The Babe and the Baron

by Carola Dunn

  But he was not present, so perhaps he did not care about her leaving after all.

  None of this could she say to Aunt Antonia, but she did bring forward a practical objection. “I cannot afford to hire horses, ma'am, nor to stay at inns as often as would be necessary if we travelled slowly enough to take Cousin Gareth's team all the way.”

  “My dear, I shall defray your expenses. Gareth, and his father before him, have always made me a generous allowance which I have had no reason to spend. I have a nice little nest egg saved up and it would give me great pleasure to open my purse to ease your way. Indeed, it will only be to anticipate the future, for one day the whole will be yours.”

  “Mine!”

  “I have not mentioned it before, but last time we went into Ludlow I called on my lawyer and changed my Will in your favour.”

  Tears in her eyes, choked with emotion, Laura embraced the old lady.

  Her last qualm about taking the carriage vanished when Cornelius came home and seconded his aunt. “I am Gareth's heir,” he pointed out, “and in his absence his, hm, representative. What is more, I'm dashed if I'd know how to face him if I let you plan to take Priscilla on the stage! Must you go, Cousin?”

  “Yes,” Laura said firmly. “What news of France?”

  Cornelius reported that Napoleon was gathering troops in the south. “Rupert is cock-a-hoop at getting a chance to grapple with Boney. He missed the Peninsula, you know. Gareth has been in and out of the Foreign Office. With so many of our people in Vienna, anyone with an intelligent opinion is much in demand. He has other business in Town, also, but he intends to be home before Easter.”

  With everything prepared for Laura's departure, all she could do now was wait till Gareth deigned to put in an appearance.

  * * * *

  The news from France was bad. As soldiers flocked to Napoleon's banner, despatches flew between Paris, Vienna, and London. While the British Government urged the Congress to appoint the Duke of Wellington as supreme commander of the Allies, King Louis shivered on his shaky throne. Marshal Ney, who had promised the stout monarch to deliver Bonaparte to Paris in a cage, went over to the usurper's side.

  Gareth, having used Boney's escape as an excuse to come up to Town, found himself caught up in meetings and consultations. He had neglected his Parliamentary duties for some months—since Laura's arrival at Llys, in fact—but he was known to be knowledgeable about foreign affairs. After a week in London, he was no nearer completing his personal business.

  All too clearly he recalled Aunt Antonia saying Laura meant to leave Llys in time to reach her cottage the day before Good Friday. Surely she would not run off without a farewell?

  He sent Cornie home with orders to delay her departure, if necessary, without appearing to command her, without annoying or distressing her.

  No easy task. Gareth had to be there himself to stop her. He wrote a note to his aunt: He would reach home by Monday morning come fire, flood, or famine—and he humbly begged her forgiveness in advance for travelling on Sunday.

  One last time he went to Downing Street to urge subsidies for Britain's irresolute allies, even if the money must be borrowed from Nathan Rothschild. Then he bought a box of bonbons and drove out to Chelsea to call upon Eulalie.

  In spite of her name, Eulalie was as English as roast mutton, having started life as Nellie Potter of Islington. After a brief career as an opera dancer, she had gone on to become one of the most expensive Birds of Paradise on the town. Unlike so many of the sisterhood, she had salted away the wages of sin, and when her charms began to fade, she was decidedly plump in the pocket. For a while she specialized in initiating youthful gentlemen into the arts of love, more to keep her hand in, she said, than from want of the ready. Now retired and growing stout, she retained the affection of many of her initiates, including Gareth.

  “Why, Lord Wyckham, what an unexpected pleasure,” she said, beaming, as her maidservant showed him into the cosy parlour of her small villa. “Bring the madeira, Dolly.”

  He gave her the bonbons and bent to kiss her heavily powdered, rose-scented cheek. “Beautiful as ever, ma'am,” he declared.

  She chuckled. “If I was, you'd be calling me darling, not ma'am. No need to upset the butter-boat. Here, take a glass and let's drink to old times.”

  “Old times!” He sipped the wine in silence, wondering how to broach the subject on his mind.

  As if she read his mind, Eulalie asked shrewdly, “Not married yet, Wyckham?”

  “No.” He gave her a faint smile. “But on the verge. I wanted to consult you before I pop the question.”

  “Very wise, but I can't believe you have forgot my lessons. From what I've heard there's a string of High Flyers fighting for your attentions and it ain't just because of the depth of your purse.”

  Gareth grinned. “There was,” he admitted. “Not since I met the lady I wish to marry.”

  “What's the trouble then, dearie? Come on, let's hear it.”

  “Lalie, did you ever have a child?”

  “What, me get caught with a bun in the oven? Not bloody likely, if you'll pardon the expression. I won't say there ain't some luck to it, but there's precautions a girl can take if she's got the sense the good Lord gave her.”

  “That's what I want to know about,” Gareth said thankfully.

  Eulalie frowned. “You don't want children?”

  “I don't want my wife worn out with child-bearing.”

  Her face cleared. “Aha, besotted are you? Well, I hope she deserves you, dearie. Now this is the way of it. You take a piece of sponge, about this big, and tie a thread around it. Then you soak it well in brandy.”

  “Brandy? Not eye of newt and toe of frog?”

  “It needn't be the best cognac,” she said tolerantly. “I've heard of using gin instead, or even vinegar, but brandy's what I always used. It's not you needs to worry about the expense, after all. You take this sponge and push it up inside as far as it will go.”

  “Inside? Oh, you mean...?” Gareth's face flamed as he imagined discussing the wretched sponge with Laura rather than an old whore. He'd do it, though, bedamned if he wouldn't.

  “Yes, that's what I mean,” she agreed with surprising delicacy. “Just make sure the end of the thread's dangling, though it's not the end of the world if it gets lost. When you've had your fun, you pull on the thread and out it pops.” She gave him a stern look. “And don't you go believing you can't have a bit of fun with your wife same as with the muslin company. There'd be a lot fewer girls in my old business if gentlemen wasn't to take that sort of nonsense into their heads.”

  “I shan't,” he promised, his heart light as air.

  “It's not infallible, mind,” she warned, “but at least she won't be confined every time you look at her. I'd like to send my compliments, but I don't suppose she'd appreciate the thought. She's a lucky lady, she is. Off you go now, my lord, and lay in a good supply of sponges!”

  “Bless you, Eulalie.” Gareth kissed her again and departed with a spring in his step. Laura had let him stay at her side while her child was born: She was not likely to prove so prudish as to reject the use of the sponges.

  It was too soon, however, to lay in a supply. She might reject him. He believed she was fond of him, but she was fond of his brothers and had refused one and all. It was not as if she had to marry him to remain at Llys. That day at Swaffham Bulbeck, under the apple tree, he had offered her a home not a temporary refuge.

  Could she have forgotten, or misunderstood? Could she possibly imagine she had outstayed her welcome? Before he proposed he must make quite sure she realized she belonged at Llys whatever her answer. But suppose she did realize and had already changed her mind about leaving. Then, if he proposed and she chose to refuse his hand, her sense of delicacy might make her leave after all.

  Devil take it, he was going to have to phrase his offer with all the diplomacy at his command!

  Gareth drove back to Mayfair and stopped in Grafton Street, o
utside the Earl of Medway's town house. Diplomacy was going to be needed here, too, if Laura was to meet with her family on civil—if not cordial—terms. He did not know the full story of her elopement, but Aunt Antonia had accepted Laura and stigmatized Medway as an unnatural father, so obviously Laura had been as much sinned against as sinning.

  Cast off by her family, tied to a heedless here-and-thereian like Cousin Freddie, the poor girl had suffered enough for her mistakes. Gareth vowed her future happiness should make up for her past suffering, if he had any say in the matter.

  Knocking on the door, he intended to leave a note requesting an interview at Medway's earliest convenience. The butler said his lordship was at home, so Gareth asked to see him at once.

  “On business.”

  “If you would not mind waiting here for a moment, my lord.”

  He was distantly acquainted with the earl. He had met him at his clubs, on social occasions, and in the House of Lords, where Medway's chief preoccupation was increasing the number of offences for which hanging was the penalty. A short, heavy-set man with a thick neck, he had an unattractive manner at once pompous and belligerent.

  The countess Gareth knew chiefly from the days when he had joined the court of the ravishing Lady Cecilia—before he discovered she had not an idea in her head beyond what her mother or her governess had put there. Since those ideas revolved around her own beauty and the importance of making a splendid match, Gareth's opinion of the haughty Lady Medway was not high. Nor did he care for the heir to the earldom, an arrogant puppy the same age as Lance but with half the sense.

  How had his Laura sprung from such stock? Though Gareth wished for a reconciliation for her sake, he hoped she would not be restored to the bosom of her family to such an extent that he'd have to see much of them.

  “His lordship will see you now, my lord.”

  The small study Gareth was shown to seemed designed to establish its owner's importance. The walls were hung with charts, tables, and maps stuck with varicoloured pins, one showing Napoleon's present progress across France. The desk was piled high with finically neat stacks of papers, many displaying the red tapes of official or legal documents.

  Lord Medway rose from his seat behind the desk, but confined himself to a minimal bow rather than coming around to shake Gareth's hand. “I suppose you mean to dun me for the jade's expenses,” he said unpleasantly, leaning on the desk, his head thrust forward between his shoulders.

  Gareth swallowed his anger. “If, as I must suppose, you are referring to Lady Laura,” he said coldly, “nothing could be further from my mind. As my cousin's widow she has a claim upon me, though she has never presumed upon it. On the contrary, she would be the first to deny it. She is at Llys—as I collect you have discovered—at my invitation.”

  “And willing enough to grant her favours in return, no doubt.”

  How could the man speak so of his own daughter? With an effort, Gareth overlooked the salacious implications. “Lady Laura is indeed a most obliging person. She is an amiable and helpful companion to my aunt, and a friend to my brothers, besides being of signal service to my cousin's young children, who live with me. We are all very fond of her, and of your granddaughter.”

  “My granddaughter, hey?” There was no sign of softening in the bulldog face. “It's for the brat you've come to beg?”

  Through gritted teeth, Gareth spat out, “Lord Medway, pray disabuse yourself of the fancy that I have any desire whatsoever to prey on your purse. I am come to request your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter.”

  Medway stared. “No business of mine if you want to make a cake of...to wed the chit,” he amended hastily as Gareth took a step forward. “Washed my hands of her years ago. You needn't think I shall make any new settlements this time around, either. Gave her more than she deserved when she married Chamberlain, to get her off my hands.”

  “Forty pounds a year!”

  “So she's complained, has she?” the earl sneered.

  “Never. She told me to prove her independence, her lack of need for charity.”

  “The forty pounds is pure charity. Chamberlain was too much of a fool to ask for anything at all.”

  “So am I,” Gareth informed him coolly, thinking more kindly of poor Freddie than he had in years. At least his cousin had not run off with Laura in hopes of a fortune. “Well, I have informed you of my intentions, sir. It remains only to say that I assume you will receive Lady Laura with decent complaisance when she comes to Town as the Baroness Wyckham—”

  “Hah,” Medway grunted, but ungraciously conceded, “Shan't cut her, at least.”

  “...If she accepts my hand.”

  “If?” He guffawed. “Daresay she's learned to tell which side her bread is buttered!”

  Seething, Gareth bowed and departed without another word. It was that or strangle the earl, and he could not bear the thought of touching him.

  No wonder she had eloped with Freddie! For all his improvidence, his careless charm must have seemed inducement enough to flee such a family. All the same, Gareth was glad to recall that whatever her original feelings for her husband, his frequent absences had ceased to distress her long before his death.

  Gareth wanted her love, but he would take her without and hope in time to earn it. The question was, should he declare his love for her, or might it make her refuse him because she could not reciprocate?

  Dammit, never had a man so many considerations to bear in mind when he planned his proposal!

  Next morning he left early for Llys. He had time enough to reach home by Sunday evening but, pondering how best to offer his hand and his heart to Laura, he drove into a ditch. Though he, his groom, and the horses were unhurt, a spoke of the curricle's wheel snapped. It was past noon on Monday by the time he turned up the drive to the manor.

  His travelling carriage stood before the door. The baby's wheeled chair tied on behind made it all too obvious for whom it waited. Flinging the reins to the groom, Gareth dashed into the house.

  “Here he is,” cried Perry—Gareth had forgotten the boys were due home Saturday for their Easter holiday. “I told you he would come when he promised.”

  Perry, Lance, Cornelius, Aunt Antonia; to one side Myfanwy, cloaked for travelling, and the coachman; George and Henry, and Arabella clinging to the skirts of Laura's carriage dress; all wore long faces.

  Laura turned. Beneath the midnight-blue bonnet, her cheeks were pale, her eyes red-rimmed. “I waited...” she said.

  Gareth wanted to pull her into his arms and beg her to be his wife, but she was carrying Priscilla. Pris reached out to him with a crow of delight, so he took her. She gave him a damp slobber, because she had not yet quite worked out kisses. He wanted to suggest to her mother that they give a demonstration, but Aunt Antonia was there, and Cornie, and the boys and the children and the servants.

  He kissed Priscilla, and holding her tight enough to make her squirm, he looked over her dark curls at Laura. “Stay,” he blurted out, diplomacy and oft-practised pretty speeches forgotten. As she started to speak, he interrupted, softly but urgently, “Marry me!”

  “I cannot,” she said, agitated. “I must go. We must go if we are to make any distance today. I only waited to say good-bye and to thank you...for everything. Myfanwy!”

  With a curtsy and an “If you please, my lord,” the abigail took Priscilla from him and started towards the front door.

  Everyone followed. Amidst the press of last minute farewells, kisses and embraces and promises to visit, Gareth had no chance to explain himself further. Cornelius handed Laura into the carriage, Myfanwy climbed after with the child, the coachman mounted the box, and they were off.

  How could he stand with the others waving good-bye to all his hopes? Alone, Gareth went into the house.

  Chapter 20

  With burning eyes, Laura stared blindly out of the carriage window as the carriage rolled through Llys village. On the seat beside her Priscilla slept already, exhausted after
exchanging her morning nap for an endlessly protracted leave-taking. Opposite, Myfanwy sniffled.

  Laura forced herself to speak. “My dear, it is not too late to change your mind.”

  The little abigail shook her head. “Not me, my lady,” she said determinedly. “There's mopish I felt just for a moment to be leaving home, but 'tis over now. An adventure it is to be going so far off, look you.”

  An adventure? If only Laura could so regard the journey, but she did not even feel she was going home. She had left her heart behind her at Llys Manor.

  Her chagrin at Gareth's absence during her last fortnight in his house had vanished. Her anger at his all too public proposal had never been more than a flash in the pan. Somehow he had overcome his reluctance to wed. When he held Priscilla for the last time, he had suddenly realized that he could not bear to lose her.

  Or perhaps his offer had simply been another instance of his generosity, stretched to the utmost, the only way he could think of to allow Laura to stay at Llys without living on charity.

  Should she feel grateful, or should she feel selfish for depriving him of the child he loved? She was also depriving Priscilla of all the advantages of an upbringing at Llys, she thought with a pang. If it had been pride alone which prevented her accepting Gareth... But it was fear, too, fear that she might come to hate him for not loving her as she loved him, for not wanting her as she wanted him.

  For what else could explain his victory over his fear of marriage? It must mean he did not desire her, so he would not make love to her, so she would never conceive another child, to terrify him with memories.

  She could not marry him on such a basis! Not that she had the choice now, after publicly rejecting him. Never mind her pride; his would rebel against a renewal of his suit.

  He would thank her in the end, Laura persuaded herself. He had proposed on an instant's impulse, without reflection. When he came to consider the consequences of marrying a widow with a scandalous past, he would realize her refusal was a lucky escape. She would not be a wife he could take to London and present with pride to the Ton. Those who had forgotten her elopement would soon remember when her parents, his Aunt Sybil, and the Chamberlains declined to receive her.