A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  “I do as it happens; it was brought home from India. I’ll fetch my sewing box.”

  Several hours later, Horatia tried the gown on again. Fanny had cut the neckline into a deep scoop and edged it with a border of fine old lace that Horatia had been keeping for a special occasion. What better occasion than now? There was enough lace left to embellish the hem, shortened to give a glimpse of the ankle. Fanny was an enthusiastic seamstress but had little chance to enjoy it for her mother had all her gowns made.

  “You are the best of friends, Fanny.” She gave her friend a hug. She gazed in the mirror, and her hand fluttered over her chest. “But it is barely decent. Perhaps I should add a tucker.”

  Fanny gasped. “You know they aren’t worn in the evening. Why, Mrs. Braithwaite at the lending library might wear one, but she’s close to seventy and no doubt feels in need of it, but a young woman in the prime of life, like you, should not.” She took the scissors and cut a thread. “The neckline is perfect. You have very good skin, Horatia. And it’s quite modest, really.”

  That evening, Horatia took an unconscionable amount of time with her appearance, and when she came downstairs, her father remarked on how well she looked.

  “That gown complements your fine brown eyes, my dear. Was it always so . . .?” He waved a hand across his chest. He shrugged. “Perhaps a shawl? We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. Those curls frame your face so becomingly. I’m pleased you took my advice.”

  More ringlets clustered about Horatia’s ears than she cared for, preferring smooth braids. Aware that Fanny would hate it, she had added a little black net to cover the crown of her head, like a dowager in mourning, in the faint hope it might disguise more of her appearance. The low neckline of the gown afforded her figure some womanly curves, and she trusted she now bore no resemblance whatsoever to the groom with whom Lord Fortescue had spent the night. At this thought, she bit her bottom lip in dismay. What a fool she’d been! If their night together were discovered, the ramifications would spread far wider than she had considered. She decided the baron would be too distracted by Fanny’s loveliness to notice her, but it failed to provide her any comfort.

  The carriage passed through the gates at Kemble Court and approached the symmetrical building of stucco brick. It pulled up in front of the porch. Two solid pillars flanked the front door. The property was situated farther from the town than Malforth Manor and enjoyed a much larger park. However, it was nowhere near as imposing as the magnificent Rosecroft Hall. Lady Kemble had mentioned on more than one occasion that, although smaller, her property was much better laid out with very little wasted space. Horatia thought her a fearful snob, and it was fortunate that such an attitude had not rubbed off on Fanny.

  A footman helped Horatia down from the carriage. She eased her tight shoulders, sure that an awkward and disconcerting evening awaited her.

  Horatia entered the hall on her father’s arm. She deposited her evening mantle in the maid’s arms. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the skirts of her gown and waited while a footman took her father’s evening cloak.

  Lady Kemble’s husband had gained his knighthood for services in the navy shortly before his death. His widow stood waiting, eager to present her special guest. “So rarely are we honored with a visitor of this stature in our part of the country,” she gushed. Lord Fortescue stood beside her, handsome in dark evening clothes of exquisite tailoring, his linens white against his dark skin. “And such a prepossessing personage,” Lady Kemble added with a flirtatious glance in his direction. She introduced Horatia’s father to the baron. Her glance alighted on Horatia, and her features took on a disgruntled expression. “Miss Cavendish, permit me to introduce you to Lord Fortescue.”

  Horatia forced her knees into a curtsy after taking note of the small bruise on his forehead and the cut, which was healing well.

  “My pleasure, Miss Cavendish.” He bowed. His gaze flickered over her from her hair to her chest and back to her eyes. A pulse beat in her throat. She had not forgotten those blue eyes. Would he recognize her? Horatia saw no sign of it. He moved on to greet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton, who had arrived behind them. She might have been an aged dowager for all the interest he showed in her. Perhaps it was that cursed bit of net. After the first studied glance, he looked right through her. And he a practiced rake! She fumed, ignoring the fact she should be relieved. Her breasts looked pale and exposed, and she pulled her shawl closer. How loathsome to be ignored in such a fashion.

  Horatia and her father entered the salon where her godfather, Eustace, held court. Her father hurried over to greet him. She was relieved by the size of the party. Lady Kemble had cast her net wide, bringing suitable personages from surrounding towns. Some twenty-five or more people milled about in the long room. Several young ladies gazed at Lord Fortescue in frank admiration.

  Eustace left her father and came to kiss her hand. She noticed his limp. “My dear, you are the belle of the ball this evening.”

  “As you well know, Eustace, I hardly compare with some of the ladies here,” Horatia countered with a brief smile. “Is your gout bothering you very much?”

  “It has been troublesome, my dear. Thank you for noticing.”

  “I’m so sorry. Have you tried that remedy the apothecary suggested?”

  “I try everything, but little seems to help save laudanum.”

  “Are you pleased to have your relative returned?” Horatia was surprised he had not mentioned the possibility of an heir when last he’d come to the manor.

  He smiled. “But of course. A handsome man, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I hoped you’d think so.”

  Curious as to what Eustace thought of him, she said, “A decent sort, I trust.”

  His brows rose. “Decent? I do hope so. He has been unable to supply me with proof that he is Baron Fortescue.”

  “Really? But he must be.” Horatia had never doubted it. Guy knew so much about the Fortescue history and the estate.

  “He might have been a servant of the baron’s.” Eustace shrugged. “I need to be convinced.”

  Horatia eyed Lord Fortescue doubtfully as he moved gracefully through the room. He looked every inch the aristocrat. “Could a servant be so much at ease in society?”

  “There are upstarts everywhere, my dear.”

  “But the family likeness…”

  Eustace shrugged. “His father’s hair was brown. Not coal black.”

  “But his mother was French,” Horatia said. “What about his eyes? Are they not unusual?”

  “The family does produce blue-eyed children, but they are common enough.”

  Horatia didn’t think the color of Guy’s eyes at all common. “Should you ask him, he would most likely tell you more about his family.”

  Eustace raised his brows. “You seem determined to defend him. But think about it. He might be the child of a servant and grew up in that household. I require concrete proof before I am convinced.”

  Horatia gave a start. “I believe he has a sister. She lives in Paris.”

  “Oh? And how do you know that?”

  “He told Fanny, or her mother.” Horatia blushed at the lie.

  “I have written to his sister. She will be able to throw more light on his authenticity.” Eustace gave a sad smile. “Poor girl, this whole business has concerned you too much. You are wasted stuck away here in the country. You should persuade your father to allow you to go to London.”

  “He refuses to let me stay with Aunt Emily.”

  “He doesn’t trust your aunt’s ability to care for you, thinks her a bit of a flibbertigibbet. But I shall be in London. Perhaps that might sway his opinion?”

  Horatia doubted it. It would be delightful to visit when Eustace was there, but her father had never agreed. She saw no reason why he would now. She buried the faint hope that had risen in her breast. Watching her godfather wander the room, she marveled at how he put others at ease. Even Sophie, the doctor’s shy da
ughter, blossomed under his attention.

  The guests seemed to be more animated than usual tonight. Lady Kemble had been correct; the village of Digswell had never seen Lord Fortescue’s like, at least not since his father had lived here, for those who could remember those scandalous times. At two-and-twenty, Horatia didn’t. He moved among the guests, bowing gracefully, and, after a brief conversation, left spellbound expressions behind him. He approached the small group where her father stood chatting. She gasped, fearing he would mention Simon to her father. His lordship would be surrounded all evening, but she must find a way to speak to him.

  Fanny rushed up to her, dainty in a gown of jonquil satin with an over-dress of spider-gauze, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “How lovely you look, Horatia.” She peered and frowned. “But what’s that thing on your head?”

  “A bit of net. You look like an angel, Fanny. That gown is perfect for you.”

  “Mama had it made by a dressmaker in London,” Fanny said, hitching a glove up her arm.

  Horatia smiled fondly at Fanny, then her gaze swept the room, as she searched for an opportunity to speak to the baron alone.

  Lady Kemble sailed toward them like one of Nelson’s frigates, on which her husband had once fought. She gave her daughter some unspoken direction with a lifting of her brows and a jerk of her head.

  “It appears your mother wants you to mingle,” Horatia said. “We must talk later.”

  The chatter around the room centered on Lord Fortescue’s encounter with the highwaymen. Digswell Herts was some twenty-two miles from London. It lacked a toll road, the closest being at Ayot Green, and nothing so dangerous had happened within the environs for years. It was as though his lordship had brought trouble with him, riding into their midst wreaking havoc, especially for her. She appeared to be of no special interest to him, but an appeal to his better nature might work. Apart from his rakish ways, he’d shown some evidence of a trustworthy nature.

  “Have you summoned the magistrate?” Lady Kemble asked Lord Fortescue with an exaggerated shiver. “And given him a good description of the rascals?”

  “I have, but I expect they will be miles away from here by now.” He glanced towards Horatia, and a tiny frown puckered his brow.

  Horatia lowered her gaze and busied herself with smoothing her gloves. When she looked up again, his gaze remained on her. Was that a speculative look in his eye? She could not allow the conversation to continue in her father’s presence. As soon as attentions were distracted by a waiter bearing glasses of champagne, she backed against the wall and dropped her fan into an urn.

  “Oh dear,” she said to her father. “I believe I dropped my fan as we came in. And it is close in here with all the candles lit. Shall I go and look?”

  “No, my dear,” her father said. “I’ll tell a servant to find it.”

  As he moved towards the door, someone claimed Lady Kemble’s attention. Horatia seized her moment and stepped close to the baron. “My lord, I’m sorry to see you have suffered an injury. As it occurred a few miles from our home, I am anxious to learn more of your dangerous encounter.”

  A dark brow peaked above his amused blue eyes. “Enchanté, Miss Cavendish, although it’s been blown out of all proportion, I assure you.”

  He offered his arm, and they strolled away from the throng. Everyone watched them, and no doubt thought her extremely forward when they walked out of earshot to the far end of the long salon.

  Horatia said, “I have a favor to ask of you, my lord.”

  “A favor?” He smiled. “When so charming a lady asks such a thing of me, how can I refuse?”

  Horatia frowned. So he switched the charm on and off when required? “Please do not mention your acquaintance with our groom, Simon, to my father. He was away from home that night, and I am the only one who knows Simon took his horse.” She searched his face for signs he might have discovered her ruse. If he had, he hid it well.

  “I see.” A gleam brightened his eyes. “We shall share your secret, no?”

  “If you wish to put it like that,” she said, growing cross.

  “You obviously have a close friendship with your groom, Miss Cavendish.”

  “No, I… He has been with us for some time and does confide in me, yes.”

  “You find him attractive, your groom?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Attractive?” Horatia grew progressively hotter and wished she had her fan. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  He stepped closer. “You allow this groom of yours to ride your father’s horse without his knowledge?” He made a tsk noise with his tongue and shook his head.

  Caught by the shape of his mouth, she raised her head to find laughter in his eyes. Was he toying with her?

  “Why don’t you order him not to?” he asked. “I’m sure Simon is eager to please his delightful mistress.”

  If he hadn’t recognized her, he was flirting shamelessly and no doubt would do the same with every woman under forty in the room. Horatia had heard the French were terrible flirts. She’d preferred his lordship when he thought her a man. “Simon is a very capable groom. Surely you would not wish him to be discharged for helping you?”

  “Absolument pas!” He held up his hands, palms towards her. “Trust that I will say nothing.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Relieved the matter was now well in hand, she turned and led him back to the crowd clustered by the fireplace.

  “My lord, ladies, and gentleman, dinner is served,” Lady Kemble’s long-faced butler announced in a grave voice. One might think a tribunal awaited them instead of a meal.

  Lady Kemble tucked her hand through Guy’s arm. She glowered at Horatia. “Mr. Oakley is to escort Miss Cavendish.”

  When Frederick Oakley, a rejected suitor of Horatia’s, offered his arm, it caused an embarrassing moment to pass between them. He managed a faint smile that spoke of deep regret, and they proceeded through the doorway in a stately manner. Once seated at the long dining table, Horatia found herself between Mr. Oakley and the curate, at some distance from the baron, who sat at Lady Kemble’s right. Eustace sat on her ladyship’s left with her father across the table next to an attractive widow in a gown of deep violet silk. Mrs. Illingworth had just emerged from her period of mourning.

  While Mr. Oakley paused to draw breath during his account of the abundance of vegetables produced by his new hot house, Horatia picked up her glass and sipped the light, fruity wine. The result of her conversation with Lord Fortescue was not as tidy as she hoped. His flippant attitude had failed to reassure her. Would he keep his promise? Well, you wished for excitement and now you’ve got it, she told herself sternly.

  The servants served soup, followed by halibut in cream sauce and a variety of vegetables. The delicate, buttery aromas reminded Horatia of how little she’d eaten all day.

  The curate talked of the weather, the babies christened in the last month, and last Sunday’s sermon in which he’d discussed dealing with disappointments and quite cleverly, he thought, based it on Moses. Then, to Horatia’s relief, having been in attendance last Sunday and suffered through it; he turned his attention to dissecting the fish. From the other end of the table, Lady Kemble begged Lord Fortescue to describe his ordeal from beginning to end.

  Horatia’s shoulders tensed. “There’s very little to tell,” he said. “I do not wish to scare the ladies. The worst thing to happen was that I rode into the branch of a tree and lost my seat.” He laughed and put his hand to his forehead. “Then I lost my horse and almost lost my head.” His gaze slid down the table and alighted on Horatia. She almost choked on a mouthful of fish.

  “And did you find your horse again?” asked the curate, who preferred all the threads of a story tied up.

  “Fortunately, it turned up at Rosecroft Hall before I did. It had more sense than I.”

  At his words, a concerned murmur went round the table but faded as the third course – a dressed goose, roast beef, and a loin of pork – were brought in. The baron’s gaze soug
ht Horatia’s, and his eyes twinkled wickedly. We have a secret, he seemed to say. She shivered, and her knife slipped from her nerveless fingers.

  Then conversation turned to other matters. Horatia motioned to the footman to pour her another glass of wine and earned a disapproving look from the matron across the table. As she sipped her second glass, her tight muscles loosened and her head swam in a not unpleasant fashion.

  Why did Lord Fortescue stare at her so? If he intended to torture her, he was succeeding. She clung to the hope that she had allowed her imagination to get the better of her, that he hadn’t discovered the truth, and she would emerge from this escapade unscathed.

  At the completion of the meal, Lady Kemble clapped her hands to gain everyone’s attention. “In honour of the Prince Regent, who some months ago introduced a new dance into society, the musicians will play a waltz. All those who feel brave enough to attempt it are invited to participate. But I warn you, those in poor health should just watch!”

  With a murmur of delight, they all trouped into the ballroom where a string quartet tuned their instruments.

  Horatia was immediately claimed by twenty-year-old Henry Ferris, whom she considered barely out of short trousers. Lord Fortescue escorted Miss Emma Broadhurst, the curate’s daughter, and they formed part of the set for the country dance. The wine made Horatia reckless. She met the baron’s eyes over Emily’s head as they moved towards the end of the line, and she flirted with Henry as the dance progressed. At first surprised by the change in her, Henry needed little encouragement. By the time the dance was completed, he had become a clown, turning the wrong way on purpose, and making everyone laugh.

  He escorted Horatia to a chair and seemed inclined to remain by her side. Horatia battered her eyelashes at him as he hovered over her. “Could you see if they’ve found my fan, please, Henry?” She smiled sweetly at him. “It is so dreadfully close in here.”

  Henry hurried from the room. Almost as soon as he disappeared out the door, a waltz was struck up. Lord Fortescue appeared at her side, beating Frederick Oakley, who approached her with the same intention, by a whisker.