She was still frowning at him. “I trust so. Now, about George’s widow. What will we do with her?”
“She lives here now. I have written to Aunt Miranda. If she’s still alive, perhaps she’ll consent to living here as well, acting as chaperon.”
“Even old battle-ax Miranda isn’t enough of a chaperon for you, Rohan. The last I heard, she was nearing her final reward, or maybe she’d already traveled on to the hereafter. I forget. She never liked me, you know. Odd, but there it is. But I suppose you will need someone, since you have such a grand reputation for seduction and debauchery. It will come out and everyone will believe that Marianne is your bastard.” She paused a moment, sipped on her brandy, then brightened. “That is quite acceptable. You don’t have any bastards. It’s about time you got the proper credit for presenting one to Society and to your fond mama.”
“I think that Susannah would prefer that her child wasn’t a bastard, Mama.”
“I suppose you are right. A legitimate Carrington. How very excellent, indeed.” She drank another sip of champagne.
“Now, Mama, would you like to tell me about this wondrous vision of yours? You said that Susannah is the young lady you saw?”
“Yes, and you were standing behind her looking helpless—not something I like, Rohan.”
“I don’t either. You have no other context?”
His mother scrunched up her face in thought, the result being more adorable than beautiful. “I remember feeling that both of you were in some sort of cave. It was very dim and shadowy. It was an old place, and it looked as if no one had been there in nearly forever. There were other people about, but their faces were vague and blurred. Just your face and dear Susannah’s were clear to me. That’s all. Sorry, dearest, I remember nothing else.”
He didn’t know what to think. His mother had had this vision? “What do you think of Marianne?”
“My granddaughter,” she said slowly, as if savoring the word. “What a daunting thought for any lady. She is truly the image of George and of you as well. Your father sighed whenever I pointed out that all our boys looked like their mama, except for the Carrington green eyes. He allowed that since I had done most of the difficult part, perhaps it was only fair. I only wish that George had told us he had married, but I suppose that since he was so young at the time he believed we would have forbidden it.”
“Perhaps,” Rohan said, wondering how he could turn her from this particular topic.
“I wish George had told us when Susannah was with child. I should have adored seeing to her. I would have given her advice, you know. I could have told her how to deal with that awful birthing pain. It was you, dearest, who brought me the most awful pain, but I have very nearly forgotten it.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“I never blamed you, dearest, but I did scream a good deal at your dear father. As I recall, I called him many names that rarely if ever fit him. Poor man, he was so distraught each time I was in mortal agony bearing a child that he couldn’t bear to remain with me. No, he would flee to one of his mistresses and she would soothe him. He felt such guilt for bringing me that awful pain. We went to Italy after you arrived, Rohan. How I adored Venice and all the masked balls and those handsome Italian men. They—well, that’s not all that important now.” She touched her slender white fingers to the brilliant diamond necklace at her throat. “This lovely bauble was for birthing Tibolt.”
“What did Papa give you for birthing George?”
“George came so quickly that your dear papa didn’t even have time to leave the house. He had only one foot out the door when George came squalling into the world. I believe he gave me a pair of earrings. As for my poor Clarissa, since she was our only daughter, your papa promised me he would dower her handsomely. That was, of course, all well and good, but I told him that I wanted my reward now. He gave me a mare. You remember Josephine, don’t you? She had those beautiful, soulful eyes and that long, sweet face?”
He nodded.
“I will expect you to be as generous to your wife, Rohan. And you must take a wife, dearest. I am sorry, but it is the done thing. You must have an heir.”
He sighed, plowing his fingers through his hair. “I know, Mama. I have been looking, sort of.” He saw Susannah clear in his mind. He quickly shook his head. He was having visions of her, just like his mother had.
“You haven’t found anyone yet to please you?”
“No, not yet.”
Suddenly he realized that something was amiss. He looked more closely at his exquisite mother. There were actually two spots of color on her high cheekbones, and the color wasn’t from the artfully applied cosmetics. He said slowly, “What have you done, Mama?”
She finished off her champagne. “I shall have to ring for Fitz.”
“I will ring for Fitz once you tell me what you’ve done. You have done something that isn’t going to please me overly, is it?”
“Her name is Daphne. I know, it’s a dreadful name—so terribly Greek, or something—but she is glorious, Rohan. Her bloodline is worthy of ours, and she would do very well as your wife. Her father is Viscount Bracken. I once gave him consideration but decided he wasn’t quite to my liking. But this Daphne, she is truly quite beautiful and brings a big dowry. Never would I consider saddling you with a donkey.”
He groaned, then rose and began to pace. The thick Axminster carpet beneath his booted feet silenced the sound. Fitz came and this time left the champagne. His mother said nothing more, merely watched him.
Finally he said, “I’m only twenty-five. I won’t be twenty-six anytime soon. Not for three more months. I’m not old enough. I will marry, I know that I must, but not this soon, Mama. Daphne? Please, not a Daphne. Tell me she lives in Italy somewhere.”
“No, she lives right here in England, actually in Kent. But she understands your nature and your reputation perfectly. Your life won’t have to change, dearest, not really. You can continue with your dissipations and your myriad other excesses. Daphne will provide you an heir and then she can begin her own pleasures.”
“Mama, I appreciate your concern, but I am too young to yet consider taking a wife. I particularly don’t want a wife named Daphne.”
His fond mama eyed him for a long time, then finally nodded. “Very well. I will write to Lord Bracken and inform him that you are ill-disposed toward matrimony. It is rather a horrid name, isn’t it? Ah, but she is a glorious creature. Perhaps we could convince her to change her name. Would you prefer Jane? Victoria?”
“Let’s just forget the glorious young lady, all right?” He grinned and raised his champagne glass to her.
“Speaking of glorious, what is that new footman’s name, Rohan? You know, the one with the deliciously wicked dark eyes? I do believe he has a Welsh look about him.”
“His name is Augustus. I rather thought you would find him to your liking.”
“You are a good son,” Charlotte said, rose, kissed him, and walked to the door. She said over her exquisite white shoulder, “What do you plan to do with Susannah? I don’t mean next week, I mean in the future.”
He looked down at his highly polished boots. He looked back at his mother. “I don’t know. But I’d best tell you about Aunt Mariam’s bequest to George.”
“I am gaining somewhat in years, dearest, but surely I would know about an Aunt Mariam if there were one in the family. Perhaps she’s one of your father’s early mistresses and she has the name ‘aunt’ because he considered her nearly one of the family?”
“No, there’s no Aunt Mariam that I know of, but that’s surely not a fact that Susannah need ever discover. I think you should come back, Mother, and let me tell you what I’ve done.”
9
SURELY SHE WAS MISTAKEN. SURELY THAT COULDN’T BE Baron Mountvale. No, impossible. Susannah drew closer. It was. He was on his knees planting a marigold with deep-golden flowers. She heard him humming.
The womanizing, utterly debauched baron was planting marigolds? And he w
as treating them tenderly, gently cleaning off the roots.
Susannah didn’t know what to think. He’d told her that he had designed the garden for his mother. He’d told her also that he had no interest in mucking about, and he’d arched a supercilious eyebrow when he said it. He most certainly wasn’t mucking about now, he was planting marigolds carefully and humming.
Then she realized that she wasn’t supposed to be here. Her mother-in-law had taken her, over her protests, in the carriage to Eastbourne to a seamstress whom she herself approved. The woman had taken ill, however, and they’d returned long before they were supposed to.
And here was Rohan planting marigolds in his garden. She quietly walked away. He’d given her food for thought. A lot of food.
When Rohan came into the drawing room before luncheon it was to see his lovely mama seated on the floor with Marianne, pouring her a cup of tea. Susannah was sitting in a chair in the corner of the large room. Sunlight poured in through the deep windows, making his mother’s hair look like spun silk. He wondered what the manly Augustus thought of Lady Mountvale. He was probably drooling.
Susannah found herself looking at the baron’s fingernails. No, they were very clean and well buffed. No dirt beneath them. He had very nice hands, she saw, then frowned a bit at herself.
“Ro-han!”
Marianne scrambled to her feet and ran to Rohan, her arms raised. He leaned down and picked her up, only to whirl her over his head in the next moment.
“Have you poured tea on your grandmama?”
She studiously traced the cleft in his chin with her finger, then smiled at him. “I want to look like Charlotte when I grow up.”
“Charlotte? You call your grandmama Charlotte?”
“Yes, dearest,” his mama said from the floor. “One must accept certain things that cannot be changed. However, there is no reason to rub salt in the wound, is there?”
“Absolutely no reason at all. So what have you been doing, little pumpkin, other than serving tea to Charlotte?”
“She told me about my grandpapa. He would have given me sweetmeats.”
“Yes, he would have,” Rohan said, and for the first time, he wished he had George in front of him. He would have slammed his fist into his jaw.
“Ro-han, you’re nearly as pretty as Charlotte.”
He pulled her fingers out of her mouth and bit one. “Men are not pretty. We are handsome. That is better than pretty.”
“Is Mama handsome or pretty?”
“Your mama is a girl. She has to be pretty. She has no choice.”
He turned his head at Susannah’s laugh. “Weren’t you invited to the tea party?”
“No, dearest, I did not invite her. Susannah is not cooperating with me. I have offered her the use of several of my gowns until we can go again to Eastbourne, but she refuses. She is proud, too proud. Therefore, she must suffer.”
“No, it isn’t that at all,” Rohan said. “She refuses because she knows she cannot fill out your gowns, Mama. She does not want to be humiliated. She is simply protecting herself.”
“I could fill it,” Marianne said.
“We will discuss that in another fifteen years,” Rohan said. “Now, Susannah, isn’t this true?”
Susannah sighed. “It was difficult, Rohan. We walked along the street in Eastbourne and all the men swooned when they saw your mother. I’m sure they took me for her maid.”
“That is true only because you refused to borrow one of my gowns,” Charlotte said with great reasonableness. “Well, not entirely. But nonetheless, don’t complain about it now. It is your own fault. Now, this is something you don’t know, Susannah. I have spoken of this to Rohan and have told him that he didn’t entirely understand his late aunt Mariam’s will. There was an initial sum of five hundred pounds to be given to George—and thus now to you. Then the quarterly allowances begin. Isn’t that splendid?”
Susannah wanted to cry. Five hundred pounds! Goodness, what she could do with such a sum! She could refurbish Mulberry House, she could have the roof replaced, and—
“Don’t even think it,” Rohan said as he set Marianne on her feet.
“But if it is my money, what can you possibly have to say about what I do with it? Indeed, sir, how could you possibly know what I was thinking?”
“Your face is a very clean window to your thoughts, Susannah. At least to me. You will not put a farthing into Mulberry House. You will not place a single sou in your father’s palm. You will use the money to refurbish yourself, not that derelict house or your equally derelict father. Also, Toby and Marianne are in need of clothes. Perhaps you could even buy Toby a pony. He needs to learn to ride.”
Susannah looked at her mother-in-law. She rose from her chair. “I am keeping my temper, ma’am, only because he is your son and I do not wish to discomfit you.”
“You are a daughter-in-law of great fortitude,” Charlotte said. “However, my dear, if you do not occasionally yell to remove blockages in your liver, you will doubtless become bilious, not a very savory condition.”
“Very well.” Susannah drew herself up and yelled, “How dare you try to give me orders when it is my five hundred pounds? You are a high-handed bas—well, baron!”
“What did you really wish to call me? I wonder. Are you certain about the will, Mother? She really gets five hundred pounds now? Are there no stipulations attached?”
Charlotte looked down at the magnificent emerald ring on the third finger of her left hand. “I am sorry, dearest, but there are no stipulations.”
He knew then, of course, that if she could have, she would have quickly added some, but it would have sounded like a sham, which it was. Oh, well. He gave Susannah a look of considerable dislike. “You will spend the money as I have instructed you to. I am the master of this household, the head of the Carrington family. You will obey me.”
“This is not your fiefdom and I am not a serf. Besides, now that your mother is here, that excuse of yours that you need a hostess no longer holds.”
“I don’t like having you look like a wench from the poorhouse. It will make my neighbors think I keep you on a stingy string. Everyone will talk about it behind their hands. I will be snubbed the next time I am in Mountvale village.”
“This gown was my mother’s.”
There was a bit of shaking in her voice and he should have been warned, but he had jumped on his horse and had dug in his heels to ride it. “Your mother never would have intended her daughter to look pathetic. I can even see your ankles. A lady doesn’t walk around with her ankles hanging out. What’s more, your stockings are bagging. It is distasteful, ma’am. Use the money to fix yourself.”
“I’m truly sorry, ma’am,” Susannah said, “but I can’t help myself.” She ran at Rohan and punched him as hard as she could in his belly.
He grunted, doubling over. “That was quite ably executed,” he said when he could speak again. “I am glad you didn’t hit me any lower. A man can’t speak as soon after a blow to his—” He saw Marianne looking at them with great green eyes. “Never mind. You will go to your room, Susannah. You may be certain that I will deal with you later.”
“Mama, why did you hit Rohan?”
Oh, dear. She’d been foolish. Before she could find an excuse, Rohan said, “I have been teaching her how to defend herself, Marianne. You heard me tell her that her hit was very good. It was. I will teach her more.” He was certain he heard Susannah growl.
“Before you go, Susannah,” Charlotte said calmly, as if nothing at all had occurred to overset anyone or anything, “my son was telling me about your troubles. Someone breaking into your house and then into Mountvale. It disturbs me. We must put our heads together and figure out what the man wanted. If we discover what the thief was after, then it only makes sense that we’ll also have the motive.”
Susannah could only stare at the glorious creature who was looking limpidly up at her from her position on the carpet. “I agree with everything you said, ma’am. But d
idn’t you hear him? Didn’t you hear the way he spoke to me? He ordered me. Surely you didn’t approve of that?”
Charlotte curled a blond curl around her finger even as she gently removed Marianne’s fingers from her mouth. She shrugged even as she eased Marianne onto her lap and leaned back against the settee. “My dear, he is my son, my eldest son. He never gave me a moment’s worry growing up. He accepted all his dear papa’s teachings and all of mine. He pleased both of us from his earliest years. He has gained a reputation that is formidable for one of such a young age. He has made me very proud. What is the mother of such a son to do?”
Susannah blinked once, twice, then drew a deep breath, but still it didn’t work and her mouth opened. “But, ma’am, he is a lecher, a—”
“I am not a damned lecher!”
“Yes, dearest, you are.” Charlotte paused and pursed her lips. “But I would never call you that. It is too blunt a word, too harsh. ‘Lecher.’ Goodness, it makes the wearer sound very unamiable, and all know that Baron Mountvale is the most charming of gentlemen. He is in demand. He is beloved. The ladies search him out. If there are excesses—which I pray there most assuredly are—it is the ladies who force them upon him. But not all of the time, I trust. Ro-han?”
“No, Mother, not all of the time.” There was, he saw, nothing for it. He threw up his hands and said, “Susannah, we are having a small soiree on Friday night. There will be at least a dozen of our neighbors. I would appreciate it if you would gown yourself appropriately—as George’s widow, not as my hostess. Now, I’m taking Toby riding. He should have returned from his lessons with Vicar Byam.”
“I thought you wanted me to buy him a pony out of my five hundred pounds.”
“You will. But I have decided that Toby is too old for a pony. It is Marianne who needs the pony. Toby will have a horse. I will even select the horse. Branderleigh Farm is not far from Mountvale. We will go there. Right now, though, I have several horses that will suit him.”
The Wild Baron Page 9