The Baron's Betrothal (Dangerous Lords Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

  “We seem to have reached the main thoroughfare,” he said with obvious relief.

  Hetty could only agree.

  She guided The General out onto Rosecroft Hall’s rutted gravel drive lined with knobby, aged oaks. The hall sat in queenly, if shabby, grandeur on a rise, its clusters of blackened chimneys highlighted against the sky.

  “You know the history of the house?” he asked, pride warming his voice.

  “A little, my lord.” Of course, she did, but a groom wouldn’t, and she wasn’t about to disappoint him.

  “Rosecroft Hall was built in fifteen-ninety by William, the first Fortescue. It consisted of little more than the great hall, solar, buttery, and bedchambers. Lord Robert, the third baron, extended it in the seventeenth century. He added the west wing and gatehouse. The fourth earl added the sash windows and water closets. All of the Fortescues are buried in the crypt in the parish churchyard in Digswell, except for my father.”

  Hetty made an encouraging sound in her throat. She had roamed the churchyard and studied the ornate crypt of which he spoke.

  “Rosecroft Hall’s great chamber boasts a carved minstrel’s gallery, where many fine paintings hang. It is renowned for its Elizabethan panels and plasterwork ceiling. But more than this, mon ami, there’s a secret door below the solar with a tunnel that leads to the woods. My father used it when he was a boy. I intend to find it.”

  She smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. “I wish you luck in finding it, my lord.”

  “The gardens are known to be magnifique. Created by England’s famous gardener, Capability Brown, before my papa left England. He was very proud of them. The lime walk, the topiary…” His voice fell away as they rode farther on and the neglect became more obvious, with unclipped hedges and rangy gardens beneath a layer of snow.

  Hetty remembered two years ago when she’d last visited. The house and grounds needed attention even then, with cracked plaster and faded draperies. She doubted much had been done since. Men were not always aware of such things. It needed a woman’s touch, and Eustace was a widower. He never spoke of his wife. Perhaps her passing still weighed heavily upon him as her mother’s did her father.

  “The grounds need work,” he said. “I wonder why it wasn’t done before winter.”

  “I heard Mr. Fennimore’s not been well,” Hetty said, disliking any criticism of her godfather.

  They approached the rambling Elizabethan stone house. The columned forecourt was covered in a flowering creeper, the walls thick with ivy. She reined The General in. The long, mullioned windows looked blankly down. A footman rushed out to greet them. Thankfully, there was no sign of Eustace.

  “Please come in and partake of some breakfast,” the baron said to Hetty. “I’m sure Mr. Fennimore would like to thank you.”

  He jumped down and stretched his back with a groan as Williams hurried around the corner from the direction of the stables.

  “Most kind, my lord.” Hetty eyed the approaching groom. “But I must ride straight home. I’m concerned about my master.”

  He bowed his head. “Thank you, Simon. I am indebted to you.”

  “No need to thank me, my lord. Anyone would have done the same.” She sank her chin beneath her scarf and ignored Williams’s penetrating stare. He would recognize The General. She turned the horse’s head, directing him back the way they’d come with a sigh of relief. If Williams didn’t question his lordship too closely, she might pull this off, but she had yet to face what lay in wait at home.

  As The General cantered down the drive, she turned. The baron stood, legs apart, and hands on hips, staring after her. He raised a hand in farewell. She wondered where Eustace was, for he still hadn’t appeared at the door. He would be relieved to find his relative had arrived safely.

  She swung her arm in a casual mannish gesture of farewell and rode on. Instead of the expected relief, she found herself saddened, as if she was saying goodbye forever to a friend. How odd. Lord Fortescue wasn’t a friend, and now would never be.

  *

  Guy watched Simon ride away down the drive. He’d felt off balance in the groom’s company. He’d been unsettled the whole of last night and this morning, in fact, and he wasn’t able to pinpoint the reason. The knock on the head he supposed. His temples still ached a little. Eager to meet his relative, he introduced himself to the butler who admitted him and strode into the paneled great hall. He released a long breath as he stood looking around. Dust faded the fine woodwork, and the ceilings were stained with smoke. The damask drapes at the long windows were threadbare, almost in tatters.

  Guy tried to suppress his annoyance and disappointment as he pulled off his gloves and handed them, along with his coat and hat, to the butler. “Merci…?”

  “Hammond, your lordship.”

  “Is Mr. Fennimore at home, Hammond?”

  “Yes, my lord. He is in the library.” Hammond snapped his fingers, and a footman led the way up the wide, carved oak staircase.

  Guy could have found the library by himself. He had discussed the house so often with his father he knew his way around as if he had lived here.

  The footman scratched at a set of double doors, and a man’s faint voice requested they enter.

  Guy walked in to find Fennimore leaning back against the green velvet cushion of his wing chair. His foot on a fringed footstool. Despite the fire glowering in the marble fireplace, the room smelled of damp. The green silk at the windows had holes which emitted the light. The bookshelves were dusty, and the cedar furniture dull with the lack of polish. Long windows looked down over the terraced Tudor rose garden. Through the murky glass panes, he glimpsed woody roses grown out of shape. Mildewed statues wearing a mantle of snow rose like ghosts from the tall grass.

  “Bonjour, Eustace.” Guy walked over to shake his relative’s hand. Eustace’s plentiful ginger hair was streaked with white. He had an attractive cast to his face and must have been good looking in his youth, despite a receding chin. His faint smile failed to banish the bleakness in his eyes.

  “So, Guy, you have arrived at last.” When he failed to rise, Guy leaned down and shook his limp hand.

  “I expect you wondered what had happened to me.”

  “I did, my boy. I did.” Eustace nodded toward the window where a watery sun broke through the clouds, turning the snow a luminous white. “I daresay the storm was fierce. You’ll need a good breakfast.”

  “Merci. I’m as hungry as a bear.” The man looked as if he suffered from some malaise. Simon might have been right. The logical reason for the estate to be in such a bad way.

  As if reading Guy’s mind, Eustace said, “I’m afraid I have a touch of the gout. Forgive me if I remain seated.”

  Guy nodded. “A painful disease. I heard the Prince of Wales suffers from it.”

  “He does. Prinny offered me a remedy, but I am yet to try it.” Eustace waved a languid hand toward the damask chair opposite him.

  Guy wondered what remedy Eustace employed. Then he turned to more pressing matters. “I require a bath and a change of clothes. I trust my trunk has arrived?”

  “Yes. A strange horse turned up at the stables during the night. Would that be yours?”

  “Oui. I’m glad the animal found shelter.” Guy frowned. “Did they bring in my portmanteau?”

  “No. There was nothing on the horse bar the saddle.”

  Guy groaned. “Then my portmanteau has fallen off somewhere.”

  “Indeed?” Eustace dabbed at his mouth with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. He was far better dressed than the house, wearing an elaborately patterned silk banyan over a fine linen shirt, and pantaloons. “I shall need evidence to prove you are Fortescue.”

  Guy gazed at him shocked. He had not expected such a poor welcome. “My papers were in my portmanteau. Lost somewhere out there where the horse and I parted company. I shall have to go and search for it when the weather improves.”

  Eustace eyed Guy’s wounded forehead. “You fell from your horse?” />
  The man’s yawn behind his hand outraged Guy. “I was set upon by bandits. As I outrode them, I collided with a low branch and was knocked out. A man from the village came to my aid.”

  Eustace leaned forward in his chair. “Lucky to find anyone on that road. Who was it?”

  “Simon Rawlings, a groom in the employ of Colonel Cavendish of Malforth Manor.”

  “You were fortunate.” Eustace picked up a bell from the table next to him and rang it. “A servant will show you to your chamber. We have much to talk about. I’ll join you in the breakfast room after you’ve bathed.”

  Guy followed the footman to his bedchamber, noticing further evidence of neglect. He had been given one of the lesser suites in the east wing. Apparently, Eustace felt no need to vacate the famous blue suite where royalty had once slept. It had been Guy’s father’s bedchamber and his grandfather’s before him. Perhaps he would now.

  The chamber hadn’t been prepared for him. Guy rang for a servant and gazed at the dull paneling and faded yellow brocade.

  “Please have the maids clean this room and air the bed.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  It appeared that Eustace resented him being there, despite the house remaining at his disposal should he wish to stay. Guy made that clear in his letter, and he was becoming angry at the man’s attitude. Ill or not, it wouldn’t be difficult for Eustace to offer him a hospitable welcome.

  Over breakfast, Eustace didn’t see fit to question where Guy had spent the night, so Guy didn’t tell him.

  “I plan to leave for London in spring, when the season begins.” Eustace raised a tankard of ale to his lips.

  “You are welcome to live here,” Guy said, making sure Eustace understood.

  Eustace’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, but as soon as parliament sits I shall leave for London. As I have told you, the lease on your London townhouse does not expire until July. And when it does, it will take considerable time for the rooms to be made fit for your use. You’ll reside with me in Mayfair, of course.”

  “Thank you for the offer. I expect I shall sell the townhouse and buy another in a better part of Town.”

  “You have chosen a bride?”

  “No. But I intend to marry as soon as possible.”

  “You can select one from the next season of debutantes.”

  “I am grateful for your kind offer, but I don’t plan to return to London immediately. There is much to see to here,” Guy said with a careful glance at Eustace. “I should like to visit the tenants. There does not seem to be many servants, and the house needs repair.” He ignored Eustace’s frown. “Come spring, the gardens can be tackled.”

  “I did my best.” Eustace’s shoulders stiffened. “The war might have ended, but revolutionary talk fills the pamphlets and the newssheets. Workers prefer the city and bigger towns to the country now. It has been extremely hard to find suitable staff.”

  “London appears to be filled with homeless soldiers and sailors, and the half-starved unemployed,” Guy said. “I wonder if I might find some suitable servants among them.”

  Eustace shook his head. “Untrained and unscrupulous men are worse than none.”

  “Then I shall write to a London employment service.”

  “The cost to keep an estate this size has become crippling in recent years.”

  It was Guy’s turn to frown. “And the tenant farmers?”

  “The long years of war have left England impoverished,” Eustace reiterated. “There’s little money to be made on the land. Once you’ve recovered, I’ll instruct the office manager to show you the ledgers.”

  His nostrils pinched, Eustace rose and excused himself, leaving Guy to eat alone. He cut up a piece of bacon. Things must change, and fast. He beckoned to the lone footman standing against the wall in his threadbare livery.

  “Moodie, isn’t it? What is the estate manager’s name?”

  “Mr. Ellis, my lord.”

  “Find him and inform him I shall expect him in the library with his books at eleven o’clock.”

  The footman bowed and left Guy to plan his day, attempting to ignore a persistent headache. If the weather permitted, he would ride out and search for his portmanteau. Guy was eager to visit the tenant farmers and see for himself what the true situation was. He needed more information before he accepted Eustace’s excuses. Throughout the years in exile, his father had found a way to send money, and his relative had been given a generous stipend for the upkeep of the estate.

  Annoyed, Guy threw down his napkin and rose. What if the evidence Eustace demanded had been burned in the fire in France? Would he then be cast out as an imposter? It didn’t bare thinking about. He couldn’t sit around and do nothing. He’d hire workmen and gardeners who could begin preparing for spring. And he would call on his neighbors. Perhaps Digswell society would prove good company. No time like the present to learn the English ways.

  The butler assisted him into his coat and handed him his hat and gloves. Guy walked out into fragile sunshine along the graveled drive to the stables. Perhaps his future wife was to be found here. The extraordinary happenings of the past few days troubled him, but when he tried to replay them in his mind, instead of the attack on his life, his mind returned to Simon. He gritted his teeth, which made his temple throb.

  “Zut!” he muttered, startling the groom who hurried to greet him.

  *

  With a sinking heart, Hetty spied her father’s carriage standing in front of the house. She rode straight into the stables. “We’ve been so worried, Miss Hetty.” Simon hurried to assist her down. “The storm was so fierce we couldn’t begin to search for you until this morning. Joseph and I went out at dawn. We’ve just got back.”

  Hetty felt a stab of remorse. “I’m so sorry, Simon. Please thank Joseph. As you see, The General and I have suffered no injuries. I had to spend the night in the old Fortescue hunting lodge when the weather turned nasty. How long has my father been home?”

  “His carriage has just arrived. I’m so relieved you’re here. I was wracking my brains for a way to tell him.”

  “Before you tend to the carriage horses, could you see to The General, please? He is very hungry.”

  “At once, Miss Hetty.” He led the horse away.

  At the relief on Simon’s face, prickles of shame climbed Hetty’s neck. She ran through the walled kitchen garden and entered the house by the servants’ entrance. She met no one on the servants’ stairs and arrived at her bedchamber just as her father called to her from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Are you there, Horatia? Where is that girl? Doesn’t she wish to greet her father?”

  Hetty threw off the offending clothes, tucking them back into their hiding place in the clothespress. She glanced at her bed, which of course had not been slept in. Sally would say nothing to give her away. Hastily buttoning her morning gown, she left the room. She hurried down the corridor, hearing her father’s purposeful tread on the stairs.

  “Why does no one know where my daughter is? I have news. Horatia?”

  She met him on the landing. “Here I am, Papa. What’s amiss? Did you have a good trip?”

  “My trip was satisfactory. I’ve been home for fifteen minutes. Why did you not come to greet me? Have you been in your chamber all morning?” He sat his pince-nez on his nose to study her. Through them, his magnified gray eyes looked suspicious. “I smell wood smoke! Have you had your fire lit again? I don’t like that unhealthy bloom in your cheeks.”

  “I was reading and didn’t hear you arrive.”

  “You’ve been reading? I hope it’s not that fellow Byron’s poetry again. I’ve heard distressing rumors… Oh well, never mind that. Why don’t you read Pope? Now’s there’s a poet. But I digress. We have been invited to dinner this Saturday!”

  “How agreeable, Papa, where?”

  “Lady Kemble.” He beamed and tucked his thumbs into the plaid waistcoat that strained over his stomach. “I’m sure you’re as please
d as I am. She always puts on a splendid dinner.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  He held up a finger. “Wait until I tell you all. Lady Kemble plans to invite Lord Fortescue. The sixth baron that is. At long last, he’s arriving from France to set his estates to rights.”

  Hetty chewed her bottom lip. “I see.”

  Her father rubbed his hands. “She is to kill the fatted calf in his honor.”

  She followed him down the stairs. “I’m not sure if I’ll be well enough by then. I fear I am coming down with a cold. My head aches.”

  “What? But you always wish for more society! Of course, you have a headache, reading all morning in that overheated chamber of yours. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes! You’ve had the fire lit, when it’s sunny out.”

  “Papa it’s been snowing. We had a violent storm last night.”

  “I know about that, but it’s passed over now, and the sun is shining. Come and have a cup of tea, that will fix your headache. If it doesn’t, have Mrs. Bentwood make you a tisane.”

  Short of being on her deathbed, Hetty accepted that her father wouldn’t take no for an answer. She sighed as they entered the breakfast room. But she was hungry, having missed dinner last night.

  “Wear that gown the color of a new penny which suits your lovely hair, so very like your mother’s,” he added in a wistful tone. He eyed her askance. “I’m not sure I like the way you’re wearing it today.”

  Hetty put her hand to her hair. Drat. She’d forgotten she’d dragged it back to wear under the hat. It must look like a fright. “It was an experiment, Papa, a new style in a fashion magazine.”

  “Hmm. Don’t care for it. Well, there’s naught that can take away from your looks, Horatia, but you should embellish them, my dear.” He put his hand to the fringe of graying hair that clustered around his ears. “A few curls, you know, the way women do.”

  “Very well, Papa. I’ll tell Sally to arrange it like that.”

  Hetty settled at the table and poured them both a cup of tea from the teapot. When the maid brought toast, she buttered a piece and added strawberry jam. She took a bite, but at the thought of meeting the baron again, she almost choked. She had to admit the prospect was exciting. He was the most fascinating man she’d ever met, although, by his own admission, he had been a rake, as was his father in his youth. It was his intention to marry and have his heir, but would that put an end to his rakish ways?