The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness

by Tamara Lejeune

  Mr. Bracegirdle gave her the latchkey to the house, and Patience tucked it into her reticule. “As your attorney, my lady, I must beg you to reconsider. At the very least, if Your Ladyship would consent to pay off Lord Waverly’s debts of honor ... ? Tradesmen, of course, may be put off for months, but—”

  Patience snorted. “Debts of honor? Gambling debts, you mean?”

  “It is one thing to make a shopkeeper wait for his money, my lady. But it is quite another to delay payment to a gentleman with an IOU!”

  Patience climbed to her feet. “You’re quite right,” she said. “The shopkeepers will be paid as soon as I can manage it. The gentlemen with IOUs can wait.”

  “My lady!” he protested, quite shocked.

  “Is that everything?” she asked.

  “Heavens, no, my lady,” he said, rising from his desk. “There is a great deal more to go over. I have a great many papers for Your Ladyship to sign.”

  “Then I’m afraid it will have to wait,” said Patience. “I’m much too tired to read any more documents tonight.”

  “But there is no need for Your Ladyship to read any documents,” he protested. “Here at Bracegirdle, Bracegirdle, and Pym, we read the documents for you. All that is required is your signature.”

  “Thank you, but I never sign anything without reading it,” Patience said firmly. “My grandfather taught me that. It served him well.”

  “I trust you, Mr. Bracegirdle,” said Pru. “When I am twenty-one, I’ll sign anything you put in front of me.”

  “No, you won’t,” Patience said. “You’re just needling me! You may call on me in a day or two when I have caught up on my rest,” she went on, turning to Mr. Bracegirdle. “You know the address, of course.”

  “Of course, my lady. Smithers will see you to your carriage.”

  Prudence fell asleep in the hackney. Patience also wanted very much to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, queasiness overwhelmed her, and she was obliged to open them again.

  At last they arrived in Clarges Street. The driver stopped his vehicle in front of one of the neat Georgian houses.

  “Are you sure this is Number Seventeen?” Patience called up to the driver, looking at the house with the gravest misgivings. At this late hour, while the rest of the street was dark and quiet, this one house was ablaze with light. Human shadows danced in every window, and strains of music and raucous laughter could be heard clearly from the street. “Quiet, respectable street, my eye!” she muttered under her breath.

  Pru’s eyes fluttered open. “Are we here?” she asked, her voice thinned by sleep.

  “Prudence, I want you to wait in the carriage,” Patience said in her firmest voice.

  Pru yawned. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Just wait in the carriage until I come and get you!” was the only reply she received.

  Patience slipped out of the carriage, told the driver to wait, and went up the steps. Taking out her latchkey, she unlocked the door and went inside.

  Maximilian Tiberius Purefoy opened one bloodshot eye and with supreme disfavor, regarded the servant who had awakened him. Bare-chested, wearing only black hosiery and a red satin cape, Max had come to the masquerade in the guise of Mephistopheles, complete with horns and a tail. Every exposed inch of skin, including his face, had been painted with scarlet greasepaint.

  “What do you want?” he growled at the servant. “Can’t you see that I am busy?”

  For the occasion of his twenty-fifth birthday, Max had invited two hundred of his closest friends to help him celebrate. For the venue, he had chosen an empty house in Mayfair—of which there were many, this being late October and out of Season. The drawing room had been converted into an opium den with cushions covering the floor and Chinamen teaching the neophytes how to smoke. Everyone was drunk or worse, and, needless to say, women were as plentiful as they were available. At the moment, Max was perfectly sated, floating on a cloud of opium, a nameless female snoring in his arms. At one point she had been dressed, one supposed ironically, as an angel. Her white feathers had stuck to his paint, and she was smeared with red grease.

  “What do you want?” he repeated, pushing his angel away and tucking his sleeping member back into the slit that ran down the front of his pants. At the beginning of the evening, a huge black codpiece had adorned his costume, but that was long gone.

  The servant looked vaguely familiar. “Who are you?” he asked curiously, momentarily forgetting that he was quite angry with this person for waking him up.

  “I am Briggs, sir. The butler. Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a lady here.”

  Max laughed. “It’s my birthday,” he said happily. “Look around you. There are lots of ladies here. She’ll have to get to the back of the line.”

  “But she says she is Lady Waverly, sir!” Briggs protested.

  Max frowned in confusion. “What sort of a costume is that?” he slurred amiably.

  “Costume, sir?”

  “Costume, Briggs,” Max roared, suddenly full of righteous anger. “It is a costume party. I am, of course, Mephistopheles. But what I want to know is what sort of costume is a Wady Laverly?”

  “I don’t believe her ladyship is wearing a costume, sir.”

  “Lady Godiva! Excellent,” Max approved. “But she should have gotten here sooner. I am spent. Too bad! There aren’t as many as one might think who will do Lady Godiva properly.”

  “Lady Waverly says she is the tenant, sir. She has a lease, sir, and a latchkey.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Max, climbing unsteadily to his feet. “I borrowed this house for the night from a very good friend whose name I cannot recall at the moment.”

  “Mr. Broome, sir,” said Briggs, who always made a point of remembering his employer’s name.

  “Yes, Freddie,” Max agreed. “Freddie is my very good friend. He is also my cousin. He would have told me if there was a tenant coming. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

  “We did not expect Lady Waverly tonight, sir.”

  “That,” said Max, poking him in the chest with a greasy red finger, “is quite your own fault.”

  Wrapping his cloak around him, he stumbled off in the direction of the sunken ballroom, which had been flooded for the occasion. Two mermaids waved to him from the water. Suddenly feeling quite energetic again, Max unclasped his cloak and plunged down the steps into the pool, roaring as the ice-cold water slapped against his skin.

  The mermaids, one blue haired, the other green haired, swam away from him screaming, but it was all in fun, and he soon had them out of the water. Making his way up to the balcony with his catch, he flung them down on one of the sofas and buried himself between them. With screams of drunken delight, they pretended to resist as he struggled to get them out of their costumes.

  “Have a care with our tails, sir! These costumes must go back to the theater in the morning, and there will be hell to pay if you tear them.”

  “Oh, you’re actresses,” he said, enlightened. “Well, I don’t need a tear, my sweet. All I need is a tiny little hole.”

  “Sir!” protested the green-haired naiad. “We’re not prostitutes.”

  “But it’s my birth-night,” he pouted. “Can’t you wriggle out of it?”

  “Sorry, sir,” the blue-haired one answered, laughing. “It takes a buttonhook and an awful lot of grease to get us out. And even then, you know, there’s our reputations to consider.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” he swore solemnly, freeing a breast from a corset decorated with shells.

  He was thus agreeably engaged when a long shadow fell across him. “Mr. Purefoy, I presume?” enquired a fierce female voice.

  Looking up, Max beheld a terrifying face with baleful green eyes gazing down at him with murderous contempt. He was deeply impressed with her costume; usually females were far too vain to make themselves ugly for a masquerade. They always did themselves up like angels and fairies and Cleopatras and shepherdesses and, well, mermaids. This
female was truly repulsive.

  “Medusa, is that you?” he asked, rising to his knees.

  Patience gasped as his cloak fell open to reveal his near nakedness. “How dare you expose yourself to me!” she said furiously.

  “I’m not ashamed of my body,” he answered loftily. “I get plenty of exercise, as you can see. I must say, I like your snakes,” he went on, struggling to a standing position and reaching for her hair.

  Patience slapped his face, wishing she had the strength to punish him as he deserved.

  “There’s no need to shout,” he said, shouting in her face. “Heavens! Is that your breath or mine? Who painted your face, love? ’Tis a bloody masterpiece.”

  “You’re drunk,” Patience said in disgust. “How dare you! Get away from me.”

  Max frowned at her. “Are you trying to spoil my party?”

  “Yes!” she said angrily. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, my dear, but I simply won’t stand for it,” he said. And, easily overcoming her struggles, he picked her up, lifted her over the balcony, and threw her into the pool below.

  Chapter 2

  Flailing wildly, Patience hit the icy water, her screams drowned as she went under. From the balcony, Max watched with drunken detachment as her heavy cloak and skirts dragged her down to the marble floor of the pool. A most unpleasant, sharp-tongued shrew, he decided.

  “Will she drown, sir?” the green-haired naiad asked curiously, sidling up to him.

  “Don’t be silly,” Max scoffed. “No one ever drowned in a ballroom. Of course she can sw—” He broke off as he realized with a hard, sickening jolt, that the sour-faced female had not resurfaced. Through the clear water, he could see her dark, unmoving form. Panicking, Max threw off his scarlet cape and flung himself over the balcony railing into the water.

  The frigid water shocked him into clearheaded sobriety. His heart pounding, he swam to her and heaved her bodily to the surface. She was only a slight, bony thing, but her drenched cloak and skirts made her shockingly heavy. Gasping for air, Max dragged her halfway up the ballroom steps and out of the water. All around them, the inebriated gaiety of his birth-night celebration continued unabated, but Max now felt far, far removed from it all.

  For one terrifying moment, he was certain that he had killed her. Then she suddenly came to life, croaking horribly. Spluttering, she spewed out a stream of water. As relieved as he had ever been in his life, Max hauled her up to her feet and threw her over his shoulder. She was as unresisting and limp as a rag doll as he carried her up the stairs. Pushing through the crowd on the balcony, he made his way to Briggs, who was wringing his hands at the entrance to the ballroom, dithering as though he dared not come any farther.

  “Come with me,” Max barked, carrying his dripping burden past him out into the relatively quiet hall.

  Briggs hurried to keep up with him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purefoy, sir! Her ladyship insisted on speaking to you.”

  “Never mind!” Max barked over his shoulder. He was heading for the stairs. “Lady Waverly is unwell. We must get her to a room—a quiet room. Where—?”

  Quickly, Briggs jumped ahead of him, leading him through the hall, up the main staircase and into one of the bedchambers. “Where is her ladyship’s maid?” Max asked, after depositing Patience onto the bed. “For that matter, where is her husband? If he is a man, he will challenge me to a duel, I shouldn’t wonder!”

  “Her ladyship has no husband,” Briggs answered, busily lighting candles. “I suppose her maid is still waiting in the carriage outside,” he added.

  Max could hardly bear to look at the pale crumpled figure lying on the bed. “I’ll fetch her maid,” he said quickly. “In the meantime, find a maidservant to look after her—get her out of those wet clothes and dry her off and so forth. And send a boy to fetch the doctor—Wingfield, in Harley Street. Tell him Max Purefoy wants him. I—I must find some decent bloody clothes! And, for God’s sake, build a fire!” he snapped as he strode from the room.

  In another room, he toweled off, removing all of the scarlet paint from his face and most of it from his body. A servant found him some clothes that fit him passably. By the time he had returned to something like his normal appearance, the house had been largely abandoned by his guests, though here and there a few stragglers lingered. Some, as was always the case at Max’s entertainments, would have to be carried out.

  Smoothing back his hair, Max went outside to the yellow hackney chaise that still waited at the curb. The driver was assisting one of the house servants with his fare’s trunks. Max went up to the door of the vehicle, but discovered it to be locked. Knocking, he said, “Open the door, girl! Your mistress wants you.”

  A white, frightened face appeared at the window.

  After the departure of her sister, Pru had sat in the carriage, torn between a genuine desire to stay in the comfort and safety of the carriage while Patience dealt with the problem, and an equally genuine desire to defy her sister and go up to the house. Her mind had been made up for her when the doors of the house were suddenly flung open and what seemed like hundreds of bizarre-looking characters came running out. The hackney carriage was an attractive object to them. They clustered around it, hammering on the doors, shouting drunkenly and pressing their sweaty faces against the glass to leer at Pru.

  The driver, fortunately, had the presence of mind to lock the doors, thus protecting his passenger. Taking out his club, he began beating them back. Terrified the mob would break the glass, Pru flung herself down on the seat with her arms over her face. After what seemed like an eternity, they appeared to give up, and drifted off into the night.

  “Unlock the door,” Max repeated, giving her a smile of encouragement. She was a very pretty girl, he had noticed, with big green eyes, fine skin, and black curls.

  Pru stared at him through the glass. He seemed normal enough, if a trifle disheveled. His skin was very brown, in sharp contrast to his eyes, which were a pale gray. His hair was very black and unruly. He wasn’t handsome, she decided. His mouth was too wide and his nose was too big. But he was tall and well-built with broad shoulders and long legs. He had an attractive smile. Hesitantly, she unlocked the door. He had it open immediately.

  “Wh-who are you?” she asked, staring at him.

  “I’m Purefoy,” he told her simply. Taking her around the waist, he set her on the ground.

  His manner was so forthright that she instinctively trusted him. “Were you caught in the riot, sir?” she asked.

  He glanced down at her. She wasn’t just pretty, he realized. She was truly a beauty. A trifle small, perhaps, but well-formed. And those eyes! A man could lose himself in their brilliant green depths. “Riot?” he said, amused. “I suppose it did look like a riot, everyone running away at once. People are such cowards,” he added, but without rancor. “At the first sign of trouble, off they go.”

  “What did the mob want?”

  “What mobs always want,” he said, drawing her smoothly up the steps to the house. “Something for nothing! Anyway, they are gone now. We need not concern ourselves with them. I’m sorry if they frightened you, Miss ... ?”

  “Waverly,” she said promptly. “Miss Prudence Waverly.”

  “Good God!” Max uttered. “I thought you were Lady Waverly’s maid! You are her relation?”

  “Well, of all the nerve!” cried Pru, stamping her foot. “Did Patience tell you I was her maid? Oh! She may be my guardian for the moment, but I’m not her servant! I’m her sister!”

  Max bit his lip. At that moment he would have preferred dealing with an irate husband or an angry tiger, for that matter. Anything but the tears of a distraught sister would have been less of a blow to his conscience. “I’m very sorry, Miss Waverly,” he said contritely. “I don’t want you to worry, but it seems that your sister has—has been—has been taken ill. Well, not ill exactly. It is all my fault!”

  To his surprise, she laid a comforting hand on his
arm. “Oh, no, sir!” she said softly. “You mustn’t blame yourself. My sister has been ill for two months. She was horribly seasick the whole time we were on the ship, and she’s still very weak.”

  “You’ve just arrived from—from America?” he guessed, correctly identifying her clipped, mid-Atlantic accent.

  Pru nodded. “Well, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, anyway,” she said. “Look, Mr. Purefoy, I don’t see how you are to blame. I’m very grateful to you for your assistance, I’m sure.”

  “Assistance,” he muttered under his breath, hating himself. “I’ve sent for the doctor, of course. Dr. Wingfield is the best physician in London. He has attended my family for years.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir,” Pru said appreciatively.

  “No, it isn’t. I’m not kind. I’m the most selfish, thoughtless ass!”

  “Well, I think you’re rather wonderful,” said Pru, smiling up at him.

  Suddenly, he felt no need to confess to this lovely girl the full extent of his guilt. Let her hate me tomorrow, he decided. “Come,” he said. “I’ll take you to your sister.”

  By this time, Briggs had found a female servant to look after Patience. A nightgown had been found for her, and her wet clothes had been taken away. Warm and dry, Patience lay still in the bed, her breath shallow. Pru kissed her on the forehead and stroked her hair.

  “How peaceful she looks! All she really needs now, sir, is rest, I’m sure,” Pru said confidently. “She hasn’t been eating very well or sleeping, you see. The sea voyage was very hard on her.”

  “I hope you’re right, Miss Waverly,” he said uneasily. “I hope it is nothing that won’t soon mend.” Leaving the sisters alone, he went downstairs to meet the doctor.

  James Wingfield had known Max since the latter was a small boy. “What the devil have you done now?” the physician greeted him, not mincing words.

  Max quickly gave him the facts. “It was a harmless prank,” he added defensively. “How was I to know she couldn’t swim?”