Falling for the Mysterious Viscount: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Bridget Barton

  Now that you have heard the charges, we lay his fate at the feet of the people. I’m certain that public houses and elegant parlours are where the real war will wage against this unseemly fellow. Close your doors to him and his, and be not caught up in his schemes.

  Wherein the Baron Baldwin’s Defence is Questionable

  June 17th, 1810; No. 7, Vol. 79

  We invite contributors to the opinion section of our fine publication to please refrain from submitting more of the particular brand of inflammatory article that you have thus engaged in. While we are all incensed by this further evidence that yet another member of respected society has fallen, we do not have room in our accounts of gallantry, pleasure, and scandal to publish all your responses. It will give our readers some satisfaction to note that the Baron’s attempts at denying these rumours have been met with cold shoulders by almost all in his immediate sphere.

  It seems that when you make your name going against people in the government and holding shocking views on prioritizing the poor at the expense of those who have earned their living fairly, you tend to reap the results of that behaviour. We are not to cast judgement here at The Herald, but if we were to see Lord Baldwin, we would say simply: “too little, too late.”

  Baldwin and Family Flee London after Scurrilous Rumours

  June 24th, 1810; No. 7, Vol. 80

  There is a saying amongst those in the constabulary that fleeing the law is an almost certain sign of guilt, and we have no reason to think otherwise in the case of Lord Baldwin, his wife, his son, and his daughter all quitting London after a few weeks of failed attempts to deny the rumours of corruption and maleficence on his part.

  We have heard from friends that the young Miss Fitzgerald, Lord Baldwin’s daughter, was only a few months from coming out in London society when he quit the scene, and we can only presume that the shame of bearing up under public scrutiny while holding the position of being such a one’s daughter helped to influence the flight.

  We, your dutiful press, have asked around about the whereabouts of the family, but as of yet the closest response we could get was from a former disgruntled maid who had been let go from the family’s employ. She said that she thought they retreated to the country, although with the whole of England at our fingertips, we’re not certain how precise a bit of information that really is.

  As devastating as it always is to watch a member of the public scene fall so terribly from grace, we offer up our little Herald as the main avenue through which you may gain further information about the disgraced Baron, should he ever choose to show his face again in this city.

  Chapter 1

  The morning was full of birdsong. Eliza Steele threw back her head and breathed deep of the warm summer air, all aglow with morning light and the tell-tale signs of damp spring finally fading away into the few dry months that England had to offer.

  She was walking along the familiar worn path behind the post office, soon to turn northward through the centre of the village and across town on her weekly mission—the basket looped over one arm heavy with fruits and bread.

  It was mornings like this that made her feel light and full of life. The main road through the little village of Bibury was a familiar trail for Eliza, who had grown up on the outskirts of the River Coln since she was a little girl. She was well acquainted with all the little buildings and establishments that had been there since she could remember.

  There was the tea room at the opposite end of the street—the most modern of all the buildings, and yet still it had been there since she was a little girl—the blacksmith on the corner near the livery; the inn, the baker, and the milliner who had set up across the street from the dressmaker with the express intent of stealing the other woman’s ribbon-buying clientele. There had been a good deal of argument about that particular choice, and Eliza’s father, the town parson, had been at the centre of the dispute more often than he would have liked.

  “Eliza, love,” he always said after these long, extended arguments, “I sometimes think it is good to think of others and not only because of the Good Lord’s teachings, but also because it’s purely practical if you do so. If only Mrs Ellis—” who was the milliner, “—hadn’t insisted upon setting up quite so near to Mrs Partridge— “who was the dressmaker. “Or if she’d amended her wares somewhat, perhaps there would have been a bit more ease for Bibury as a result.”

  Eliza didn’t understand exactly what he was saying, but secretly she could not bring herself to share his sentiment. The little feud added just the sort of colour she loved to the quiet little town along the river, and she looked forward to the bickering sounds of Mrs Ellis and Mrs Partridge almost as much as she looked forward to the scent of fresh-baked bread from the bakery. Today, she could hear them as she rounded the bend in the cobbled street and left the river to march past the Bibury church and primary school.

  “I’m not saying that it’s in poor taste,” Mrs Partridge was saying with a sniff, “but I’m not saying you’d find the likes of that hat in London, either.”

  The two women were standing outside their respective shops, calling out to each other across the street as though all the town was judge and jury to their dispute. Mrs Partridge was a particularly tall and thin woman with a pointed nose and beady dark eyes, something that always made Eliza smile to herself and think how awfully apt the name “Partridge” was for one so bird-like and pecked.

  Mrs Ellis, on the other hand, was rather short and squat, as though their heavenly maker, in designing one of the women, had to take into effect the physique of the other to obtain just the right level of contrast. Mrs Ellis had lost all the bloom of youth, but Eliza thought that when she smiled, sometimes, there was a hint of the girl still there in her features. Mrs Partridge had driven the girl out of her own face years ago. Mrs Ellis put her hands on her hips and frowned.

  “Much good you’re doing talking about London, as if you’d ever really been there.”

  “Live in Bibury and not go to London!” Mrs Partridge raised her arms in frustration. “As if that were even possible. It’s only a day’s journey. You talk as though I were a country bumpkin and you the finest queen in the land.”

  “If I were queen in the land, I wouldn’t be thinking of you or of Bibury, that’s for certain.” Mrs Ellis’ hands left her hips and waved about in the air as if she already was royalty and, as her first decree, had determined to banish the likes of Mrs Partridge from the land. “You’ll remember that it was not I that brought this argument up between us. I am a lady. I am only trying to run a good and decent business, and there is technically room in every woman’s wardrobe for both our services.”

  “Now you’re taking the high road.” Mrs Partridge turned to go in. “You cast the first stone by opening your shop in the first place.” Then she caught sight of Eliza, and her face changed in an instant. The beady dark eyes looked suddenly a bit mischievous, and the thin form straightened to wave a hello to the girl. “Why, there’s the young Miss Steele coming right now.”

  It seemed to be enough of an excuse for a momentary truce, for Mrs Ellis let the girlishness back into her features long enough to wave as well, and add a little curtsy atop it all. “What a pretty little thing,” Mrs Ellis said, to nobody in particular. Then, raising her voice shrilly, she directed her tone towards Eliza. “Good morning, Miss Steele.”

  “Good morning to you both!” Eliza raised her hand in greeting as she passed both women. “I heard you have new ribbons in, Miss Ellis, and Mrs Partridge—I really will have to stop by later to see those mother of pearl buttons.”

  Both women seemed placated and, smiling kindly in her direction, took themselves back inside their respective businesses to tend to the day’s business. Next up was the bakery, and though Eliza already had a basket full of fresh-baked bread and fruit, she ducked in all the same under the low striped awning. The shopfront was very small; most of the small building being taken up with a large oven and several workplaces for kneading. The bak
er, a Mr Thompson with a round belly that spoke well of his business and twinkling blue eyes and a shock of hair that was just beginning to grey at the tips, looked up with a start of alarm at first, and then delight.

  “Whew. There you are, Miss Steele. I thought for a quick minute that my delivery boy had returned already, and I’ve not yet finished with the packaging to send him out again. The lad makes such a ruckus around the place if I don’t keep him occupied. I’m sure you understand.”

  Eliza, who did not, indeed, understand, nodded all the same. That was the done thing in Bibury—nod and smile and make light conversation, even if a strictly impolite person would not think there was anything to nod at. “I’ve come for one of your sweet pasties. I’m headed over to the Widow Ashbrook’s today, and I know they’re her favourite.”

  The baker emerged from where he’d been filling sacks in the back of the room and surveyed his display case with a self-satisfied smile. “The Widow Ashbrook, is it? Well, you should tell her to come in and get one herself one of these days. She’s a fine lady indeed, though circumstances may have landed her on the poorer side of the county.”

  Mr Thompson could work wonders with a bit of dough, but he didn’t have the social acuity to know what would seem insulting. Eliza understood this and tried to modulate her tone in response.

  “She’s a dear friend of mine.”

  “Right so, and she hasn’t lost her looks with age.”

  Eliza forced a smile. “Or her intellect. She’s very thoughtful and wise.”

  “Ten to one,” he said, not finishing the saying. He’d got distracted looking through the case for the perfect pasty, which he eventually presented to Eliza with a proud little bow. “Will that do, lass?”

  “It will. I think Mrs Ashbrook will enjoy it.”

  “I wonder at the grieving period these days,” the baker mused, almost to himself, but just loud enough that Eliza felt obligated to stand still a moment and hear him out. “When did Mr Ashbrook pass away?”

  “I think the funeral was six months ago Sunday,” Eliza said slowly, not sure where Mr Thompson was going with this.

  “I grieved just such a time when I lost my Annie,” he went on, “but that was a few years ago now, and time heals all wounds.”

  Ah. Eliza pursed her lips together a little too firmly. Mr Thompson, it seemed, was ready to join the long line of men in the county awaiting the end of Mrs Helen Ashbrook’s mourning period so they could step in and offer her a comfortable home in return for the privilege of having her fine eyes at their table.

  “Mrs Ashbrook was fond of her husband,” she said, a little curtly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she grieves a good deal longer than six months.” With that, she handed over the required money and bid the flustered baker a good day.

  The postman was unloading packages from a wagon when she walked by his little shop, and a group of women who helped with the auxiliary had gathered nearby under the shade of a tree to get a glimpse of the packages and gossip about where they were going. One of these women, an older woman from the village over who seemed to prefer the Bibury church to her own, broke free of the crowd and hurried to Eliza’s side as she passed.

  “Miss Steele, how lovely to find you out and about on this beautiful morning.”

  “And the same to you, Mrs Brown.”

  “I thought to enquire after the health of your father, Mrs Steele. Do you know that when he was preaching on the Good Samaritan from the pulpit last week I thought I glimpsed just a bit of redness around his nose, and I heard— “a pause here for added impact, “—a sniff.”

  “A sniff?” Eliza had learned after years as a clergyman’s daughter, not to let even a note of sarcasm into her tone. “Do tell.”

  “I’m just worried that our minister is not tending to his own health. You know what they say about the shepherd—let him not neglect himself so much in the service of his flock that he falls ill and faces the wolf a weakened man.”

  This was a saying Eliza had never heard before, and one she very much suspected had been invented by Mrs Brown herself. It had none of the pith of a good English colloquialism, and it had all of the wordiness and vaguely biblical imagery that she associated with Mrs Brown.

  “I shall take good care of him,” she said after a moment’s pause.

  “But you, all alone, taking care of your father?” The woman clucked. “It’s a pity, with you being so young and having no motherly influence.”

  “But I’m fully nineteen years of age,” Eliza protested kindly, “and ever since I was a girl, I’ve had women—such as yourself, Mrs Brown—making certain that I am well cared for and on the path to what is good and right. I can’t feel that I’m lacking anything, not when I have women such as yourselves to give me guidance.”

  Mrs Brown blushed with pleasure at being singled out and drew closer, laying her gloved hand on Eliza’s bare arm.

  “Then perhaps I can tell you that I overheard in Ablington the other day that it is simply not the done thing for a young girl to go walking by herself in public. She must have an escort. And I know it’s a warm day, but are you certain your father would want you walking about in short sleeves as though it were a public ball?”

  Eliza hid a smile. Perhaps to some people such criticism would have been a trial, but she had known these women all her life, and she knew that they meant only kindness with their comments. When she’d put on the mint green gown with the short sleeves and the white edging that day, in fact, she’d known that at least one comment would be sure to come her way and she’d persisted nonetheless because the Widow Ashbrook loved green and this dress in particular always made her smile.

  “My dear Mrs Brown, what additional good would an escort give me? I’ve already spoken to three people, and I’ve hardly walked twenty paces through town.” Eliza patted the gentle hand lying on her arm. “This tight-knit little community is all the escort I could ask for.”

  Mrs Brown seemed more than placated by this little speech; she seemed downright delighted. “Well,” she said pertly. “It is a sunny day, and I daresay long sleeves would be oppressive in any length of walk. Where are you walking, by the way?”

  “To Mrs Ashbrook’s.”

  “Oh, that poor woman. I’ve wondered that she’s been able to show herself at church quite so often as she has done. When my husband died, I was holed up in the bedroom for months weeping.”

  Eliza smiled tenderly. “I remember.” She couldn’t help thinking how the baker wished the widow to recover from her sadness faster, and Mrs Brown wished the whole thing slowed up a bit. It was the way in a small town—everyone had an opinion about everything, and the best way to go forward with it all was to hold one’s head high regarding what you truly cared about and try not to fret about all the little things that wouldn’t matter in the end.

  She bid the woman farewell and walked on by the grocery. She caught a glimpse of herself in the polished storefront window and put up her free hand almost automatically to brush back a tendril of her curling blonde hair. The colour was fine enough—like gold honey, some people said—but it had a good deal more curl than was easy to keep tamed, especially after a morning walk.

  Curls were always springing free of the good and proper bun Eliza attempted to pin into place every morning, and then the little tendrils would drag along her neck or down around her forehead in a most unseemly fashion that women like Mrs Brown called “romantic” and “peasant-like.” For a town of peasants, “peasant-like” was not a compliment.

  Eliza had grown quite quickly as a little girl, and for one whole year when she was thirteen, she’d been the tallest child in the town. Then, quite suddenly, she stopped. She was now one of the more petite girls in the town, and if it wasn’t for a very striking set of blue eyes and the general feeling that she looked on you with kindness when others might see flaws, she might not have been noticed at all at the community dances or in the town at large. As it was, for a reason no one could put their finger on, she was con
sidered “a very pretty girl,” and the town was willing enough to accept such a thing as fact.