The Wild Baron

by Catherine Coulter

  “What is the problem, then?” He’d insulted her from here to the garden and back. Wasn’t he a satyr? Didn’t he want every woman he saw? Even one with dirt under her fingernails? And she wasn’t all that thin.

  He studied his own fingernails. They were well buffed and clean. He said without looking at her, “To inherit George’s money, you must come onto the stage, so to speak. You cannot remain here at Mulberry House. You must take your place as the widow of the late George Carrington. In short, you must come to my home and live the life you would have had if George had lived.”

  He was mad, utterly and undeniably mad. No doubt about it, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, leave the little girl here to live with a grandfather who was probably also a drunk besides being a gambler. He would like to take just Marianne, but he knew her mother would never allow it.

  “London?”

  “I have a house there. You make it sound like one big fleshpot. It’s not, you know.”

  She was shaking her head. “No, no, truly, everything is just as I like it. I wish to stay here. It’s true my father is in one of his rather low periods and I am never certain how long it will last. All I want is protection for Marianne. Please—”

  “You will not beg again. It doesn’t suit you. Marianne is my niece. She is my flesh. She will live as a Carrington. If not London, then we will go to my estate in Sussex until you accustom yourself. She will not remain here.”

  “You make Mulberry House sound like a pigsty. It isn’t. It’s just that Papa is on one of his lower swings and—”

  “Papa can swing in any direction he pleases. My niece will not live well or hand-to-mouth according to his luck. Do you want her to grow up knowing her dear grandpapa tried to blackmail her uncle?”

  That did revolt the senses, she thought, but things were moving too quickly. “Where do you live in Sussex?”

  “Near Eastbourne. It’s but two miles from the coast. It’s beautiful country, all hilly, with ancient rocks that poke up here and there and quite take you by surprise. It’s near where the Battle of Hastings was fought. When you walk over that ground, you can practically hear the Normans and the Saxons axing away at each other. The weather is pleasant as it can be anywhere in England.”

  “My father?”

  Rohan just shrugged. He still wanted to pound the man into the dirt, but, after all, he had through his daughter given him a niece—George’s daughter—so he didn’t feel as violent as he had before. “There should be no problem. Your father can visit you. On rare occasion. Make that very rare. I will make him an allowance so that he can continue living here at Mulberry House.”

  She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know this man. But she knew of him. He was a womanizer, a man famed for his debauchery, just as his father had been, just as his mother still was. She couldn’t imagine having a debauched mother, a debauched mother-in-law. According to George, the Baron and Baroness Mountvale had long been adored by Society. The more wicked they were, the more adored they became. Apparently the same perverse equation was true for the current baron, the Wild Baron. She splayed her hand. “Why are you offering to do this?”

  He looked down at her, but he really saw his brother’s face the last time he had been with him, only two days before he’d died. George had been flushed because of something he’d come across by accident. He refused to tell Rohan about it, just said it wouldn’t interest him.

  Rohan wondered now if George had ever intended to tell him about—“I don’t know your name,” he said.

  4

  SHE SMILED UP AT THE UTTERLY BAFFLED EXPRESSION ON his face. She wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “My name is Susannah. It was my mother’s name.”

  “You will come with me to Mountvale House?”

  Susannah thought of the small serving of beef that was left in the kitchen. She had a total of six pounds to her name, money she’d hoarded for the past year and a half, a shilling at a time. She’d already mended Marianne’s dresses so many times they wouldn’t last much longer. But what swayed her was the thought that Marianne would grow up thinking her grandfather was the way a man should be, that this was the way a family should be. She looked at the baron, searching his face for perfidy. She realized he was also offering her escape. He didn’t know it, but he was. But would she be safe with him?

  He knew what she was thinking, but he said nothing, just let her search and search and finally come to a decision.

  “It is very kind of you to offer, sir. But it isn’t simply a matter of just Marianne and me.”

  “If you’re referring to your father, no, he won’t live at Mountvale. I value my silver too much for that.”

  “My father is not a thief.”

  “If this letter he wrote me is any indication, he isn’t all that far removed.”

  “He was simply concerned. His judgment clouded for a brief time, that’s all. He’s half Irish, you know. He’s very good with horses.”

  “His judgment can cloud until it rains, but it won’t be at Mountvale.”

  “It’s not my father I was speaking about.”

  “What’s the matter now? You want Jamie with you? Fine, I’ll hire him. Besides, I doubt Gulliver will willingly let him out of his sight now. He’s the first person to seduce my horse besides me.”

  “No, it’s not Jamie. It’s Toby.”

  “Who the devil is Toby? Your favorite cat? If Toby’s a good mouser, I don’t mind carting him with us.”

  “Toby is my little brother.”

  Rohan just stared at her. “Your little brother,” he repeated slowly, trying to gather his wits. “You have a child and a little brother?”

  “Yes. Tobias Hawlworth. He’s eight years old, and I’m really more his mother than his sister. His mother—our mother—died birthing him.” Ah, the pain of that. Susannah had been terrified that she would die as well when she became pregnant with Marianne. But the birth had been relatively easy, thank God.

  “But your father wouldn’t allow him to leave. This Toby is his heir, surely—”

  “I understand, sir,” she said, and there was acceptance in her calm voice. “But I could no more leave Toby than I could leave Marianne. Thank you for coming. I’m pleased that you got to meet your niece. Good-bye.”

  She was trying to shove him out the door. When that didn’t work, she walked outside herself, waving for him to follow her. Gulliver looked in her direction and neighed. Jamie patted the white star on his nose.

  “Good-bye,” she called again.

  “Susannah! Where are you? Susannah?”

  A boy came dashing around the side of the house. He was tall and skinny as a post, and his hair was as black as a sinner’s dreams. He skidded to a stop in front of her. With a big grin, he shoved a notebook into her hands. “Here, just look at this, Susannah. It’s my Latin translations and Vicar Horkle said they were the best he’d ever seen. See, he even wrote “excellent” on the first page. What do you think of that?”

  She was silent until she’d opened the notebook, read what the vicar had written. Then she smiled at the boy, grabbed him, and kissed his ear. “You’re a marvel, Master Toby, just a marvel. Ah, but look at that rip in your shirt. Look at your shoes, all scuffed and dirty. What did you do? Oh no, Toby, you fought with that Finley boy again, didn’t you?”

  Rohan saw more evidence of fisticuffs than his sister did. Toby’s knuckles were bloody, the knee of one pants leg was ripped, a bruise was coming into its colors on his cheek. He cleared his throat. “Did you win?” he asked.

  The boy beamed. “Yes, sir. I knocked him right off his pins, lifted him clean in the air, and tossed him over a log. Of course, he got in a couple of wallops, but I held him down and stuffed leaves in his mouth. I think he swallowed one with a caterpillar on it.”

  It was an image that brought back a score of memories. Rohan smiled, unable not to. Then he laughed, something of a rusty sound since he was a reprobate of some repute and no reprobate of any distinction at all laughed all that much
.

  As for Susannah, she froze tighter than a spigot in January. Slowly, ever so slowly, she said, “Toby, this is Lord Mountvale. He is Marianne’s uncle and just come for a brief visit. Say your hellos and good-byes, for he is on his way now.”

  “Hello, sir,” Toby said, and bowed. There was a deep, loud, rending sound. The boy gasped, backed away, and then turned and ran.

  “Oh, dear,” Susannah said, “It would seem he ripped his pants. Please go now, sir. I must see to my brother.”

  “No,” Rohan said. “Let me do it.”

  “He’s hiding in the far eastern end of the stable, my lord,” Jamie called out, and Gulliver neighed.

  She grabbed his sleeve. “But you’re a stranger and I’m his sister. It’s up to me to take care of him, it’s—”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  It wasn’t until Rohan was standing in the doorway of the dim stable that he wondered what he was doing. He didn’t know this boy. What did he care that the little nit was embarrassed because he’d ripped his britches?

  He heard himself call out, “Toby? Don’t run, it’s just me, Rohan, er, Lord Mountvale.”

  He heard the movement of hay and walked to the end of the stable. The boy was crouched down against the wall, trying to press himself through the wood, really, his face in his hands.

  Rohan said, “My horse is skittish. I don’t like to leave him waiting. It oversets his nerves. If Jamie runs out of limericks to sing to him, I have no idea what will happen. He could even bolt. And then I would have to walk to the nearest town and likely get very testy in the process.”

  Toby nearly jumped out of his skin. He stared at the gentleman, who was, in truth, the most handsome, polished-looking gentleman he’d ever seen in his life. The gentleman looked somehow familiar, but how could that be possible?

  Toby wanted to sink through the hay and bury himself at the bottom, but he scrambled to his feet.

  Rohan said, “Are you bare-assed or is it just a little tear?”

  “I’m bare-assed, sir. Leastways, my right part is.”

  “You’re lucky I’m here and wearing a coat.” He shrugged out of his riding jacket and handed it to the boy. “Once when I was bare-assed on both parts, I had to walk all the way home and through my parents’ house before I could cover myself. That amounted to three maiden aunts, countless maids, and my mother’s abigail, who screamed her head off at the sight. As I recall, my older sister trailed me up the stairs, giggling all the way and pointing. I wanted to pound her, but she was too much bigger than I was.”

  “How old were you, sir?”

  “About eight or nine.”

  “I’m eight. My sister’s older than I am too.”

  “Ah, just the right age, then. Turn around. Yes, the coat covers all shortages. I don’t think your sister would giggle at you.”

  “No, she’d carry on like a mother. She’d twitter and moan and try to hug me until she’d cracked my ribs. She’d look at my knuckles and moan some more and sigh deeply. She’d try to act brave that I was brawling and got hurt, only I’m not really hurt at all, just a little bit.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Just like a mother. Perhaps giggles would be better. I daresay that since you’re wearing my coat, she won’t be hot off the mark to hug you for fear of wrinkling my clothes.”

  The boy walked next to him out of the stable. “You’re really Marianne’s uncle?”

  “Yes. I’m taking you, Marianne, and your sister back to Mountvale House. That’s my home in Sussex. It’s close to the English Channel. Do you like to fish?”

  The boy’s eyes shone. “Fish? And swim? Maybe I could learn how to sail?”

  “Yes, all those things.”

  “Oh, sir, that would be grand.” His face fell. “But Pa, sir. What would Susannah and I do with Pa?”

  “Pa will remain here at Mulberry House. We will find a nice woman to come and look after him. You may visit him whenever you wish.”

  Rohan feared the boy’s face would crack from the huge grin that split his mouth wide. The bruise on his left cheek was flying shades of yellow and green. Rohan’s coat flapped around his knees, and some blood off the boy’s knuckles had gotten on the cuff. Rohan pictured Tinker’s fat cheeks turning red when he saw those cuffs. He wondered if he had a secret way of removing a bloodstain.

  Susannah sighed, much beset. “It appears you’ve given me no choice at all. Very well. I suppose there’s no hope for it. I will come to Mountvale House.”

  “Your enthusiasm overwhelms me. Do you need assistance packing up yourself and the children?”

  “No, it will be no problem.”

  “Then I will be on my way. I cannot remain here. There is no chaperon. Is there an inn somewhere close?”

  “On the coach road, just as you ride into Moreton-in-Marsh. The Gourd and the Raisin. I have heard that the sheets are clean and Mrs. Dooley serves a fine dinner. You must have a glass of her cider. She is very proud of it.”

  “Shall I ask her for the recipe so that you can try to bungle it?”

  “It is a secret. She won’t tell a soul until she’s nearly dead. Then, she claims, she will tell only her eldest daughter, Maude.”

  “A pity. Very well, I will see all of you tomorrow, then. Ah, don’t worry about the blood on the cuff. My valet can have the pleasure of fretting over it. He will doubtless claim it gave him apoplexy.” He gave her a brief wave, climbed into his curricle, and took the reins from Jamie.

  Already, she thought, as she watched him speak to Jamie, for a rather long time, really—already he was taking over. She watched him give Jamie a coin that made him do a gawky little jig in the drive, then he was away.

  She looked after him until he was gone from her sight.

  She walked upstairs to her bedchamber to pen her father a letter. He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, but for his children and his granddaughter, not himself. Well, yes, for he would no longer have to put up with Susannah nagging at him, preaching at him, being a worse shrew than his wife had been. At least that’s what he mumbled in an aggrieved voice.

  She smiled as she pictured the woman she would pay to see to him. Mrs. Heron was a terror. She was also very lucky. Susannah knew her to win every wager she’d ever made, including the one just last month with the vicar. He had never figured out how Mrs. Heron had known that Rob Longman would put two pounds in the collection plate that one particular Sunday when he’d never put in more than a shilling before. She also played cards like a shark. Susannah’s father didn’t have a chance. She smiled as she heard Toby singing at the top of his lungs.

  What had Lord Mountvale said to him to make him ready to fall onto the ground and kiss that gentleman’s boots?

  When Rohan arrived the following morning just after seven o’clock, Susannah was nearly out of her mind. Marianne was shrieking because Toby had stepped on her doll, Gwen, and the left arm had ripped off. Toby was standing in the middle of the small kitchen holding Gwen, trying to figure out how to re-attach the arm, Marianne was pounding the wooden floor with her fists, and Susannah was spilling warm milk on her gown.

  Rohan walked into the kitchen, took in the pandemonium, and walked out again. His ears were ringing. He wasn’t used to children, and this child’s lungs were formidable.

  “Sir!”

  Damnation, what was a man who’d obviously disintegrated into an idiot the previous afternoon to do? There was Toby, standing there holding that damned doll in one hand and the severed arm in the other.

  “Sir, do you know how to fix Gwen?”

  “Gwen?” Hadn’t Charles II had a mistress named Gwen? He shook his head at himself. “Oh, the doll.” He hadn’t the foggiest idea. Susannah appeared, Marianne on her hip, still crying, trying to pull away from her mother and leap on Toby.

  “Well,” Rohan said.

  “Here, take Marianne. I’ll fix Gwen. Toby, you get our valises and put them in the curricle. Yes, go now. Everything will be fine.”

 
; Rohan found himself, for the first time in his life, in sole possession of a child, a very small child who was wriggling and pushing against him and crying “Gwen” at the top of her lungs.

  He held her firmly and followed Susannah back into the kitchen, where she fetched a basket and sat down. She threaded a needle and began to sew Gwen’s arm back on.

  “Don’t hurt her, Mommy, don’t hurt her.”

  Susannah said without looking up, “Please give her a cup of the warm milk. I didn’t spill all of it.”

  Rohan held the squirming little girl against his side as he poured the pan of milk into the waiting cup. He knew it was a bad idea, he knew it, but nonetheless he lifted the cup to Marianne’s mouth. She shrieked and slapped his hand away. The milk went flying—on him and on the floor.

  He held Marianne under her arms and away from him. He looked her right in the eye. “You will be quiet this instant, Marianne.”

  The voice was one she’d never heard before—stern, low, and mean. To the amazement of the two adults, she shut her mouth.

  Susannah looked up at the sudden utter silence. She smiled at him. “Nearly done.”

  When she handed Gwen back to Marianne, the child took her doll, tugged several times on the arm, then sighed deeply, put her fingers in her mouth, and collapsed against Rohan’s shoulder.

  “She’s easy,” he said. “Very easy.”

  “Sometimes. Upon rare occasions. After she gets what she wants. You’ll see.”

  He watched Susannah clean up the milk mess. She handed him the cloth to wipe himself off. Then he followed her from the kitchen and watched her pull on her bonnet and pelisse and, finally, straighten Toby’s jacket. She took Marianne from him and said to her little brother, “I have left Papa a note, Toby, so you’re not to worry. Mrs. Heron will come and take care of him. She told me last night.”