That was the responsible thing to do, and the additional delay oughtn’t to annoy as much as it did. Why, since Justina Farthington had burst into his life, did duties and responsibilities—both things he’d previously thrived upon—seem too damn inconvenient?
As it had turned out, his plant manager, Irving Grassley, had grossly understated the issues at Baxter’s Lancashire plant. By the time Grassley had notified Baxter, someone had been sabotaging the equipment on an almost daily basis for a fortnight.
If that weren’t inconvenient enough, not only had half of the workers become severely ill with what turned out to be influenza, but the others were also afraid to work for fear of contracting what they termed, “The curse.”
A rather superstitious lot, according to Grassley, the laborers blamed the sickness which swept the factory on the newly hired, one-eyed engineer, his face and body severely scarred by an explosion years ago.
Baxter had retained Jerome Carnes himself, also Scottish, and a bloody genius when it came to engines and machines. Soft-spoken and painfully conscious of his alarming appearance, Carnes avoided contact with other people to spare them the shock. Unfortunately, his avoidance only served to strengthen the groundless rumors that Jerome also dabbled in the dark arts, Grassley had reported.
In short, the buildings had sat silent for over a week, despite Grassley’s efforts to encourage the unaffected workers to fulfill their duties. Then a few of the more radical young pups had decided to take matters into their own hands and had set fire to Carnes’s living quarters, hoping to drive him away. The flames had spread to other buildings, putting six families from their homes, including sixteen children.
Thank God the worst injuries were smoke inhalation and a few minor burns. One man had sustained more severe burns when he dashed inside his home for the third time to save the last of his six children: seven-month-old twin lasses.
Baxter had been so enraged upon learning of the recklessness of the four imbecilic youths who’d set the fires, his first instinct had been to throttle them within an inch of their lives. The reckless fools had been summarily dismissed without reference, though Baxter hadn’t brought them up on charges as they’d deserved.
They’d been ordered to leave the community and never return. As it turned out, those rotters were also responsible for the equipment malfunction. That, too, had been an attempt to frame Jerome and see him dismissed simply because the man was scarred, and they were superstitious idiots.
After the displaced families and Jerome Carnes had been relocated to other accommodations, Baxter had assembled those workers well enough to attend a meeting. He’d very concisely and firmly stated his full confidence in Jerome and told the others if they were unhappy with his choice of an engineer, they could take their leave, and he’d provide them with a reference.
Any future murmurings against Carnes would result in termination, and anyone engaging in further acts of violence would be turned over to the magistrate. Hence, what Baxter had believed would be a relatively quick trip had turned into an exhausting three-week-long trial.
As he descended the steps in search of Bixby, his dogs prancing at his heels, he grinned. Today he’d see that green-eyed enchantress that had plagued his waking hours as well as his dreams each night. He couldn’t recall the last time such anticipation had assailed him.
“Bixby!” He strode through the expansive entry, excitement and expectation quickening his pulse and step. He glanced at the mahogany longcase clock, imported from Dundee, and calculated how long his discussion with his manager might take as he debated whether to skip breaking his fast.
Damn, was he actually considering not eating to expedite his departure and his reunion with Justina?
A derisive smile quirked Baxter’s mouth.
That was a first.
He’d become a besotted numpty. Skipping meals. Riding his faithful horse until they were both ready to drop. Wishing to rush his duties, all to see a woman he’d known seven short days. One magical, marvelous week had been long enough to realize she was a treasure he couldn’t allow to escape.
“Welcome home, Mr. Bathhurst.” Beaming a sincere welcome, Bixby pushed his spectacles up his nose as he stood proudly behind the counter on the stool Baxter had ordered built for him. “I trust all is well in Lancashire? We expected your return far sooner.”
“Aye, unfortunately, ignorance and fear breed mischief, and circumstances in Lancashire proved a great deal more complicated than I’d anticipated.” Hands on his hips, Baxter grinned and surveyed the spotless entry. Duke and Princess had deserted him, going in search of their morning meal.
“Things are well here?”
Bixby dipped his head. “Yes, sir. We currently have seven guests, and I received word yesterday that another four will arrive this afternoon. We have reservations for an additional eleven. During your absence, seven and thirty have come and gone.”
Not too bad during the winter months.
Not too bad at all.
Bixby straightened to his full height and tugged on his lapels, a shadow of unease pleating his broad forehead and crinkling the corners of his usual jovial features.
“Has something occurred?” Baxter asked, unease prickling along his spine.
“Edie eloped with Becker eight days ago.”
Not at all surprised, Baxter chuckled and scratched his eyebrow. The maid and groom had been sweet on one another for months. Honestly, he’d expected an announcement sooner. “Why couldn’t they simply have told you or me? I’d have let them retain their positions. I have no objections to married couples working in the same establishment.”
It worked out well at his other ventures.
“So I tried to persuade them.” Bixby darted a wary look toward the entry. “The real issue is Edie’s father. Emmet Swern promised her to another, and he says you are to blame for her elopement. He’s been by every morning for the past week, demanding to speak with you.”
“Me?” Baxter arched a brow. “What have I to do with the matter?”
One of the local blacksmiths, Swern had a fondness for the bottle that adversely affected the quality of his work. What was more, he was obstinate and meanspirited. More than once, Edie had arrived at work with a bruise upon her cheek or her lip split.
When Bixby failed to answer, Baxter leveled him a stern look.
“Bixby? Why is he demanding to speak with me?”
Bixby cleared his throat, appearing distinctly uncomfortable. Normally unflappable under the most trying of circumstances, a distinct reddish hue crept from his neck and upward over his cheeks before disappearing into his hairline.
“Well, sir,” he hedged, fiddling with something behind the counter and not quite meeting Baxter’s avid gaze.
“Yes?” Baxter bit out, far sharper than he’d intended. He nearly ground his teeth to powder at the servant’s continued silence but checked his impatience. It wasn’t Bixby’s fault a siren with petal-soft skin and velvet green eyes called to him.
After a swift glance about the entry and his voice lowered to a discreet level, Bixby said, “It seems Edie was, ah,”—the man’s face turned impossibly redder—“in the family way, and Mr. Swern believes you are the father.”
Baxter went utterly still, absorbing the startling information before finally saying, “Is the man daft?” Nae, but foxed to his fleshy jowls? Aye, Swern was off his head. “Why would she abscond with Becker if I fathered her child?”
His elfin ears turning crimson, Bixby swallowed audibly. “As to that sir, Mr. Swern claims you forced yourself on his daughter. He is demanding compensation, or he’ll make his accusation public.”
Shite.
Emmet Swern was a sodding idiot. If he’d spoken to Bixby about his ridiculous demands, Baxter could damn well guarantee half of Bath knew of the accusation by now.
Baxter, too, glanced at the hotel’s entry.
Hell and damn.
He’d have to delay his departure until he put the blacksmith in h
is place and disabused him of his ludicrous misconception. That neatly answered the question about whether to stay for breakfast. Baxter supposed it was just as well. He could hardly arrive at Justina’s with his stomach growling from hunger.
“I believe Miss Farthington left something for me?”
“Ah, yes.” Obviously relieved at the change of subject, Bixby reached into a rectangular cubby, withdrawing several slips of paper. He swiftly thumbed through them. A frown drew his brows together. “Where did I put that?”
He opened a drawer and rummaged around inside. “Hmm,” he mumbled to himself. “That’s odd. I swear I placed it with the other messages for you.”
“Is something amiss?” Baxter kept his voice calm, but visions of banging on door after door after door in Bristol invaded his mind.
He swallowed a vile oath.
“No, sir. I’m sure it’s here.” Bixby never misplaced anything. He didn’t even permit the maids to dust his desk. “Ah, here it is.”
His relief evident, he procured a neatly folded rectangle and waved it back and forth. “I hired a new maid to take Edie’s place. She must’ve taken it upon herself to dust or organize my desk.” A capital crime, indeed. “I shall speak to her again.”
Something near giddiness whipped through Baxter. “I’ll be departing for Bristol after I break my fast and speak with Swern. When he arrives, have Coyle show him to my office, but do not leave the blackguard alone in there. Given a chance, he’ll rob us blind.”
His thoughts already on Justina, Baxter turned in the direction of the dining room, hungrier than he’d realized until just now. If he weren’t mistaken, he smelled tattie scones and sausage. Mrs. Felton was a priceless treasure. She always seemed to sense when he craved a taste of Scotland.
Heavy, uneven footfall sounded on the porch before the hotel’s front door burst open. Emmet Swern plowed in, face flushed and fairly growling, “Your finally back, you bloody, ruttin’ bastard.”
Baxter barely had time to turn around before Swern was upon him, fury spewing from his eyes, the reek of strong drink radiating from every oversized pore.
Distracted with musings of Justina, Baxter blinked in surprise then ducked too late to avoid the meaty fist that landed squarely upon his jaw.
Jesus and Joseph.
He flew backward, landing hard on his arse.
Outrage replaced his warmer emotions as he winced against the ache in his jaw. No doubt about it. The blow would leave a large bruise.
“I say,” Bixby exclaimed, coming around the counter, prepared to defend Baxter, though he was a full two feet shorter than Swern.
Coyle and Perkins pounded in from the corridor, expressions fierce as each bolted to Baxter’s side and took up defensive stances.
Growling, low in their throats, Duke and Princess pelted into the entry. Teeth bared, they hovered near the doorway, their black eyes fixed upon Swern.
“Sit,” Baxter said.
The dogs obediently sank to their haunches, but their wary gazes flickered between him and Swern.
Touching his jaw, moving it gingerly from side to side to test if it was cracked, Baxter found his feet. Not broken but assuredly bruised. Swern was built like a bull and possessed the same obstinate, unpredictable temperament.
“If you leave now, Swern, I shan’t have you brought up on charges,” Baxter said slowly and deliberately, taking the man’s measure.
“Charges?” Swern sneered, wiping his nose on the back of his soiled sleeve. “You got me Edie wif child.” He sniffed loudly, clenching his ham fists again. “I demand recom…recom…” he stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Recom-pen-see. She was to marry another.”
Likely a decrepit or debaucher that Swern owed a favor too. Or money. Mayhap both.
Nostrils twitching, for the blacksmith also stank of stale sweat and unwashed body, Baxter eyed the other man. He’d never liked him. Loud, arrogant, and opinionated, the sot bullied his wife, children, and neighbors. Half of his customers too, which was why he found himself with so few of them.
God’s teeth, no wonder the couple had eloped.
“I never touched your daughter, Swern.” Baxter never dallied with his female employees. To do so was an abuse of power and utterly contemptible. “If she was in the family way, then I’ll wager Becker fathered the child. It was plain to see they were in love.”
“Bullshit,” Swern swore savagely, spittle clinging to the right corner of his mouth.
“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Swern,” Baxter warned.
“I’ve lived in these parts the better part of four decades, Bathhurst. You’ve only been here for three years. Who do you think the locals will believe?”
Sanctimonious bastard.
Swern puffed out his chest and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, confident he had Baxter backed into a corner. “I’ll keep me mouth shut fer five hundred pounds.”
“That’s robbery,” Bixby gasped, looking from Baxter to Swern and then to Baxter once more. “And extortion.” He peered up at Baxter. “Should I send for the magistrate?”
“No need.” Baxter straightened his mussed waistcoat, then turned his steeliest stare upon Swern. “If I ever fathered a child, I would take full responsibility for it and ensure it never wanted for anything. But as I already said, I never laid a finger on Edie, and I’ll wager she never suggested I did, either.”
A guilty flush stole up Swern’s already ruddy cheeks. He puffed them out, his mud-brown eyes narrowing menacingly.
The bugger likely wanted the coin for more whisky. And Swern would blackmail Baxter for the rest of his life if he paid a single crown now to bridle his loose tongue.
“Well, she’s not here to say one way or t’other, is she?” Swern snarled. “So I suggest you pay up. Rumors are ugly things, Bathhurst.” A smug smile contorted his mouth and fleshy, unshaven cheeks. He pulled on his ear as if imparting some great revelation. “They’ve been known to ruin a person’s life. How many guests do you think would stay at your hotel when word gets out that you violate your female servants? Would any lady feel safe staying here?”
“Given your penchant for drink and your tarnished reputation, you really aren’t very bright, threatening me.” Baxter jerked his chin toward the door. “Leave now, and I’ll forget this unpleasantness ever happened.”
Swern swallowed, a glint of uncertainty flickering his scheming gaze. “It’s yer word against mine,” he said, all belligerent bravado.
Bollocks to that.
Baxter had had enough.
Every minute he wasted talking to this drunkard was one which kept him from Justina and explaining his tardiness to her. He stalked closer to Swern, every step predatory as he struggled to keep his wrath in check until he stood directly in front of Edie’s hostile father. Baxter had the height advantage, but the squat blacksmith with cudgels for arms outweighed him by at least four stone.
Leaning down, Baxter enunciated each clipped word in perfect aristocratic English. “No, you opportunistic cretin. It is the word of a pished blacksmith against the Duke of San Sebastian.”
Chapter Nine
Ridgewood Court
Colchester, Essex, England
December 22, 1810
Ensconced in Ridgewood Court’s expensively but tastefully decorated drawing room, Justina couldn’t stop smiling between sips of simply divine India tea. Her dearest friends Ophelia Breckensole, Gabriella, Duchess of Pennington, Jessica, Duchess of Bainbridge, Nicolette, Duchess of Pembroke, and Rayne Wellbrook surrounded her.
She’d sampled several exquisite dainties and biscuits, too, but resisted further indulgence. The excess of delicious foods and treats throughout the house party would have her gaining half a stone if she weren’t diligent.
“I vow,” Jessica said, patting her tummy as she sent her sister a fond look, “Thea’s goal is to fatten all of us up.”
As always, Theadosia had outdone herself. She positively adored entertaining.
>
Bows of greenery and holly, festooned with red, silver, and gold ribbons, adorned every room. Several kissing boughs and mistletoe twigs, those also beribboned, dangled from doorways inviting clandestine kisses. Clove oranges sat in crystal bowls, adding more delicious aromas to the already fragrant house.
The remaining guests would arrive this afternoon, and everyone but the late arrivals had gathered for tea this afternoon. Everyone would gather for dinner, however.
Across the room, several gentlemen, most of whom she knew quite well but a few she hadn’t previously met, spoke animatedly about the horse race tomorrow. Quite magnanimously, they’d offered to allow any ladies who were up for the challenge to join them. The American heiress, Sophronie Slater, had boldly dared to wager she’d win the race.
Justina considered the vivacious strawberry blonde whom she quite admired. Sophronie just might do it. Surreptitiously so that Aunt Emily wouldn’t catch wind of her brazenness, Justina had bet a whole pound yesterday that Sophronie would win. Such extravagance was unlike her, but everyone was betting against Sophronie.
Tobias Forsythe, Duke of Heatherston, had good-naturedly agreed to record the bets while Aunt Emily slid him disapproving sideways glances. She didn’t hold with women racing about the countryside, riding astride in breeches as Sophronie was wont to do. Aunt Emily also frowned upon the current fashion of women gambling—any gambling for that matter.
Wasteful, frivolous behavior, she’d decreed.
As they’d never had the coin to spare for such frivolity, Justina felt very recalcitrant indeed. And not just a little guilty for keeping a secret from her beloved aunt.
Rayne caught Justina’s eye and subtly rolled her eyes in Ophelia’s direction. Their friend, teacup to her lips, avidly peeked at Stanford Bancroft, Duke of Ashford, from beneath her lashes. A slight crease drew her brows together, and it was impossible to determine whether his grace intrigued or peeved her.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 8
