandson, “had a prize boar who used to swill at the trough looking exactly like you, Lesley.”

  “You do me too much honor, Grandmère, I don’t aspire to such heights,” said Linden, rising to place a frugal kiss on his grandmother’s blue-veined wrist.

  “Sarcasm,” said Her Grace, “is a moron’s lance. Do you know what we did with prostitutes in your grandfather’s time?”

  Lesley fell back into the chair and took another swig of the brandy. “Whipped them behind cart tails?”

  “On the contrary! No vulgar public displays. We kept them removed from the sight of decent citizens! I have never objected to a gentleman’s discreet amusements, but I cannot countenance my own grandson flashing his strumpets in the face of polite society—and you ought to be sick with shame to have brought your mistress under the same roof as Lady Suzanne! As for the wench pursuing you naked into this house during my soiree, I will say nothing.”

  “So I see,” said Lesley, drily. “She wasn’t naked.”

  “What was she then?” demanded the duchess.

  “She was… oh, damn, she was wearing a nightdress.”

  “And today,” said the duchess, continuing her list of incidents in which Linden’s moral shortcomings were brought to the fore, “you remained in the bedroom with her while poor Suzanne undressed her for Dr. Carr.”

  Linden’s eyes held flame. “Yes, I did. I thought, Jesus, why not initiate a little bacchanale? Why should a petty thing like a bullet wound interfere with my pleasures? And it would be more piquant with Suzanne looking on…”

  “Lesley, pity me,” cried Suzanne, hands over her ears. “I cannot bear it when you are so nasty.”

  Before Suzanne knew what was happening, Linden had hauled her from the sofa and pinned her against the wall. “You have no idea,” he said, his voice slow and soft, “just how nasty I can be. But Katie does. And do you know, she faced me with less fear than you show when I tell you ‘good morning.’”

  “Hotter than a penny pepper tonight, aren’t you?” observed the duchess. “Let your cousin go before you give her the sobs. It isn’t Suzanne’s fault that someone’s shot your chère amie.”

  Drew watched this family quarrel with the air of one accustomed. He plucked Suzanne from his brother’s grasp, patted her shoulder reassuringly, and pushed her down on the settee. “Well, Suzanne, you might have known how it would be; you ought to know better than to draw Linden’s attention to you when he’s in one of his moods.” He turned to Lady Brixton. “Grandmère, I think you ought to know that I’ve met Katie before, last week when she was riding in the park with Linden. And she’s not his mistress. Believe me, Grandmère, Linden’s behaved to Katie like a dashed saint, damme if he hasn’t. After hearing her story, I can tell you that Linden used a hell of a lot more restraint than I would have. You can see he’s half out of his mind worrying about her. This is no time for you to be raking him over the coals.”

  Linden walked slowly across the room to set the brandy bottle on the chimneypiece of Siena marble. With one knee bent, he folded his arms across the mantel and buried his face inside them. “No, Drew, I’ve ruined her,” he said. “I never laid with her, but no one will believe that, will they?”

  Drew and Suzanne exchanged glances. The Duchess hesitated, then moved forward to lay a hand bracingly on her grandson’s shoulder.

  “I’m a wicked old woman, boy,” she said briskly. “Forgive me. God knows, though, you hide your feelings so well that no one ever knows you have any. Whatever your sins may be, Lesley, you’ve never been a liar. Who is she?”

  Linden turned, allowed his grandmother a brief embrace, and lowered himself onto the settee beside Suzanne. He slumped, crossing his long legs at the ankles, looking very young and more than half exhausted. Drew’s heart went out to him; he poured brandy into a crystal tumbler and slid it between Linden’s slack fingers.

  “Thanks,” said Linden. “Katie’s Baron Kendricks’s daughter.”

  “What! The Bad Baron’s daughter?” said his grandmother. “She’s of gentle blood then! You shock me, grandson. Tell me everything,” commanded Her Grace with relish.

  Linden shrugged wearily. “There’s not a lot. When I met her, she was waiting table at a gin shop in the Rookery. The Merry Maidenhead. I know, Grandmère, you wonder what the hell I was doing there. Pursuing my, what did you call them? My discreet amusements.” The faint trace of defiance in his voice brought a smile to Lady Brixton’s lips. Linden answered it with a rueful smile of his own.

  “There, Grandmère, how quickly you can reduce me to a schoolboy. Feels like the time Drew and I put a dead rat down Suzanne’s gown.”

  “Those were easy old days. Before you and Drew were interested in what girls had under their gowns,” said the duchess with a twinkle. “Proceed, lad. I perceive you weave me a romance.”

  Linden sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a devilish baroque one then. I took her back to my apartments.”

  “To rescue her from the horrible gin shop,” exclaimed Suzanne, clapping her hands together. “How fine!”

  Drew patted her head kindly. “Dense,” he said.

  “Suzanne,” murmured Linden, his lips twisted into a half-smile, “you know me better th
an that. I took her there to seduce her.”

  “Oh, horrid! How frightened she must have been,” said Suzanne, in quick sympathy.

  “Don’t be such a pea-goose,” admonished Her Grace with a derisive sniff. “The chit should have been flattered! Besides, she must have been willing or she wouldn’t have gone back to his rooms with him, would she? Or do you think he forced her at gunpoint?”

  Suzanne looked at Linden’s sensual, rakish countenance, and reflected that such a lawless act would be quite in harmony with numerous other incidents that spotted his infamous career. But those past scandals belonged to another man than the one who had been so kind to the injured red-haired girl. Suzanne saw Linden scan her face. His smile grew more cruel, as though he had guessed her thoughts.

  “Gunpoint, of course,” said Linden cordially. “Then I took off my belt and strapped her down…”

  “I beg you to have done with your nettling,” gasped Suzanne. She moved down the settee closer, and nudged his shoulder pleadingly with her small fist. “You think I’m foolish, don’t you? I’ve noticed often that when you think someone is foolish you take a great deal of trouble to make them feel you are worse than you really are. Quite cross-grained! It may divert you to satirize people so, but indeed, I find your profanity very wearing. I know that you use it like armor to deflect questions you don’t wish to answer or to waylay the conversation, but I wish that you will not be so very… dexterous. Continue, please, but talk nicely.”

  The anger melted from Linden’s eyes and his smile grew more friendly. “Very well, ferocious. I’ll blunt my fangs if you’ll remove your paw.” He grinned down at Suzanne’s small fist, and watched as she whipped it quickly away.

  “Enough flirtation, children. We stray from the point. Once you had the wench in your clutches, Lesley, why not take her virtue?” asked Her Grace, who was every bit as plain a speaker as her grandson.

  “Oh, ‘pour not water on a drowning mouse,’” quoted Linden, shrugging. “She’s as stupid as Suzanne—didn’t understand that I was only interested in… oh, aye, Suzanne, I’m mute. Anyway, she didn’t want it and I decided, in a burst of damned maudlin sentimentality, not to force her. Besides, I don’t doubt I was too drunk anyway.”

  The duchess nodded approvingly. “A good thing, then. I’m surprised to find you so nice in your notions, grandson. Nothing,” added Her Grace with a shudder of conviction, “can be more unpleasant than the performance of one’s duty under a gentleman in his cups.”

  Drew leaned over and ran a finger down Suzanne’s crimson cheeks. “Shame on you, Grandmère, behold poor Suzanne’s blushes. I swear you’re worse than Linden. But he’s looking more acerbic than usual, so I suppose he’s tired of our interruptions. I’ll keep my potato trap shut, brother dear. Go on…”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Katie lay snugly inside an opium-spun cocoon the next morning when Lord Linden came to see her. He stood beside the bed for a long time watching the fine-boned features, so woefully drawn. The freckles dappled her face like spots on a newborn fawn nestled in a forest thicket. She wore a thin flannel nightgown produced by the capable Suzanne; it was chastely high-necked and long-sleeved, with delicate ribboned lace patterned across the bodice, which rose and fell gently with the rhythm of Katie’s sleep-breaths. Linden lifted one of the hands that lay slack with palm up outside the bedclothes. It was cool to the touch. There was no fever then, no life-threatening infection. He stroked the velvet surface of her fingernails, seeing that the skin beneath was still bluish from shock and blood loss.

  It was becoming more familiar to him, this aching tenderness that he had never thought to feel toward another human being. At first he had refused to recognize it or to acknowledge its power over him; Katie would be one more incidental object to be used and discarded. And now he wanted to do neither. It had been hard for him to accept this budding affection. He had distrusted its permanence and disliked the vulnerability it seemed to press on him. Linden’s defenses were strong; he had not welcomed this innocent invasion of them and yet… Carefully, he bent over to rest her hand on the quilted silk bedspread and touched one curl.

  “My poor lamb,” he murmured, but so softly that Nurse, standing across the room stowing fresh linen in a cedar chest, could not hear him. Linden turned and left, closing the door quietly.

  Downstairs, Lord Linden found Drew and the duchess serving themselves from steaming serving dishes along an ancient oak sideboard in the informal breakfast room. One wall was dominated by a large window with gothic tracery. Before it sat a tier table bearing a vase à sirènes filled with long-stemmed violet iris. Linden growled a good morning and went over to gaze out the window, stroking an iris petal with a moody finger.

  Such cavalier treatment in no way pleased Her Grace. “Vandal!” she snapped. “Do you think your pretty face will excuse your bad manners? If this is an exhibition of your social graces, then little wonder you’ve reached the estate of eight and twenty still bachelored! Greet me properly, if you please.”

  “Pardon, Grandmère,” said Linden in an indifferent apology. He made her a graceful bow and placed a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. “It’s true. I’m a surly fellow.”

  “We’re accustomed,” said Drew, stirring his tea with a silver spoon. “Eat, Lesley. You look as though you’ve been awake all night.”

  “Thank you.” Linden scattered a ladleful of scrambled eggs on a floral-embossed china plate and carried it to the table, folding himself into a hoop-backed chair beside his brother. He made no move to eat; instead he sat flipping the eggs distractedly with his fork. After a moment he rose again and returned to stare out the window. A pair of expensive Brussels lace curtains framed the window and Linden tapped thoughtlessly at them, setting the starched folds into swinging motion.

  “Stop worrying those draperies, boy!” barked Her Grace. “Resty, testy, fretsome stallion! Many’s the time I’ve told your mama to take a firmer hand with you but she would always let you have your head. Drove your tutors into Bedlam with your brusque ways, never could sit still for a quarter hour running. I knew how it would be on the day you were christened—howled through the whole thing and kicked so hard the vicar nearly dropped you into the font. Irreligious even then! Have you looked in on your chit? How does she?”

  Linden went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. “Sleeping. Full of laudanum.”

  The duchess nodded. “That’s as it should be, needs all the rest she can get.” She worriedly regarded her grandson’s slim tense form. “Taking this hard, aren’t you? Don’t fret yourself to Flanders, boy, we won’t leave your Katie to perish in the gutter. And sloshing down brandy before noon like a heathen won’t help you either. You’ll put on flesh if you don’t have a care.”

  “Do you think to take me in hand, Grandmère? God save me!” Lesley tossed off the brandy. “I’m going into the city. I want to see what can be learned about Ivo Guy.”

  “Will you inform the Runners on the fellow?” asked Her Grace, lightly spreading marmalade on a breakfast roll. “I think you had better not. The thing will spill into the newspapers and your Katie has dispensed enough scandal-soup. Best you find this Ivo yourself and deal with him quietly. Mind you, though, not dueling. Even the prince will not be able to protect you this time—the gossip over your last duel has barely begun to quiet.”

  “I know, Grandmère. I won’t honor the canaille with my sword,” said Linden. His lips relaxed into a smile. “I should have brought Katie to you earlier, you know, but I thought you might not have her. Tiens, I did you an injustice. Thank you.” Linden gave her a swift kiss and was gone.

  The duchess watched Linden go out, and then turned to her younger grandson, who sat dreamily chewing a piece of bacon.

  “Your brother,” the duchess informed Andrew, “is a willful rascal. I make no doubt that I shall be said to be opening an asylum for his used Paphians.”

  “Not you,” said Andrew, smiling, “you’ll outwit the gossips.” He wa
s silent for a moment and then said, “Do you know, Grandmère, it’s Suzanne’s opinion that Linden’s in love with Katie.”

  “Ridiculous!” snapped the duchess, her body suddenly rigid. “Suzanne’s opinion, indeed!” She glared at her grandson. “Do you mean to tell me that you think Lesley would try to seduce a gently born girl that he’s placed under my roof?”

  “No,” said Drew calmly. “I think he might try to marry her.”

  Words failed the duchess. She regarded her grandson with impotent fury, her face becoming suffused with purple.

  “Lesley’s altered when he’s with Katie,” continued Drew imperturbably. “He has a gentleness that’s… well, you saw him with Katie last night, didn’t you notice it?”

  “No, I did not!” returned the duchess, snipping off each syllable with awful emphasis. “Chatterhead! Atlantis dreamer! Would you idealize your brother? In love? Ha! He uses women like an opiate, out of need, not affection. He shows a little kindness to a miserably used, orphaned child and you and Suzanne feel you must manufacture silly tales about the business. Frankly, Drew, I wonder at you!”

  Andrew steadily met his grandmother’s fierce stare. “Oh, very well, Grandmère, if you will have it so… But if,” he said, slyly, “Linden wished to marry Katie, hypothetically speaking, mind you, would you oppose the match?”

  “Oppose the match? I should say so!” said Her Grace, her voice raised alarmingly. “A Byrne of Linden wed to a chit of disgraced name, impoverished, untitled, ill-reared? Unthinkable!”

  “Her father’s barony is old and respected, even if her father is a scamp,” Drew reminded her.

  “And her mother’s family? Merchants!” said Her Grace with loathing. “Do you think I want my grandson to be related by marriage to such as Ivo Guy?”

  “Lesley will deal with Ivo Guy,” said Drew confidently. “Grandmère, do you remember last year when you and Mama had your heads together to find Lesley a wife?”

  “Yes, but the wretched boy would have none of them,” remembered Her Grace bitterly.