The Bargain of a Baroness

by Sande, Linda Rae

Laura removed the apron, folding it and laying it over the table on which her palette rested. She glanced down at her gown, wincing at its simplicity.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Her gaze going to his fine suit of clothes, Laura was about to change her mind. Apparently, Henry noticed, for he leaned in close and said, “I’ll help you with your mantle. It’s in the vestibule, is it not?”

  The reminder they would be wearing something over their current clothes had Laura relaxing. “Yes, of course. I should probably let Lady Simpson know I’m—”

  “She knows,” Henry interrupted, hoping he didn’t sound like some sort of rake intent on ruining a young maiden. “If you’d like the presence of a maid—as a chaperone—I can prevail upon her lady’s maid to join us.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. The ride in the coach would be awkward enough with just the two of them. Adding a maid—someone she didn’t even know—would make it even more so. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Simpson,” she said with a shake of her head. Then, because she thought to tease him in an effort to see if he could show amusement, she added, “Unless you are a rake intent on ruining me?”

  Henry’s eyes rounded. “That’s not my intent at all,” he replied in alarm. When he noticed the twinkle in her eyes, he finally quirked his lips. “I would scold you, but I’m not sure you would receive it the way it was intended.”

  It was Laura’s turn to round her eyes. “Mr. Simpson!” she said in a hoarse whisper. But her broad grin belied her words.

  The encounter leaving him hopeful, Henry motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

  Laura didn’t reply but turned and shook out a Dutch cloth. She settled it over the top edge of the canvas, allowing it to fall over her work just as Henry peeked around the edge.

  He turned to stare at her, his eyes wide. “You have captured my father perfectly,” he whispered.

  A shiver shot down her spine. “He is an excellent subject, Mr. Simpson.”

  “Henry,” he said in a quiet voice. When her brows furrowed, he added, “Call me Henry. Although I admit to a certain aversion to my given name, I do prefer it over Mr. Simpson.”

  Laura swallowed as she moved toward the door, Henry quickly stepping to her side. “Henrí, perhaps?” she offered, giving his name the French pronunciation.

  Henry’s eyes widened before a wan grin appeared. “I like that much better.”

  They made their way out of the parlor and to the stairs, Henry offering his arm. She placed her hand on it and they descended. There were no servants about as he held her mantle for her and then donned his greatcoat as she lifted the hood over her halo of blonde curls. He opened the door, and directly beyond it, the coach stood with its driver holding that door open.

  Laura had the impression their departure from the townhouse was kept private as she stepped up and into the sky blue velvet-lined coach.

  Did anyone else in the household know they were off to the park?

  Thoughts of Henry kidnapping her should have set off alarm bells in her head. Thoughts that their trip to the park might be considered scandalous should have had her begging off and returning to the security of the parlor to continue her work on the painting.

  Instead, she struggled to keep a smile from lighting her face as she settled herself into the velvet-covered bench facing the direction of travel and watched as Henry sat opposite her, his woolen greatcoat draping over the edge to reveal its satin lining.

  “This is quite elegant,” she said once the door was shut.

  “It was a gift to my mother from her nephew, the duke,” he said. “On the occasion of my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

  For a moment, Laura was left wondering if Henry had misspoke “Fiftieth?” she repeated, noting he didn’t mention a particular duke by name, although she quickly reasoned it out in her head from what Lady Simpson had told her of her relations.

  Henry angled his head to one side. “Indeed. My parents are quite... old.”

  “Your mother does not look it.”

  “The Burroughs women all keep their youthful appearance,” he agreed. The coach jerked into motion, which had Henry reaching for the strap lest he be pitched forward.

  Laura wondered what she might do if he did. If he landed on his knees with his head in her lap, what would she say? What would she do? A flush of color suffused her face at the thought of taking his face between her gloved hands and kissing him.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  The words brought Laura from one reverie and nearly sent her into another. She could imagine hearing those words at night, after she’d climbed into bed with him, tucked beneath the bed clothes and against the side of his body.

  For the moment when their eyes met, she thought her musings were daft. He was merely expressing concern for her comfort. “I am. It’s a beautiful spring day,” she replied.

  “I could not abide the thought of you spending all of it in the parlor,” he said as the coach turned onto Oxford Street and headed west. “Standing for so long must be difficult.”

  “It’s kind of you to consider my comfort,” she said. “When I tire of standing, there is usually a stool on which I can sit or a chair of a height that allows me to work on the lower portions of a painting.”

  He nodded his understanding. “How is it you became a painter?” he asked. “Did you have instruction? Or go to a special school?”

  Laura shook her head. “I have always drawn. Since I was a small child. When my father brought home a set of paints—I think they were from a shipment he arranged from the Continent—I simply expanded my artistic endeavors to include color,” she explained. “I was a bit messy at first, which vexed my mother no end and left me with paint splotches on my hands and face and in my hair.”

  Henry’s eyes lit with humor—and perhaps something else. “Is that why your hair is not long?”

  The magic of the moment was lost as Laura absently raised a hand to the hood of her mantle. “My curly hair is... unmanageable,” she murmured, her eyes darting to the side and her pleasant expression replaced with one that suggested disgust. “It was forever escaping its pins, and so on the eve of what was to be my come-out, my Mother took the scissors to it and—”

  “Created a masterpiece,” Henry said.

  Laura’s eyes widened, a blush coloring her face as she swallowed the rest of what she was about to say. “Hardly,” she managed finally. “I hid in the house for a week afterwards.”

  Henry furrowed a brow. “So, no come-out?”

  She allowed a sigh. “No, but it was a blessing, really. I used that week to paint portraits of my siblings. The following week, I gained my first commission when one of my mother’s friends saw them. Before I was finished with that one, another followed, and...” She allowed a shrug. “I’ve been painting nearly every day since.”

  “But you still enjoy doing it?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much,” she said with enthusiasm. “I cannot imagine spending my days doing anything else.” When she saw how his expression suddenly changed, as if he were disappointed at hearing her words, she added, “Other than running my own household, of course.”

  When Henry’s face once again appeared as it had before, a tingle of excitement shot through Laura. If she’d had any doubt about his intentions, they had just been put aside. “And you, sir? What is it you do for your living?”

  Henry straightened, and, for a moment, he seemed torn. “I have been informed only a fortnight ago that I shall be taking my superior’s place as head clerk at the Bank of England when he retires this year.”

  Laura’s eyes widened. She remembered Lady Simpson mentioning her son’s position during one of their afternoons while taking tea, remembered how happy the woman had been when she spoke of the impending promotion. “Congratulations,” she said as she displayed a brilliant smile. “Your mother must be so proud.”

  A wan grin appeared and then just as quickly disappeared from Henry’s face. “Thank you. Truth be told, I haven�
��t yet shared the news with my parents.”

  It was Laura’s turn to wipe the smile from her face. If he hadn’t told his parents, then how did his mother know? She had to suppress a grin at the sudden thought that his mother had spies at the bank. Even if she didn’t, Laura knew men were the best gossips. Lady Simpson had probably learned of it whilst having tea in someone’s parlor. “Are you not pleased?” she asked. “You must be held in high regard by those in charge at the bank.”

  Henry seemed torn as to how to respond. “It is an honor, of course,” he replied.

  At that moment, the coach slowed to a halt. A quick glance out the windows showed they had passed beneath the arch at Stanhope Gate and were already well into the park.

  “Would you still like to join me for a stroll?” Henry asked as the driver jumped down from the box. “I asked the driver to take us about halfway to the Serpentine.”

  “Yes, of course,” Laura replied, her gaze on what she could see through the coach window. Despite the cool weather, there were children with their nurses scattered about the grounds. Later that afternoon, the fashionable hour would have members of the aristocracy entering the Hyde Park Gate to parade about Rotten Row in their various carriages and coaches. Some would do so on foot while others might ride horses.

  When the door opened, Henry stepped down and turned to assist Laura. “It’s actually warmer than I expected,” he said as he offered his arm.

  Laura placed her arm on his, taking a moment to gain her bearings. The path on which the coach was parked was near the intersection of one that would lead to the King’s Road. Remaining on the current path would take them to the southern shore of the Serpentine. “The day is a fine one,” she agreed.

  Once they had taken a few steps, Laura realized the hood of her mantle prevented her from seeing Henry’s profile, and so she turned her head in his direction. Apparently he had been attempting to see hers, for he quickly turned his attention to the path in front of them, as if he’d been caught staring.

  “May I ask why it is the honor that has been bestowed upon you has you... vexed?” she asked, guessing at his reaction to learning of his promotion at the bank.

  He inhaled slowly before he lifted his other hand to rest on her arm. “You are correct in your assumption,” he murmured. “I have been working for nearly two decades to earn the position, and now that I almost have it, I am left wondering...” He allowed the sentence to trail off, as if he didn’t have the words to describe his situation.

  “What will be next?” she guessed. “What you will have to look forward to?”

  Henry nearly stumbled despite the well-trampled crushed granite path beneath his feet. “Yes. That’s it exactly,” he said with astonishment. “How is it...?” He swallowed the rest of the question when a rubber ball passed in front of them, followed by a young boy who was supposed to have caught it. Another boy, closer to the water’s edge, yelled his apologies.

  “Don’t you suppose we all wonder what is to be next in our lives?” she asked, a small smile appearing. She wasn’t about to tell him how it was she and her sisters didn’t have the same options to consider. They could either marry or not. If they didn’t marry, their choices for positions of employment were limited.

  Laura knew she was one of the lucky ones, lucky to have found a living that would pay her way in life should she remain unmarried. With her commissions, she could afford to let a townhouse in a respectable part of London, employ a few servants and perhaps even a companion.

  But she had never aspired to remain unmarried.

  “What will be next for you, Miss Overby?”

  Her attention turning to the boy by the water, Laura sighed. “Besides more paintings, I should hope a husband and a few children.” She paused, thinking their conversation had become far too personal, and yet she didn’t mind. It was refreshing to speak of the future with someone she didn’t know well, much like the conversation she’d had with Graham in the coach as they made their way to Woodscastle. “And you? What’s the next position at the bank you will aspire to, Henrí?” she asked, remembering it was her turn to continue the conversation. For a moment, she hadn’t realized Henry had led them away from the water and closer to the cover of trees and hedgerows.

  “I hadn’t given it any thought,” Henry replied, although his brows furrowed.

  “Not even the head of the entire bank? What are they called?”

  “Presidents,” Henry said, his brows still forming a wrinkle on his forehead.

  “Do you wish to be the president of the bank?”

  He shook his head. “I’m... I’m not sure.”

  “Perhaps you will discover you enjoy your position as head clerk, and you won’t wish to move on to another,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps,” he hedged.

  Laura slowed her steps, and Henry turned to face her. “I am quite sure I have no sway in convincing anyone of anything, Henrí, but if I could, I would do whatever I could to see to it you succeed at achieving whatever it is you want,” she said with a grin. “So, what is it you want?” she asked as she lifted her head to regard him.

  The hood of her mantle fell back, revealing a mass of blonde curls. Given the way the sunlight reflected off her hair, it appeared much like a halo. Struck by the thought she looked like an angel, Henry stared at her for a long time before he responded.

  Chapter 25

  A Turtle Prepares for Pursuit

  Meanwhile, at Wellingham Imports

  Emma Wellingham made her way out of her back office and was about to exit her husband’s office when she stopped. She backed up several steps and turned her head slightly to the left, her gaze taking in a painting on the wall.

  A new painting.

  Of herself.

  “Oh!” she breathed as she clutched the ledger she was carrying to her chest.

  “It’s perfect there, don’t you think?” Thomas asked as he rose from his desk and moved to stand next to her.

  “It’s rather large,” Emma replied. “It didn’t look this large on the easel. How long...?” she struggled to think of when it could have been hung. She had been in her office all morning reviewing ledgers.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “First thing this morning. I had Mr. Allen bring it from the townhouse since he was taking Mrs. Allen there from Woodscastle,” he explained. “One of the carpenters hung it shortly after it arrived.”

  “Was I here?” She didn’t remember hearing any pounding as she worked in the back office.

  “No. You hadn’t yet come up from the warehouse,” Tom replied, his gaze still on the portrait. “How is our son doing down there?”

  Emma allowed a sigh. “I think he would be doing better if he and Lady Harrington had...” She sighed again.

  “What happened?”

  Furrowing a brow, Emma replied, “It’s what didn’t happen. They haven’t yet been together. Graham paid a call at Harrington House on Saturday, but Hannah was out. Shopping, probably, given the Weatherstone ball is tomorrow night—”

  “By the way, we’re going to that,” Thomas murmured.

  Emma’s eyes widened. “We are?”

  Thomas nodded, a grin youthening his features. “Weatherstone himself invited me. When I was at the club last week. He hasn’t forgotten our successful delivery of his tobacco from Virginia, and now he’s asking about buying shares in the company.”

  “I had the same query from someone else,” Emma replied. “The letter was delivered with this morning’s post.”

  “Oh? Who sent it?”

  Emma paused a moment before she said, “Edward Harrington.”

  Thomas gave a start, his eyes darting about as he struggled to remember the names of all the Harringtons and their children.

  “Hannah’s boy,” Emma offered. “The heir to the Mayfield earldom.”

  His expression brightening, Thomas said, “Well, he’s obviously got a good head on his shoulders, but then I suppose I should expect nothing less.”
>
  “We have no more shares to sell,” Emma reminded him.

  “About that,” Thomas said as he moved to his desk. “I think I know how we can offer shares without diluting the shares we and our employees own.”

  Emma angled her head to one side. “You’re not selling mine,” she said on a huff.

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Thomas assured her, reminded that when he married her, she owned just over half the company’s stock. “We offer new shares to fund the expansion in Boston.”

  Emma furrowed a brow. “Make the Boston operation its own company?”

  “Exactly. Sinclair can head it up for now, as he’s already doing. Graham already knows everything about it, so I won’t feel as if I’m dumping everything on him when I decide to retire.”

  A slow grin lifted Emma’s lips. “It’s a brilliant idea,” she said, just as a knock sounded at the door.

  “Come!” Thomas called out.

  The door opened to reveal their son. Although Graham seemed happy to find them together, he gingerly stepped into the office. “Mother, Father,” he said as he gave his mother a peck on the cheek.

  “You look as if you’ve lost your best friend,” Emma said quietly.

  “That’s because I cannot find her,” Graham replied on a sigh.

  “You and Hannah still haven’t seen one another?” Thomas asked in disbelief.

  “I stopped at the Simpsons’ on my way here. She was there this morning for a portrait sitting, but she had already taken her leave,” he said on a sigh. “I have missed her by mere moments a number of times over the past few days.” He finally allowed a wicked grin. “I’ll see her tonight, though. Her son has invited me to dinner at Harrington House.”

  Emma and Thomas exchanged quick glances. “How fortuitous,” Emma said before she told him of their plans for a stock offering for the Boston operation. “It’s seems Edward Harrington is interested in investing, as is Lord Weatherstone.”

  Graham crossed his arms as he considered the plan. “That young man continues to bely his age,” he murmured softly.