The Baron’s Dangerous Contract

by Archer, Kate

  Penny suppressed a smile. The thing had been so masterfully done that everybody followed Mrs. Wellburton’s direction without pause. Everybody, perhaps, but Lord Cabot, who looked very determinedly at Lord Burke’s chair as that gentleman sat down next to her.

  As the courses arrived, Penny had a stilted conversation with Lord Dalton. That came as no surprise to her, as conversations with the man were generally stilted. She had sometimes wondered about it, as her aunt claimed he had been both a sensitive and jolly little boy. Mrs. Wellburton had resided in the same neighborhood as the family when she had been married and had been often to the house. She said that as a youth he’d been one moment weepy over a dead chick in the yard and the next full of tricks and levity. Penny supposed the war, and the scar he carried on his face, had stolen whatever gaiety there had been in him.

  Still, it had come as a relief when she was able to turn to Lord Burke. “I understand you run Mephistopheles this year, my lord.”

  “I do, and I suspect you have thoroughly researched his genealogy and know all his habits,” Lord Burke said, smiling.

  “My stablemaster and I have had regular conversations about it,” Penny said.

  And so began a back and forth between competitors. They had a particularly enlivening exchange regarding whether to rest or exercise a horse on the day before a race—Penny found she was engaged in the conversation almost as much as she had been in the past with Lord Cabot. Debating with Lord Burke had the further benefit of coming at no risk. Lord Burke would never be cruel, she was certain of it. As they were both good-humored competitors, there was much laughter in their diverse opinions.

  When Penny was not so engaged with Lord Burke, she had a moment or two to take in the table. Mrs. Wellburton kept Lord Dalton engaged, though it must have been trying. She supposed her aunt did not have much choice, as Lord Grayson was turned to Kitty a shocking amount of time. That left Lord Cabot to mostly engage with her father, which she supposed he would not mind.

  On occasion, Lord Mendbridge would engage the whole table, his voice of such a booming nature that he could have reached to the end of the Prince Regent’s table at Carlton House if he wished. In one exceedingly awkward moment, he said, “It seems our Lord Cabot here is a dark horse. I was sallying through town today and I encountered Mr. Packlehurst, deuced irritating fellow if you ask me. He wondered who I’d got in my house, angling for an invitation no doubt. I told him Cabot was here and he said, ‘Cabot? Lord Cabot? In your house?’”

  The table had grown silent, as most of the occupants were fully aware of why Mr. Packlehurst might be surprised to hear that a gentleman who had so recently insulted Lord Mendbridge’s daughter was also to be found in his house.

  Between fits of laughter, Lord Mendbridge said, “Come Cabot, tell us what you’ve done to the fellow. Whatever it was—I highly approve!”

  Penny stared at her plate. Lord Cabot only mumbled something about everybody knowing that Packlehurst liked nobody.

  Lord Burke finally came to the rescue. “No doubt it is because Cabot’s horse overtook his own at Epsom Downs last year.”

  Lord Mendbridge seemed to find the idea credible and said, “Packlehurst. A bad sport to the end. Well, he can angle for an invitation all he likes—he’ll never get a toe inside of my doors.”

  Henry had watched the dinner unfold as if it were a veil lifting from his eyes. He had thought to place himself by Miss Darlington as it would have been a likely opportunity to profess an apology. However, Mrs. Wellburton had been determined to place Miss Darlington between Burke and Dalton.

  Like one of the audience of a stage play, he had watched Miss Darlington and Burke with their heads together, laughing and debating. It was as if he looked upon the very seat he had occupied so many times himself. It was as if it were he, but it was Burke. Why should they laugh so much?

  As the veil inched ever higher, Henry began to examine various ideas. He’d asked Burke if he planned to marry soon and his answer had been “perhaps.” Mrs. Wellburton was determined in her seating arrangements. And how had Burke even managed an invitation to begin? Had he, as Dalton and Grayson had, only happened to run into Lord Mendbridge as he sauntered through town? Was that not coincidental? Was that not too coincidental?

  Then there was Miss Darlington’s refusal to walk to the window with him while they’d been in the drawing room. Of course she’d understood he would apologize. She did not wish to hear it. He’d thought he’d only encountered some initial resistance, that she had punished him upon arrival and would now be amenable to putting it all behind them. By the looks of it, she was not bothered by whether he ever apologized or not.

  Lord Mendbridge had talked of encountering Mr. Packlehurst, and that gentleman’s surprise at hearing he was in the house. That confirmed his idea that Miss Darlington had not said a word to her father about his behavior on the night of the Tudor ball. He had thought she’d been very upset about it, she had certainly looked so when she’d left in such a hurry. But it seemed the sting had not lingered long. Or if it had, it had been somehow soothed by a willing suitor.

  His conclusions were only cemented by his conversation with Miss Dell. He’d thought he might cleverly gain some information. He’d ended up with more information than he’d bargained for.

  “It seems Lord Burke finds himself very comfortable at Lord Mendbridge’s table,” he’d said.

  “I suppose he would,” Miss Dell answered. “He has often been at the house in Devon. That is how I know him prior.”

  “Ah, I see. But then, I suppose he finds himself here tonight, just as Lord Dalton and Lord Grayson do, from a lucky chance meeting on the street.”

  “That I cannot say for certain, my lord. Though I understand Lord Mendbridge and Lord Burke keep up a correspondence. I expect they knew they would encounter one another here and so the invitation may have been prior arranged.”

  Miss Dell’s attention had then been commandeered by Grayson, who would demand to know her opinion on some nonsense or other.

  It was all beginning to make sense. Burke was an old family friend, eminently eligible, well-liked, his stable well-regarded—of course Mendbridge and Mrs. Wellburton would favor the alliance. It appeared both Burke and Miss Darlington favored it too. How could he not have seen it over the past season? Did not Burke always claim a dance? In fact, he’d often claimed supper when Henry did not beat him to it.

  Henry paused in his mental ramblings. None of it had anything to do with him. He must not tangle up Miss Darlington’s current condemnation of him with whatever her preferences regarding her future might be. The lady was pleasant and he would not deny he missed their encounters. Of course he admired her, everybody did. Who could fail to admire when she jauntily went by in her High Flyer or danced with copper curls bouncing? There was nothing singular in it.

  Still, he could not help but be irritated by their laughter. What was so amusing about whether a horse should have extra oats leading up to a race? He would really like that explained to him.

  Henry was determined to apologize to Miss Darlington before the night was through. He was certain he’d have the opportunity. Everybody knew Mendbridge did not favor cards. Why would he? Cards had nothing to do with horses. The drawing room would be one of conversation, and that must lead to an opportunity.

  First, Miss Darlington had been situated in a cozy alcove with Miss Dell and he had not seen a way to casually insert himself there. Then, Grayson had insisted on calling Miss Dell to look at some painting or other. Miss Dell had not looked particularly enthusiastic over the invitation but had gone to him. Just as fast, as if she would not be caught in a corner, Miss Darlington had moved to the pianoforte and begun to play.

  Now, he made his way there.

  Miss Darlington played a quiet piece of music, a mournful-sounding Irish air. Henry stood by the side of the instrument, not entirely sure how to begin. He might start with pleasantries, though he did not think that would get him very far.

&nbs
p; He decided he’d better just leap in.

  “Miss Darlington,” he said, watching her hands travel over the keys, “I would wish to apologize for my behavior on the night of the Tudor ball.”

  There, he’d said it. Surely, she would not refuse an apology.

  “Nobody is stopping you from whatever you wish to do,” Miss Darlington said.

  “No, what I mean is, I do apologize for it,” he said, once more confounded by her insistence on taking his words literally and turning them to her own profit.

  “Very well,” she said coldly. She turned the page of her music and played on.

  What was he to say next? He’d not really thought that far. He’d imagined that once she’d accepted his apology, all would be as it had been.

  “I would hope,” he said, “that we might go back to what we were.”

  He watched Miss Darlington’s head bend over the keys and strike them harder than was strictly necessary.

  “We were not anything but acquaintance, my lord,” she said. “And so we remain.”

  “But surely,” Henry went on, “we might go back to…well, we might go back to talking of horses. I plan on going to the stables first thing—perhaps we might have a look at each other’s mounts? I’m certain we should have something to discuss.”

  Miss Darlington ended the musical piece and stood. She said, “By your own measure, my father would be a more suitable conversationalist on the topic. Let us leave it at that.”

  She walked away from him with her head held high, deftly rescued Miss Dell from Grayson’s clutches, and the two ladies retired. Mrs. Wellburton excused herself soon after.

  His first apology had not gone over as he’d expected. In truth, he’d only considered that he might deliver one and be done with it. Now it seemed that at least a second would be in order. Considering her cold aspect, he wondered if it might not be three or four.

  But why was she so determined to go on with it? She must know he’d not meant what he said.

  Before he could consider the matter further, Grayson joined him at the pianoforte. “What do you do over here?” he asked. “Do you intend to play for us?”

  Henry realized he had remained standing by the instrument, staring down at the keys. He laughed and said, “Do not be ridiculous.”

  “It is you who are ridiculous, friend,” Grayson said. “I have the distinct feeling you chased Miss Darlington off, which has led to the marvelous Miss Dell retiring also. Deuced inconvenient.”

  “I doubt Miss Dell views it inconvenient,” Henry said drily.

  “Oh, she resists me, naturally. But that is part of her charm. She is bookish, is that not amusing? I haven’t the first idea of the meaning of half of what she said. She is out next season and I have a mind to dance with her often.”

  Dalton had joined them and said, “No lady interested in books could possibly be interested in you. You are the least well-read person of my acquaintance and I have yet to see you with literature of any sort in your hand.”

  “Have you trotted over here only to throw around insults, my friend?” Grayson asked.

  “What else am I to do?” Dalton said. “Burke and Mendbridge are delving into equine genealogies to a remarkably tedious degree.”

  Henry eyed Burke, who was indeed next to Lord Mendbridge with their heads together. “Burke seems very cozy in this house.”

  Dalton glanced behind him, then smiled. “I suspect him of admiring Miss Darlington, and so he must of course admire the old man too. I’d say a match is in the works.”

  Henry bristled. “Why should you suspect such a thing?”

  “Why should you care?” Dalton asked.

  “I certainly do not have a particular interest in the matter,” Henry said. “I only think one ought not to go bandying about such ideas unless an engagement has been announced.”

  “Cabot!” Lord Mendbridge called from the other side of the drawing room. “Old Burke and I are having a dispute on a fine point, do come and weigh in on the matter.”

  “Old Burke,” Dalton said quietly. “Nothing more familiar than that.”

  *

  The boy who had once opened the door to Lord Cabot on his visit to Mr. Farthingale’s office in Cheapside was just now sitting at that gentleman’s desk, looking over accounts. He was Mr. Farthingale’s apprentice and had been so for the past six months.

  “Freddy,” Mr. Farthingale said, propping his feet up on a stool, “I think I have mentioned that your career as a trusted gentleman who might be sought after to lend funds will not get far if you do not make it a habit to wash your face. Even gentlemen in dire financial straits will not be prevailed upon to overlook it.”

  Freddy shrugged and swiped at the just mentioned dirty face, doing no more than smearing the smudges. “I got time to clean up, don’t I? I ain’t lendin’ nothing yet.”

  Mr. Farthingale heaved a long and heavy sigh. It was fortunate the boy worked for only bed and board, as he would not have paid him a farthing at this very moment. Freddy was quick-witted and had a head for figures, but the rest of his person was near hopeless.

  “The words you sought but failed to find are, I have time to clean up, as I am not currently lending,” Mr. Farthingale said.

  “I have time. Got it,” Freddy said. “But this here, this loan what says Newmarket/Lord Cabot. You done told me a thousand times we don’t do risky ventures, especially to lords as they is so tricky to dun.”

  “We certainly do not engage in overly risky lending,” Mr. Farthingale said. “Many a gentleman in our line of work has found themselves in the Marshalsea from just such recklessness. It is the height of stupidity to fail to pay one’s own debts because one has too much capital tied up and cannot get it back.”

  Freddy picked up the paper and waved it in a threatening fashion. “Newmarket,” he said. “You can’t tell me it ain’t a horse race. Ain’t nothin’ riskier and you’re in for two hundred guineas.”

  Mr. Farthingale folded his hands. “And Lord Cabot is in to me for three hundred. However, a further tidy profit may be made if one might think to place a hefty bet against Lord Cabot’s horse. That person might come away with the three hundred guineas owed plus a delightful amount of winnings. The likelihood of a large gain mitigates the risk.”

  “What if he don’t lose, though?” Freddy asked. “Then you might get your three hundred but you’re out whatever you bet.”

  “He’ll lose,” Mr. Farthingale said. “You see, Freddy, it is the most precarious thing in the world to count on a horse winning. But losing? That might be made a certainty.”

  “I don’t see how,” Freddy said sullenly.

  “No, but you will. Now, do go wash your face. I cannot look upon the filth of the town ground into your cheeks for another moment.”

  *

  The phaeton moved at a smart trot while Penny watched the sunrise over the line of trees in the distance. The grass on either side of the lane was still wet with dew and glistened in the emerging light. It was her favorite time of day, when all the world was quiet but for her horses’ spirited clip-clops.

  She could not claim it as Doom’s favorite time of day, as he had been inordinately sullen upon climbing on the back of the phaeton. Still, it was not as if they had any choice in the matter. Lord Cabot had made it known that he would go to the stables first thing in the morning. As she had no wish to encounter him, she’d determined to set off long before anybody’s understanding of first thing.

  Penny had been near furious when she’d left the drawing room the night before. As she had expected, Lord Cabot had wished to apologize. What she had not expected, though she no doubt should have, was what a weak tea that apology would be. He wished to apologize and might they just pretend none of it had happened?

  The lord did not see that he had allowed her to view a part of his temperament that was, well…it was frightening. Nowhere in his apology did he assure that it would not happen again. Nowhere did he account for it or hint that it was in any way unu
sual.

  Did he really think she would lay herself open to another such exchange? That she would blithely meet him at the stables to discuss their respective horses? That they would go on as they had been? Go on, that was, until the next time she’d unknowingly prodded him and he lashed her for it. She certainly was not such a fool.

  She’d sent word to Petit to have the phaeton ready at dawn and she’d dressed herself and crept out of the house as soon as the sky had hinted at lightening. Her aunt would be aggravated that she’d not taken a footman, though her father would not mind it. Lord Mendbridge considered the hired stable, with its cadre of grooms, to be safe enough and he was of the opinion that highwaymen and others of their ilk might be late on the roads, but never early. Those that were too lazy to find proper work were unlikely to leap out of bed to meet the day.

  Trotting up to the stables, she’d tied up her horses, not imagining the boys would be up at such an hour. Even the stalls were quiet, the horses sleepy and waiting patiently for the sun to rise higher so they might begin to stamp their hooves in a gentle request for their breakfast.

  Doom staggered behind her in a near sleepwalk. As she moved down the line of stalls, she paused. Bella, who should have been in the very last stall of sixteen, was somehow in the third stall.

  “Bella,” she whispered, “what do you do in this stall that is not your own? Who has moved you here?”

  The horse shook out her mane as if she was just as mystified as her mistress.

  “That ain’t Bella,” Doom said sleepily. “She ain’t got the three white hairs on her withers. I brushed the girl enough to know every hair on her.”

  Penny leaned in closer and peered at the horse. Doom was right, this horse did not have Bella’s three white hairs. Penny had often noticed the oddity herself, and once joked to her father that Bella had wished to be a grey but had changed her mind.

  She stepped back and found a small brass plate nailed to the stall door. Bucephalus, Cabot

  Reading the plate, she frowned. “Lord Cabot. Why should he have a filly that is so like mine?” she said to herself.