The Bargain of a Baroness

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Hannah blinked and gingerly took the missive from the tray. “I do hope all is well with my nephew and his bride,” she murmured as she slipped a thumb beneath the wax seal and unfolded the fine stationery.

  To my dearest aunt, Hannah,

  Hannah couldn’t help the burble of laughter she felt at reading those words.

  She was Tom Grandby’s only aunt.

  Although it has only been a fortnight since you last graced us with your presence, the love of my life and I would like you to join us once again for dinner this Monday evening. With the entertainments beginning Tuesday night (we have received our invitation to Lord Weatherstone’s ball, and we will be in attendance), we thought to start the week with a small dinner party for our closest friends.

  I do apologize for the short notice. Marriage has made me realise I must be open to the idea of last-minute plans and appointments. Else, how would I know the joy that can be had at someone else’s behest? This, I am sure, is something with which you have already been familiar.

  Hannah inhaled sharply, stunned at reading her nephew’s words. Apparently, Tom was enjoying his marriage.

  If that’s what he meant by his words.

  But what else could he mean?

  Remembering Potter was waiting for a response to pass along to the footman from Fairmont Park, Hannah resumed reading.

  I intend for you to find joy in your attendance, for I have a surprise of monumental proportions. Or, in the event you have already been surprised by this particular surprise, you will at least appreciate the opportunity to spend time with those who hold you in the highest regard.

  Please do join us.

  Sincerely,

  Tom and Victoria

  (Your favorite nephew and niece)

  Hannah tittered, a hand covering her mouth. She had no idea what Tom might have in the way of a “surprise of monumental proportions,” but she was certainly willing to discover it for herself.

  She turned to Potter and said, “Do tell the footman that I shall attend Lady Grandby’s dinner party,” she said, deliberately not mentioning her nephew.

  Surely Tom would find humor in her verbal RSVP, and then have a reason to tease her Monday night when she arrived at Fairmont Park. “I shall plan to arrive at...” She glanced back at the invitation and realized there wasn’t a time mentioned. “Six o’clock,” she said, remembering the last dinner at Fairmont Park had been served at seven of the clock.

  “Very good, my lady,” Potter said before he bowed and disappeared.

  Hannah was still grinning when it dawned on her that the invitation didn’t include Edward.

  Rifling through Edward’s invitations, she discovered he didn’t have any for Monday evening.

  Well, she would certainly surprise Tom when she showed up with Edward on her arm. But if Edward had already made plans with one of his friends in town, she would simply attend the dinner at Fairmont Park by herself and mention her son was in town for the first week of the Season.

  Feeling ever so proud of herself, Hannah beamed when she was joined by the earl and his countess and then finally Edward.

  Complaining his grandfather had kept him up far too late with their trip to Brooks’s, Edward tucked into his luncheon, his hunger apparently insatiable.

  Lady Mayfield was beaming in delight, and when Hannah asked what had her so happy, Temperance pulled out a wad of pound notes from a pocket. “Mayfield won at cards last night, and he’s given all of it to me,” she said happily. “Which means I’ll be shopping for fripperies this afternoon. Would you care to join me?”

  Hannah exchanged a glance with her son, who had paused in his eating to wink at his grandfather. “Indeed. My son has reminded me I am in need of new clothes for the Season. It seems we have invitations for the entertainments.”

  “I am so glad to hear it. I feared you might be forgotten,” Temperance said, waving away the luncheon entree in favor of some cubed fruit.

  A twinge of melancholy had Hannah inhaling. All the invitations that were opened before her had all been addressed to her son. Invitations her brother had arranged on his nephew’s behalf.

  So why hadn’t he done the same for her?

  Hannah was about to continue her conversation with Lady Mayfield, but Temperance only had eyes for her husband, and he for her. Hannah wasn’t surprised when they rose in unison and announced they had business in the library.

  When Edward finally lifted his head from his plate, his stomach apparently filled to capacity, he mentioned his need to find the latest version of DeBrett’s. He bowed and was about to take his leave of the breakfast parlor when Hannah suddenly straightened.

  “Oh, do not go to the library,” she ordered.

  Edward turned on the threshold. “Why ever not?”

  Hannah’s eyes darted to the side. “Your grandparents are in there. And I’m quite sure they are not reading,” she replied, her face blooming with color.

  Edward considered her words a moment before he let out a guffaw. “Grandfather is so horny!” he announced.

  “Edward!” Hannah scolded, having a hard time resisting the urge to laugh at hearing his proclamation. The Earl of Mayfield had obviously said something during their time at Brooks’s the night before.

  When she couldn’t hide her humor any longer, though, she added, “He may not be the one at fault on this day.”

  Edward blinked and then allowed a brilliant grin when he remembered the money he had shared with his grandfather the night before. “Mother!” he nearly shouted.

  Hannah grinned in delight. “You can look at DeBrett’s later,” she said. “In the meantime, it’s high time you spent some time with your peers. Off with you,” she ordered with a wave of her hand.

  His brows furrowing as he sobered, Edward said, “Promise you’ll pay a call on your modiste for a new ball gown?”

  Reluctantly agreeing to his mandate, Hannah nodded. “I will pay a call at Madame Suzanne’s this afternoon. Your grandmother has asked me to go shopping with her.”

  Edward didn’t need to know that Suzanne’s in Oxford Street featured ready-to-wear gowns. The very last thing Hannah wanted to do on this day was to stand in a modiste’s shop and be poked and prodded by seamstresses armed with pins and needles.

  Far better to just buy something ready-made.

  Something for Monday night’s dinner at Fairmont Park and something appropriate for Lord Weatherstone’s ball on Tuesday.

  With any luck, she would be in and out of the shop in less than an hour.

  Chapter 17

  A Portrait Revealed

  Several hours later, at the Wellingham townhouse in King Street

  When a sharp rap sounded on the red-painted door of 3 King Street, the housemaid, Mrs. Dahlia Larsen, opened it.

  A liveried footman handed her a bright white missive. “Is Mr. Wellingham in residence?” he asked.

  Dahlia narrowed her eyes, taking in the sight of the rather tall footman wearing the livery of Fairmont Park. “Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?” she responded, a grin teasing the corners of her mouth. She was old enough to be the servant’s mother, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know,” the footman replied. His eyes darted to the side, though, apparently unsure of what Dahlia meant by her words.

  “What news do you bear?” she asked.

  “This, my lady,” he replied, as he held out a folded note. “I’ve been told I needn’t wait for a reply.”

  Frowning, Dahlia accepted the missive as if she thought it might explode. “I’ll be sure it’s passed along to Mr. Wellingham,” she replied. She watched with interest as the footman bowed and headed toward a small coach bearing a gold crest on the door. The footman appeared as if he had to bend nearly in half in order to step into the coach, which meant Dahlia was afforded a generous view of the man’s posterior.

  Despite having been married to one of Wellingham’s grooms for thirty-five years—or maybe because of it
—she tittered in delight.

  Lingering far too long in the open doorway, as much for a breath of fresh air as to watch the coach pull away from the curb, Dahlia’s attention went to the large Simpson townhouse across the street.

  As her gaze went up the four stories, she gave a start when she realized someone was staring at her from a third story window. Pretending she didn’t notice, she continued her perusal of the house and then the one next to it. When her gaze darted back to the third story window, the drapes dropped in front of the face so quickly, she almost wondered if she had seen a ghost.

  “Well,” she huffed. She turned around and was about to close the door when Emma Wellingham appeared from the parlor.

  “What is it, Dahlia?” she asked, her attention on the street beyond the door.

  “I’d say it was a Peepin’ Tom, but he was looking out instead of in,” Dahlia said. “Not sure why he was starin’ at me so, but he’s not now.” She held out the missive. “A footman just delivered this for Mr. Wellingham.”

  Emma frowned as she took the envelope. She had only just arrived from Wellingham Imports the hour before, deciding she could take the afternoon off in favor of seeing to arrangements at home now that Graham had returned. “Did you recognize whoever it was who was staring?”

  Dahlia shook her head. “Didn’t get a clear look, Mrs. Wellingham. Oh, and Cook asked if you wanted tonight’s dinner served here or at Woodscastle.”

  About to answer, Emma realized she hadn’t given a thought to that night’s dinner location. Although Laura had said her presence wasn’t required for her to finish the portrait, Emma chose to spend the early afternoon in the parlor in the event the young woman needed her to resume her pose. “Since Graham is staying there, we should probably do it at Woodscastle. We’ll spend the night and then can leave for church in the morning,” she said as she considered how complicated life could be with two households and not enough servants to fully staff both.

  “Very good, ma’am. I’ll let the cook here know and have Mr. Allen take me to Woodscastle.”

  Emma nodded her understanding, glad the older woman would see to the logistics. When she turned to go back into the parlor, Laura stood on the threshold and gave a curtsy. “I’m finished with your portrait, my lady.”

  Excitement and a hint of worry had Emma pausing before she followed the artist into the parlor.

  “I haven’t quite finished the other one we discussed, but...” She allowed the sentence to trail off. “I’ll have it finished later today. I wanted you to see this one first.”

  She led Emma to an easel on which rested the larger of two canvases, and she pulled away a Dutch cloth.

  Emma inhaled softly, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of herself—an image the opposite of what she saw in a mirror but otherwise rendered perfectly. “Oh,” she breathed. “You made me look so young,” she said with a grin. She leaned forward, studying the sheer fabric overdress that allowed her teal blue satin dinner gown to show through. The details of the rosettes decorating the edge of the bottom ruffle had Emma gasping. “It all looks so real,” she murmured.

  “I know it’s a style not to everyone’s liking,” Laura replied. “But I don’t know how to do it differently.”

  “But this is perfect,” Emma said as she continued to admire the other details in the painting. The vase of flowers atop the plinth next to which she stood. The strands of her hair, arranged in an ornate style with one long blonde lock resting on a shoulder. The sheen and folds of her teal satin gloves. The necklace of sapphires and diamonds Thomas had given her on the occasion of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The matching bracelet and earrings, the jewels rendered so there were stars of light reflecting from them. “I could stare at this all day.”

  “You’ll have to step aside so I can join you doing it,” Thomas murmured, his profile appearing in Emma’s peripheral vision.

  Emma gave a start. “Thomas! You startled me,” she accused, a grin appearing when she saw how he was admiring the painting. She glanced back at Laura and gave her a wink.

  “Now I almost wish I had agreed to stand with you.” Thomas said as he stepped back.

  “I wish you had,” Emma agreed. She turned to Laura. “Could you do one of Mr. Wellingham?”

  She nodded. “I could, but it would have to wait until I am finished with my next commission,” Laura replied.

  “Oh? And who is the lucky subject this time?” Thomas asked.

  “Subjects, sir. Lady Simpson and her family,” Laura replied. “I’m to start on their portrait this Monday.”

  Emma’s eyes widened in delight. “Then you shall continue to stay with us during the week,” she said.

  “But, I couldn’t impose. I’ve already—”

  “It’s not an imposition in the least,” Emma argued. “That is... if it’s not an imposition for you,” she added, her brows suddenly furrowing with worry.

  Laura shook her head. “Actually, it’s not. Truth be told, I’ve enjoyed my time here. It’s made me realize I do want a home of my own.”

  “You practically have one given we’re not here very much,” Thomas murmured, his attention back on the painting. “Tell me, does it usually take this long for you to complete a painting?”

  Laura and Emma exchanged quick glances. “Miss Overby has actually finished two portraits,” Emma replied.

  “Almost two. I still have a few hours before the other one is finished.”

  “Another one?” Thomas repeated, straightening to regard the artist with curiosity.

  “She’s been working on another commission at the same time she’s been doing this one,” Emma put in, hoping to keep her secret for a few more days.

  “Ah, very good,” Thomas replied. “Well, you’ll have the house to yourself this afternoon. I’m taking my wife out to Woodscastle for dinner with our son.”

  “Then I shall see to it the front door is locked upon my departure this afternoon,” Laura said.

  Thomas furrowed a brow. “You haven’t met our son, yet, have you?”

  Laura’s eyes widened. “I have not. Until a few minutes ago, I don’t believe I even knew you had one.”

  Emma and Thomas exchanged quick glances, mischief in their expressions. “We’ll introduce you next week,” Emma promised. She turned back to Thomas. “We need to be off to Woodscastle. Graham is probably wondering where we are.”

  “Understood,” Thomas replied. He turned to Laura. “Thank you for rendering my wife so beautifully.”

  Laura grinned. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  A few minutes later

  Thomas assisted his wife into the Wellingham town coach and followed her in. Even before he had taken his seat next to her on the bench, he asked, “Just what have you in mind for our son and Miss Overby?”

  Emma settled into the squabs, an expression of surprise on her face. “Nothing,” she insisted.

  “I saw that look in your eye,” he accused. “You’re up to something.”

  Allowing a sigh, Emma said, “If Graham and Hannah do not end up together as we have always thought they would, then I am of the opinion Miss Overby would make a suitable wife for him,” she admitted.

  “Emma,” he said, a warning tingeing his voice. “She’s a bit young for him, don’t you think?”

  His wife allowed a sigh. “Young, but the perfect age to bear children,” she countered.

  “But you’re not planning to do anything untoward?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not.”

  Not entirely convinced, Thomas wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer until she settled her head onto his shoulder. “I suppose you can’t help it,” he murmured, turning his head so he could kiss the top of hers.

  Emma allowed a secret smile.

  She wanted a grandchild, and given her son’s age, she almost didn’t care who he married.

  Almost.

  Chapter 18

  In the Wrong Place at the Right Time


  An hour later, at 3 King Street

  Graham Wellingham gazed out the wavy glass of the hansom cab as it made its way east on Oxford Street toward King Street. A few pasteboard boxes were riding on the seat next to him, his purchases from a day spent reacquainting himself with London’s shops for men.

  Determined to dress appropriately for the dinner at Harrington House two nights hence, he availed himself of the advice of no less than three tailors and the current owner of the hat shop, Fitzsimmons and Smith, for what he should be wearing in London these days.

  Seeing Ambrose Smith with gray hair and mutton chops for sideburns had been both a pleasant surprise and a reminder of how much time had passed since Graham had last visited his late grandfather’s hat shop.

  George Fitzsimmons, his mother’s father, had died long before Graham was born, but George’s legacy lived on in the hats that Ambrose continued to produce for his eponymous shop. Graham was fairly sure his mother still collected a small stipend in exchange for the use of the Fitzsimmons name in all the labels of the top hats that were sold there.

  Although there were a few he remembered from before his time living in Boston, he marveled at the variety of hats that now existed—for both men and women. The latest version currently rested on his head, a beaver of conservative design and height. Given his own height, he hardly needed one of the stove pipe styles that would have added another four inches.

  The sudden sway of the cab had Graham struggling to see a street sign on the side of a building. Even before spotting the King Street label, he recognized the townhouses that had at one time all been owned by the Simpsons. Only a few of the houses were still theirs these days, the rest having been purchased by their residents when James Simpson elected a quieter, more retired life after the birth of the twins.

  The cab slowed to a halt, the whinny of an annoyed horse sounding from in front. Surveying the façade of the townhouse adorned with a “3” on its red brick face, Graham was heartened to see it was clean of soot. A few early spring blooms colored the greenery in two pots that flanked the entrance. Behind the door, he expected to find his parents and the promise of an evening eating a sumptuous dinner and hours to catch up on the latest on-dit.