Bedding The Baron

by Alexandra Ivy

  Before this moment the towering oaks and sprawling parkland had meant nothing to him. At least nothing more than the fact that he had arrived at his father’s estate for another tedious, painful visit.

  There was no sense of homecoming, no innate pride of ownership, no pondering of how he would alter this or that once his father came to his timely end.

  Now he forced himself to truly study the estate. The sculpted gardens with their fountains and Greek statuary. The untamed woodlands. The refurbished conservatory. The rich farmlands that offered an endless source of income for a proper and diligent owner.

  It was truly beautiful.

  A graceful, elegant testament to the rich tradition and power of the Graystone family.

  A tradition that could very well belong to him once he forced his father to confess the truth.

  Fredrick abruptly urged his horse forward as an unpleasant shiver raced down his spine. He had never been a mercenary gentleman. The wealth he had accumulated over the years had been nothing more than an unintended result of the success of his business.

  Certainly he had never eyed a statue or tidy outbuilding and considered the worth when the lord of the manor was dead.

  Gads, it was little wonder that Simon had become such a pathetic twit if that had been the manner he had passed his days rather than pursuing a decent career. Could there be anything more disgustingly morbid than waiting for your own father to die?

  At last reaching the house, Fredrick readily handed his horse over to the waiting groom and climbed the stairs. He had barely managed to make the top step when the door was yanked open, and Morgan was regarding him with an expression that lacked its usual impassiveness. Indeed, there was very nearly relief etched on the long, stoic countenance.

  “Oh, sir, it is good to see you,” he murmured, showing Fredrick into the foyer and shutting the door behind them. “The master feared you might not return from Winchester in time to share dinner with him.”

  Fredrick set aside his hat and gloves, his brows lifting at Morgan’s low words.

  “Lord Graystone knew I was in Winchester?”

  Morgan gave a discreet cough as he led Fredrick down the Staircase Gallery. “I believe the master visited the Queen’s Arms and was informed you had gone to Winchester.” His steps slowed as he realized that Fredrick had halted before the large portrait of Simon. “Will Mr. Breckford be joining us?”

  “No, he is remaining in Winchester.”

  “Very good. If you will come this way, the master is in the library.” The elder servant cleared his throat as Fredrick continued to stare at Simon’s round pudding face. “Sir?”

  “Do you know, I have never so much as exchanged greetings with my own brother,” Fredrick muttered, his fingers lifting to touch the solid wood frame. “Indeed, if it were not for these portraits I should be able to pass him on the street and never even recognize him. It is odd, is it not?”

  “I believe that Lady Graystone was quite insistent that the two of you not cross paths,” Morgan was forced to reveal in strained tones.

  Fredrick gave a sharp laugh. “No doubt she feared that I might contaminate her precious offspring with my tainted blood?”

  “More likely she is a jealous cat who has always harbored a nasty belief that your father preferred you to that tallow-faced son of hers,” a female voice retorted from the end of the hall.

  Morgan gave a strangled sound as the cook’s large bulk bore down upon them. “Mrs. Shaw, it is not your place to—”

  “’Tis true enough, and you know it, Morgan,” the woman interrupted with a hint of impatience. “How many dinners has the master endured listening to that woman lecture him upon his ‘unnatural disinterest in her beloved Simon’ ? As if any gentleman wouldn’t prefer to read of his son’s business success in the newspapers rather than what foolish prank the boy has been committing, or what color his coat might have been when he attended the Petersons’ Ball.”

  “What is said between the lord and lady are none of our concern, Mrs. Shaw.” Morgan managed to glare down the length of his pointed nose despite the fact the woman had a good inch on him. “We are here to serve, not to judge.”

  Mrs. Shaw offered a disdainful sniff. “I serve as well as any other, but that does not mean I do not have eyes and ears.” She turned to offer Fredrick a knowing smile. “And I know true quality from the rabble.”

  Sensing the onslaught of a full blown squabble, Fredrick stepped away from the portrait and lightly patted his staunch defender upon the shoulder.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shaw, but I will not have you risking your position in such a manner.” He managed a strained smile. “It would be a sin against nature for Oak Manor to lose your magical touch in the kitchen.”

  A misty smile touched her lips as she preened beneath his fulsome flattery.

  “There, that is what I mean.... Quality. It always shows.”

  “Magical touch,” Morgan muttered beneath his breath, turning on his heel to march toward the nearby stairs. “The master is waiting, sir.”

  Following the bristling butler up the staircase, Fredrick briefly considered the cook’s unwitting words.

  Quality.

  What the devil did it mean?

  Did the fact that his mother was the daughter of a doctor rather than a common farmer make him quality? Did the fact that his parents had exchanged a handful of vows before a vicar purify his tainted blood? Did the . . .

  Damnation. He was precisely the same man as he had been before arriving in Wessex, and yet . . . everything was different. One piece of paper and the entire world would soon see him as much, much more than Fredrick Smith.

  It was as confusing as it was unnerving.

  At last reaching the library, Fredrick waited for Morgan to announce him and silently disappear down the hall before he stepped into the long, shadowed room.

  Abruptly turning from the window where he had been standing, Lord Graystone regarded his son with a restrained pleasure.

  “Fredrick, you are here. I feared . . .” He halted and cleared his throat. “I was not certain that you would be able to join me.”

  “It was something of a last-minute decision.”

  “Ah.” The blue eyes warily regarded Fredrick’s pale countenance, perhaps sensing the tension that held him in a fierce grip. “Come near the fire. Will you have a sherry?”

  Fredrick instinctively moved toward the cheery flames despite the knowledge that the chill gripping him would not eased by the heat from a fire.

  “Actually, I think the evening calls for a brandy,” he said, leaning against the mantle as his father carefully poured the amber spirit and carried the glass back across the room to press it into his fingers.

  “My grandfather laid this down the year my father was born. I think you will enjoy it.”

  “Thank you.” Fredrick drained the fiery brandy and set aside the glass. At the moment he had no desire to savor the well-aged spirit. “Morgan mentioned that you visited the Queen’s Arms.”

  “Yes.” The pale blue gaze flickered toward the fire. “I was concerned.”

  “Concerned?” Fredrick gave a short laugh. This man had devoted a lifetime to proving his absolute lack of concern for his eldest son. “Why?”

  The faintest hint of color stole along the chiseled line of his cheekbones. “The country is not much different from London when it comes to gossip. The rumors of your scuffle with Griffith reached me before I sat down to luncheon.”

  “And you rushed to the inn to make sure I was unharmed?”

  Lord Graystone’s brows drew together at the edge of mockery in his son’s voice. “Mrs. Walker assured me that you held your own.”

  “It was hardly a difficult task. I have encountered chimney sweeps who could offer a greater threat.”

  “And no doubt could offer a great deal more sense,” the older man muttered. “Griffith and his friends are decidedly stupid young men who have been ruined by too much wealth and too few responsibilities.”
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  Although there was no mention of Simon, his name hung in the air with a silent rebuke.

  “They are like most dandies that litter London.”

  “Which is one of the many reasons I prefer the quiet of this estate. I cannot abide frivolous fools who have nothing better to do than bother decent citizens who actually contribute to society.”

  “Decent citizens?” Fredrick gave a lift of his brows as he deliberately caught and held his father’s gaze. “Well, there are not many who consider me decent. I am, after all, a bastard, am I not?”

  If Fredrick had not been watching his father so closely he would easily have missed his small jerk.

  “You are a gentleman who has claimed a position of respect.”

  “Perhaps among some, but society will always hold me in contempt for my shameful birth.”

  Lord Graystone’s expression settled in the cool, wary lines that were so familiar to Fredrick.

  “I realize it must be difficult for you, Fredrick,” he said, his tone warning that he was not pleased with the direction of the conversation.

  For eight and twenty years Fredrick had instinctively obeyed that unspoken command. Even as a child he had understood that his father would tolerate his presence only so long as he did not step beyond the boundaries. Today, however, he did not hesitate to challenge the man who had deliberately stolen his birthright.

  “No, Father, I do not believe that you could possibly realize just what it means to be a bastard,” he grated.

  The older nobleman stiffened, no doubt considering his usual habit of simply abandoning his son when he decided the conversation did not suit him.

  “Perhaps not entirely, but I was a younger son without prospects until my brother’s unexpected death,” he retorted, his voice edged with ice. “I always expected to make my own way in the world.”

  Fredrick gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “God almighty, you desire to compare being a younger son to that of bastard?” Pushing away from the mantle he paced restlessly across the room. “Tell me, Father, just how many society matrons have given you the cut direct when you meet on the street? And how many noblemen seek you out to invest in your business at the same moment they are discreetly warning their daughters to have nothing to do with you? On how many occasions have you walked past gentlemen clubs with the certain knowledge that the members would more readily welcome a leper than you within their hallowed grounds?” Coming to a halt he glared into the pale, grimly impassive features. “No, Father, you have no notion of what I have endured.”

  Astonishingly, a hint of genuine anger flashed in the pale blue eyes. Lord Graystone was always so careful to keep his emotions hidden it was nearly as shocking as if he had sprouted wings and flown about the room.

  “Your lot was not as bad as it could have been, Fredrick. You at least were given an education and the opportunity to succeed.”

  Just a few hours before, Fredrick might have agreed. There were any number of bastards who never managed to crawl out of the gutters they were tossed in. He, at least, had been given into the care of Dunnington, who had given him the skills he needed to survive.

  And, more importantly, the affection that a young, unwanted boy was starved for.

  Now, however, he was painfully aware of all that had been stolen from him.

  “Hardly the same as being offered a grand estate and respectable place in society, is it?” he gritted.

  The older man’s expression hardened with a soul-deep bitterness. “And you believe that being Baron is such a wondrous destiny?” His short laugh rasped through the room. “Believe me, there has not been a day that has passed when I have not paid dearly for my position as Lord Graystone. It . . . it is a yoke that has cost me everything.”

  Fredrick refused to be swayed by his father’s obvious pain. Whatever the old man believed he had suffered, it could be nothing to what Fredrick had been forced to endure his entire life.

  “And what has it cost you, Father?” he demanded with a deliberate lack of sympathy. “The discomfort of living with a constant lie? The fear that Dunnington might one day expose the truth and destroy your precious family?”

  Lord Graystone froze, his annoyance fading as an unmistakable wariness flickered over his countenance at Fredrick’s unexpected words.

  “What did you say?”

  Turning his back on his father’s uneasy regard, Fredrick paced toward the window. “Do you wish to know the true reason I came to Wessex?”

  “I . . . I think perhaps dinner should . . .”

  Fredrick abruptly turned. “I came here to solve a mystery.”

  “Did you?” Still clutching his glass, Lord Graystone made his way toward the door. “I believe that dinner is waiting. Mrs. Shaw will be disappointed if we are late.”

  With a speed that caught his father off-guard, Fredrick moved to stand directly in his path, forcing the older man to halt or run him over.

  “You see, when Dunnington died he left behind a peculiar legacy,” he ruthlessly continued. “A legacy of twenty thousand pounds.”

  He had to give his father credit, Fredrick grimly acknowledged. There was barely more than a whisper of fear before he was coolly smoothing the superfine fabric of his pearl grey jacket.

  “Congratulations, my son. It is a most generous gift.”

  “Yes, it was,” Fredrick drawled. “A gift that Dunnington claimed was given to him by you.”

  “I, of course, paid for your schooling . . .”

  “No, Father, this was not my tuition. This was extortion money. A bribe to keep your dark secret just that.” He leaned deliberately forward. “A secret.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course.” He gave a dismissive lift of his hands. “I have no secrets, dark or otherwise.”

  Fredrick curled his lips in a cold smile. “If that is true then perhaps you will join me tomorrow at St. Mary’s in Winchester as I search the records for proof of your marriage to my mother? A marriage that Mrs. Greaves is prepared to swear took place before my birth.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A shocked silence blanketed the room, at last broken by the shattering crystal as Lord Graystone’s glass slid from his fingers and landed on the floor.

  “You . . . You spoke with Mrs. Greaves?” the older man rasped, his countenance ashen.

  “Yes, a most charming widow who runs a boarding house,” Fredrick drawled. “She remembered a young teacher by the name of Dunnington, as well as you and my mother. Indeed, she remembered you in particular with remarkable clarity. She commented several times on how much we resemble one another.”

  The cool, aloof composure was torn aside to reveal an aging, uncertain gentleman who was clearly disturbed to have his sins uncovered.

  “Did Dunnington tell you of Mrs. Greaves?”

  “Dunnington kept his promise of silence, Father,” Fredrick retorted, a pain clutching at his heart. “It was not until he died and left me his legacy that I became curious as to what dark secret could possibly be worth twenty thousand pounds. Now I know.”

  The older man futilely struggled to find some means of denying the truth when he was interrupted by the entrance of the butler.

  “My lord, dinner is . . .”

  “Not now, Morgan,” Lord Graystone snapped, his wary gaze never leaving Fredrick’s stark expression.

  The servant stiffened, something that might have been disappointment flaring over the lined countenance before he was bowing his way out of the room.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Waiting until the door closed, Lord Graystone drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

  “And what is it that you believe you know, Fredrick?”

  “I know that my mother was no common tart who made a habit of littering the streets with bastards.” Fredrick folded his arms over his chest. “She was a lady, was she not?”

  The older man hissed in surprise before he turned to offer Fredrick his tense profile.
“Of course she was a lady.”

  “Why do you seem shocked that I wouldn’t have assumed my mother was Covent Garden ware? You certainly never gave the impression she held the least amount of respect, let alone affection, in your heart. You cannot imagine my amazement when I discovered that she was my grandmother’s companion who resided in this very house.”

  “Adeline,” Lord Graystone muttered.

  “What?”

  “That was her name,” he clarified, slowly turning to meet Fredrick’s hard gaze. “Adeline. She was so beautiful. You have her eyes. And her smile.”

  Adeline. Fredrick tucked the name away, anxious to know everything possible about the woman who had given birth to him.

  “She was the daughter of a doctor?”

  “Yes.” The older man heaved a sigh that spoke of his inner defeat. He clearly realized that Fredrick would no longer settle for anything but the truth. A pity it was eight and twenty years too late. “She kept house for him and occasionally assisted in his surgery until he was killed in a carriage accident. After his death she was forced to seek a means to support herself.”

  “How old was she?”

  The pale blue eyes narrowed, as if he sensed Fredrick’s disdain for those gentlemen who took advantage of defenseless women.

  “She had just turned twenty. A mere fortnight younger than myself.”

  Well, at least she had not been a mere child, Fredrick acknowledged. Although she clearly had no experience with noblemen.

  “And naïve enough to be seduced by the first rake to cross her path, eh?”

  “I was no rake, Fredrick,” his father denied, his hand lifting to rub over his face in a weary motion. “Far from it, in fact. Adeline was the first woman, the only woman, I have ever loved. I knew from the moment I caught sight of her that I would marry her.”

  Fredrick refused to be swayed by the thick sincerity in his father’s voice. “And when you caught sight of her did you also make the decision you would deny her as your wife and brand your son as a bastard?”

  “I never denied . . .” Lord Graystone broke off his words with a sharp shake of his head. “Dammit, Fredrick, this is not nearly so simple as you would wish to believe.”