A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  “Guy wants to marry me.” Horatia ran up the stairs and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I mean when he can ask me properly.”

  “I expected he would,” Aunt Emily said with amusement.

  Horatia reached the top step and whirled around. “You knew?”

  “I did. That first day. When I saw how he looked at you.”

  “It is indeed surprising that a baron should wish to marry a poor man’s daughter.”

  “Poor? What are you saying? Your father is plumper in the pocket than he makes out, my dear.”

  Horatia widened her eyes. “He is?”

  “He’s close to what one might call a nabob since he made a good deal of money with the East India Company in India.”

  “Father a nabob? I can’t believe it!”

  “Nevertheless, it is true. The Cavendish family is a very old and important one, even if we do not hail from its upper echelons. You are quite sure your baron is wealthy?”

  “His father lost his properties during the revolution and Guy’s estate, Rosecroft Hall, is in need of renovation. But I believe he has a considerable income.”

  Aunt Emily scooped up the grey tabby at her feet and followed Horatia up the stairs. “It doesn’t matter, my dear. I’m quite sure he loves you for yourself alone.”

  Horatia went to bed, but she was too excited to sleep. Guy must have funds to renovate the Hall. And Lady Kemble had it on good authority he was wealthy, although Horatia wasn’t entirely sure where she got that information. Lady Kemble relied heavily on gossip. Horatia refused to worry about such things. She didn’t care if Guy was as poor as a church mouse.

  Chapter Twelve

  When the hackney stopped outside Count Forney’s palatial home, Guy paid the jarvie and stepped up to rap on the brass knocker.

  He presented his card to the butler.

  “You are expected, my lord.”

  Guy followed the butler to an impressive salon decorated in the extravagant Napoleonic style the prince regent had adopted at Carlton House. The furniture was a combination of oak, ebony, gilt, painted bronze and marble. The walls were papered in a chinoiserie pattern of birds. It was a showcase for a beautiful woman like the countess, perhaps, but far too ornate for Guy’s taste.

  The count openly displayed his penchant for Napoleon, which in itself wasn’t a crime. The prince regent was known to have a deep respect for Napoleon also but had refused Napoleon’s invitation to meet with him when aboard the Bellerophon in Plymouth Sound. Guy suspected it was because Prinnie had never stepped onto a battlefield and felt he would not present well beside the famous general.

  The count appeared not to be one of those French émigrés who had arrived with barely the shirt on their backs and found it hard to survive. They flocked together at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street where the Constitutional Monarch of France, Louis XVIII, had stayed in 1814.

  A gilt-edged paneled door opened, and Count Forney, a narrow-faced, swarthy Corsican appeared. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Bienvenue, Baron Fortescue. Je m’excuse pour vous avoir fait attendre.”

  “Not at all, Count. You wished to see me?”

  “Oui, Baron.” Forney waved Guy to a Louis Quinze chair.

  The count’s clothes were more elaborate than most Englishmen wore, with lace at his cuffs and a waistcoat embroidered in a pattern of golden bees.

  A touch of yellow in the depths of the count’s eyes lent him a wolfish air. “We are to speak in the English tongue?”

  “We live in England now.”

  “Ah, England, I prefer it in the autumn when the shadows in the wood grow long.” He paused and studied him. “May I offer you a fine French brandy?”

  “Oui, merci.”

  “A rumor has reached my ears that you were once a confidant of Napoleon, Lord Fortescue. Would that be true?”

  Shocked, Guy narrowed his eyes. “Non! It is not true.”

  The count poured liberal portions of brandy into two balloon glasses and placed them on the marble and gilt table. He sat opposite Guy, crossed his legs, and gave a tight-lipped smile. “How bizarre.”

  Guy shifted in his chair. “Why is it so bizarre?”

  The count swilled the golden liquid in his glass and put it to his lips. Guy, with growing uneasiness, left his untouched on the table. “I have it on good authority you were part of a group of men instrumental in Napoleon’s escape from Elba.”

  Guy jumped up. “Absurde!”

  “You wish to deny it?”

  “I do.”

  The count banged his glass down on the table spilling its contents. Throwing back his chair, he strode to a pier table. He returned with a document he held out to Guy.

  Guy took it and read the French words, which included his name and an accurate description of him, along with a detailed list of activities in which he never took part. According to the French he had committed treason and murder! His gut roiled in anger as he stared into the count’s strange eyes. “This is a lie!”

  The count’s thin lips stretched into a contemptuous smile. “It is not I who wrote it. As you see, it comes from a very reliable source.”

  Guy flicked the paper. “How did this fall into your hands?”

  “I have not the least intention of telling you how I got it. I had hoped you’d be honest with me. After all, we are on the same side.”

  Guy swallowed the bile rising to choke him. Like his father, he believed in the sacredness of the hereditary monarchial government and wished to see France restored to the monarchy. The revolution which began with the good intentions of idealists, ended with the death of hundreds of thousands of innocent people. And he had witnessed firsthand the awful consequences of Napoleon’s ambition. It still gave him nightmares. He read The French Foreign Office on the heading once more. “This can’t be genuine. It is false.”

  “It describes you perfectly. See…” He pointed. “Baron Fortescue of Rosecroft Hall. Six foot two, black hair, blue eyes, born in Paris on …”

  “There’s no need to continue, I can read.” Guy thrust the document at him. “But it’s a mistake, I tell you. I can’t understand how it came about. Who is behind this? Name this person.”

  “That I cannot do.”

  “You hand me that…bundle of lies and won’t tell me who accuses me?”

  Count Forney adjusted his cuffs. “Très bien. I see that we have nothing more to discuss.” Reaching for the bell, he summoned a servant. He and Guy eyed each other without attempting further conversation until the liveried footman entered.

  “Show the baron out.”

  The countess hovered, a splash of vivid emerald in the grey marble entrance hall. It appeared she was adept at listening at keyholes. “I had hoped we might see more of you, Lord Fortescue. It seems you have chosen to put your past behind you.”

  “I am not ashamed of my past, Countess Forney. You might examine your own more closely as well as your loyalty to the country you have made your home.” Guy bowed and put on his hat, noting the angry downturn of her mouth as the butler opened the door for him.

  Was he to be accused of sedition? His name besmirched before he could produce the proof of his identity? It was outlandish. Rage and frustration twisted inside him as he stepped out into the road to search for a passing hackney carriage.

  When he finally located one, he climbed in with grimace of distaste, for it smelled of stale sweat. But it was soon forgotten as he thought over what had just happened. Might he confide in Strathairn? Had the English government learned of this? He still wasn’t sure if it was purely coincidence that brought John to that laneway to save him from footpads when he first came to London. He needed time to think, to learn more of what lay behind it.

  At Berkley Square the next day, Guy received a note from the constabulary at Bow Street. It advised him the man who attacked him was to appear before the magistrate on the morrow. Guy read the brief missive again, hoping he’d missed something, then crumpled it in his fist in frustration. Now that F
orney had shown him the list it was even more imperative that he learn who was behind the attacks. Perhaps when up in front of the magistrate, the man might reveal the name of his assailant and he could begin to make sense of all that had happened to him since he came to England.

  After a sleepless night, Guy had decided to confide in Strathairn. He waited in the library with great impatience for John to return from his morning ride. It was an impressive room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with musty leather tomes. John’s father had been a keen reader of the classics.

  John was a different beast to his father, a strong vigorous man of action who preferred to drink, gamble and enjoy women rather than read. He strode into the library in riding clothes smelling of horse and threw himself down in one of the pair of oxblood leather chairs flanking the fireplace.

  Guy wasted no time recalling his interview with the count.

  John’s eyes lit with interest. He tapped his boot with his riding crop. “Did he reveal any more information? Any other names?”

  “Nothing. He clammed up.”

  “A slippery figure Forney is a known Bonapartist. He has been suspected of spying for Bonaparte during the war, but nothing was ever proven. Whitehall will be interested.”

  “I’m anxious to get this sorted this out.”

  John nodded. “You intend to visit Bow Street today?

  “Oui. Toute suite,” Guy uttered.

  “You have received a letter from your sister, have you not?”

  Guy nodded. “She has decided to come to England.”

  “Go to Bow Street,” John said. “I will visit Horse Guards. My old regiment, the Seventh Hussars may have heard a whisper or two.”

  Despite his anguish, Guy had to laugh. It was common knowledge that the Horse Guards housed the Grenadier Guards who guarded the Royal family. The Commander in Chief, Frederick, the Duke of York was to be found there. The most powerful men in England would seek information there when they wished to learn of sub rosa activities. “I often wonder what you did during the war, John. Would you tell me if you had been one of Wellington’s spies?”

  “Spies are not well-regarded by society.” John crossed his legs and grasped a polished riding boot with his broad hand. “You have your secrets too, Guy.”

  “Not that many, mon ami. I plan to have none standing between Horatia and me when we can wed.”

  “Why wait? Why not marry the girl now?”

  “I need first to prove I am who I say I am.” Guy struck the arm of the chair with his fist. “It appears I must clear my name as well if I wish to remain in England.”

  “It would appear to be a difficult task.”

  “Oui. First I need to visit the Bow Street magistrate with the hope something will be learned from this brigand.”

  “I’ll accompany you part of the way.”

  “You might ask those contacts of yours a question for me. If I am known to be a French spy, working to free Napoleon, why haven’t I been arrested?”

  John gave him an enigmatic look. “Perhaps you have an influential friend.”

  “If that is the case, then I am indebted to him.” He studied his friend’s face, but John’s eyes were shuttered. Guy leapt to his feet in frustration. “Can’t you tell me more?”

  Guy turned as the door opened and Lady Georgina entered in a swirl of white muslin. “I need you both to escort me to a ball tomorrow evening at the home of Lord and Lady Taylor.”

  “Why must we, Georgina?” Her brother frowned. Guy knew of John’s preference to visit his club, Whites, where he would spend most of the evening at the gambling tables before seeking feminine company. “Guy is betrothed to Miss Cavendish, as you know.”

  Georgina’s gaze settled on Guy, obviously deciding he was the softer option. “My escort has fallen ill, and I cannot go alone. Eleanor is otherwise engaged. What better than a handsome man on each arm?”

  “We would still have to ask Aunt Mary to come too, to chaperone you.”

  She giggled. “Don’t glower at me, John. I know you don’t care for her company. But what if no one asks me to dance? I shall have you two for moral support.”

  “I’m sure there will be many eager to do so, Lady Georgina.” Guy bowed. “But it will be my pleasure to escort you.”

  John sighed. “We should depart. I’ll ride with you to Bow Street and thence to the Horse Guards.”

  “Bow Street? Why would you go there?” Georgina asked.

  “Nothing to trouble your head over, my sweet,” John said.

  Georgina pouted in disgust. “You treat women like idiots, John.”

  “Not if they have proved themselves to be otherwise.” Her elder brother folded his arms.

  “Then you won’t escort me to the ball?”

  “We shall escort you. I accept my role as your brother and protector.”

  She squealed and rushed to hug him. John gave in to the embrace with a laugh.

  “I shall hug you too, Guy,” Georgina said with a speculative look at her brother.

  “You most certainly will not,” John said.

  “I consider myself hugged,” Guy said, backing off with a laugh. An evening away from the gambling tables at White’s was an attractive prospect, although he suspected John wished him to come so that he could keep an eye on him.

  Guy might have appreciated some light entertainment, except for the fact that Horatia was not invited. He would have to find a diplomatic way to explain it to her, and he had more than enough worries to plague him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As he feared, Guy learned very little at Bow Street. The ruffian who had attacked him had appeared before the sitting magistrate presiding over the court, along with the usual sad array of prostitutes, thieves, and pickpockets. He’d pleaded that he was also a victim. A Frenchman had threatened to murder him if he did not carry out his request. But he knew not his name and had not seen him well enough to describe him, for the man had worn his hat low over his forehead and hidden his face behind a scarf. The magistrate, unmoved by the man’s pleas, bound him over for trial at the Old Bailey.

  Guy employed a Bow Street Runner to trace the Frenchman. It was possible that his papers had fallen into the wrong hands. He’d spent hours searching the ground between where he and the horse had parted company and Rosecroft Hall. He held out the hope that once he’d gained some knowledge of this Frenchman, he might be able to retrieve the evidence of his birthright. When Geneviève arrived from Paris she would identify him, but he wasn’t sure when that would be. Familiar with his sister’s love for her des enfants, plus her inability to travel anywhere without a huge retinue in train, he doubted she’d appear in London any time soon.

  Guy left Bow Street and walked to the corner of Russell Street, searching for the carriage. The sunny day brought all manner of people out into the streets from nearby Covent Garden. Vendors, errand boys making deliveries and small groups of ladies intent on perusing the shops. A street girl sidled up to him. “Lookin’ for luv, sweeting?”

  Guy smelled gin on her breath. She looked painfully thin and very young. He reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Have a drink on me.” He tipped a handful of coins into her waiting palms. “Better still, have something to eat.”

  “A real pity, sweeting, I’d be happy to oblige you,” she said.

  Guy raised his hat and smiled. Seeing the carriage pull up nearby, he ran for it.

  The carriage stopped in Whitehall, outside Horse Guards where John waited. Guy studied his solemn face as he climbed inside.

  Ignoring a stab of anxiety, Guy told him the little he’d learned. “And you, John?”

  “Not much more than I’ve already been told,” John said.

  So it was true. John had known of this all along. Guy tamped down his fury. “And what is that?”

  John raised his brows. “That you’re to be watched, as you are suspected of being a French spy.”

  “Tiens!” Guy grabbed the door handle as the carriage swung around a corner. He foug
ht the temptation to leap out and run away. But where? He pulled his hand off the door handle and leaned back, casting John a cool glance.

  “I did find it hard to believe from the first,” John said with a shrug of apology. “But I was instructed to follow you and watch your activities in London. I saved you from your attackers in that alley because it was advisable to keep you alive until you led us to a nest of saboteurs known to be in London.” He leaned over and placed his hand on Guy’s sleeve. “But after I got to know you, Guy, I knew you were innocent of such a charge. I would bet my life on it.”

  Guy pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “What’s going on, John? I’ve never met Napoleon, let alone arranged his escape from Elba. And yet Count Forney has shown me evidence from the Foreign Secretary’s office that I’m listed as a spy.” He searched his friend’s face. “You are under orders.” Guy sighed. “I wonder what you plan to do with me.”

  “You might say I’m keeping you under observation. But that also means I’m watching your back, my friend.”

  Guy bowed his head. “Merci.”

  “For now,” John added with a helpless shrug.

  Staring at him soberly, Guy said, “je vois.”

  Horatia received Guy in her aunt’s parlor suffering the strange fluttering low in her belly that was ever present at the sight of him. He sank onto the sofa as if burdened by worry. “Are you all right?”

  “Oui, why do you ask?”

  “You look tired.”

  “Keeping up with Lord Strathairn I suppose,” he said with a smile.

  She didn’t believe that but clamped her lips on more questions.

  “I came to invite you and your aunt to Lady Bloxham’s rout tomorrow evening. This evening, I am engaged to escort Lady Georgina to a ball,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes, thinking he looked guilty. “Alone?”

  “No. Lord Strathairn and an elderly aunt make up the party. I am indebted to these people who have taken me in, Horatia. ”

  “Will you dance with Lady Georgina?”