A Baron for Becky

by Jude Knight

  Whether it was trying to protect its master, as Hugh claimed, or just unwilling to drag dead weight didn’t matter. He was still alive. And she managed to keep him that way through both the head injury and the fever contracted that long, cold night.

  Oddly enough, that interminable time of managing his affairs while watching by his bedside had given her confidence she had always lacked. With him unconscious, she was without his careful protection, his constant reassurance. She conferred with his land agent, even fought with his factory manager and prevailed. She needed to be strong for Hugh, for their daughters, for the household and the barony—and she found she was strong, the last of the old nightmares laid to rest at last.

  “I nearly died, Becky, and it frightens me.”

  She frowned, then. Frightened? He was a grown man, and had been a soldier. But he was still talking. “I am frightened for you and the girls, if something happens to me before they are grown.”

  She worried, too. The land would go to the Crown, along with the title. Hugh’s will left her the cotton mill in Liverpool. The income was down, as the long war against Napoleon drew to an end, but it would be enough for her and the girls to live on, especially since her settlement from Aldridge was untouched.

  It would not be enough to establish all four girls in the life that Hugh intended for them, though. As daughters of a baron, they could expect to make marriages in the gentry. But a baron’s relict with an obscure past and no landed relatives, making her income from trade, would be a far less attractive parent-in-law, in a class that married for family advantage. Only a very large marriage portion would overcome such murky roots.

  “Then live, Hugh,” she told him, fiercely. “You must live to see them grown and established.”

  He pulled her head back against his chest and kissed the top of her head. “I know, my love. I know. But we must have a plan.”

  “If only I had given you a son!” she mourned.

  “I love our Belle, beloved,” he protested. “You know that. I wouldn’t change a hair of her head, let alone make a boy of her.”

  She shook her head, not comforted.

  “So,” Hugh took up the thread again, “that’s why I want to talk to Aldridge.”

  Becky felt the blood drain from her head, and for a moment the world receded, as if sounds, sights, smells, touch, were filtered through a long, long tunnel.

  “Aldridge?” Her voice came out in a squeak, and Hugh tipped her head back to see her face.

  “Becky? Are you feeling ill? Becky, you look as white as a sheet. Here, my love, lie back against the pillows. What is it? Does something hurt?”

  Her heart. Her heart hurt.

  “What...” Her voice caught and she had to make another attempt. “Why do you want to speak to Aldridge?”

  Hugh’s anxious look cleared. “Not, foolish wife, what you obviously suspect! Becky, Becky, how could you think I would let that randy hell-spawn have at you?”

  “You need a son, Hugh.” But she could breathe again, and the vice around her chest loosened.

  “Not so much I’d ask my wife to whore herself.” He put a finger to her lip as she opened it to speak, obviously guessing what she was about to say. “No pasts, Becky, remember? One man for you, and one woman for me, as long as we both shall live. Here. Let me remind you.”

  She gave herself to him with a certain desperation, forgetting everything in the moment, but afterwards, he returned to the topic. “I thought Aldridge might be willing to stand as guardian and sponsor to the girls. If anything happens to me.”

  “He’s a bachelor, Hugh,” and one with a reputation that would not benefit their daughters.

  “With Haverford’s health as it is, Aldridge will be duke by the time they’re ready to be presented,” Hugh insisted. “He’ll have to take a wife then. And his mother will support them, I’m sure. I thought I could sound out Aldridge, and you could talk to the duchess. She likes you.”

  Becky thought about it. Hugh made good sense. Yes. They would go to London.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Duchess of Haverford’s ball was the usual crush. Hugh managed one set with Becky, then the Earl of Chirbury asked her to dance, so Hugh retaliated by sweeping Lady Chirbury into the set. They had a number of friends here tonight, and Hugh did his duty by the wives, as Becky danced with the husbands. Aldridge had still not returned to town, so his mother said, though she’d hoped to see him tonight.

  Hugh was resting between sets, halfway through the evening, when he caught a glimpse of Aldridge, half-hidden in an alcove, watching the dancers. Hugh grinned. He shouldn’t tell Aldridge about Becky’s bright idea from that very afternoon. Becky would be furious. He couldn’t resist, though. The joke was too funny not to share with its butt.

  He made his way unobtrusively around the edge of the floor.

  “Overton.” Aldridge greeted him with a nod, without looking. Hugh followed the direction of his gaze. A group of debutantes, all in white, none much older than Sophie and Sarah. The thought made him shudder, which drew Aldridge’s attention.

  “They’re not that bad, surely?” Aldridge asked. “Unless you’re expected to marry one, of course.” He grimaced, a quick twist of the lips.

  “Sophie and Sarah will be out there in three or four years,” Hugh said baldly. “Antonia, too, I would remind you. All these men looking them over like horses at Tattersall’s...” He shuddered again, more artistically this time.

  “Three or four years?” Aldridge sounded startled. “I suppose you are right. Good God!” He turned back to his perusal. “No wonder they all look far too young for me. I could easily have been a father at seventeen or eighteen. Some of them really are young enough to be my daughters.

  “I’ll have to choose someone, you know. Not yet, but soon.” From his tone, he might have been asked to organise his own execution.

  “A duke must have a son,” Hugh acknowledged.

  “Yes. And a duchess, preferably.” Aldridge’s eyes shifted, and Hugh’s widened as he picked up the new target.

  “One of the Winderfield twins? Really?”

  “No chance. You know my father tried to have their uncle’s marriage declared invalid and his children bastards?”

  The sensation of 1812 would have been the sudden reappearance and ascension to the ducal title of the long-lost second son of Charles Winderfield, sixth Duke of Winshire. Except the news was greatly overshadowed by his reputation as a robber king in the mountains of Central Asia and the large family of sons and daughters—half-Asian sons and daughters—he brought home to England with him. All seasoned warriors, men and women alike.

  “He will not consider anyone from my family now. Besides, with my reputation? My well-deserved reputation? Her many cousins will separate me from my bollocks, if I so much as breathe in her direction.”

  “They could do it, too,” Hugh acknowledged.

  Aldridge’s huff of laughter was not much amused. “I will need to choose a bride without male relatives.” He had not taken his eyes from the woman on the far side of the room.

  “None of which would stop me, if Lady Charlotte didn’t despise the ground I walk upon.” Aldridge said this last to himself, so quietly that Hugh had to strain to hear it.

  “Good God. You’re serious about her.”

  Aldridge shook his head. “No point in thinking it, Overton. They call her Saint Charlotte, did you know? Charity work... sworn off marriage... thinks men are oafs, and I’m the worst of them.” Hugh’s friend resumed a devil-may-care mask, settling it over himself like armour. “And she is not wrong, of course. Nice to see you back on your feet, Overton. How is Becky? Your daughters?”

  “All well. I wanted to talk to you about them, as a matter of fact. I have a favour to ask.”

  “Name it,” Aldridge said, carelessly. He had stepped out to scoop up two glasses of wine from a passing servant, and now handed one to Hugh.

  “I nearly died last year when that bridge collapsed,” Hugh said,
“which would have left Becky and the girls... you know all about it, Aldridge. I don’t have a son to inherit.”

  Aldridge stopped with his drink halfway to his lips, his eyes suddenly devoid of expression.

  “No.” Hugh shoved the idea away with both hands, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Honestly, what is wrong with people? No, Aldridge, I am not asking you to bed my wife.”

  “I would rather you didn’t.” Aldridge took a healthy gulp, as if suddenly thirsty. “Neither you nor Becky would ever forgive me if I agreed.” His wicked grin appeared again. “And I would be sorely tempted to agree.”

  That was an interesting perspective. Hugh and Becky had agreed infidelity—even negotiated infidelity in the cause of the family’s future—would injure the precious bond they’d forged, but they hadn’t considered how they’d feel about Aldridge afterwards. “It is not going to happen,” Hugh said. “I wouldn’t suggest it, and Becky wouldn’t agree. Although...” The afternoon’s conversation with Becky set him chortling all over again. “Becky did have another idea for achieving the same end.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “Probably not.” Hugh could barely speak for laughing. “One of her... Becky used to know someone... She remembered this instrument the doctors used to clean out...” He slapped Aldridge on the shoulder and gripped tight, trying to control his laughter enough to finish. “He was convinced washing his insides regularly was good for him.”

  Aldridge frowned, clearly not seeing the picture. “Washing his insides?”

  “A clyster syringe. Have you heard of it?”

  A shake of the head, but Aldridge was looking suspicious, and well he might. Hugh went off into another paroxysm of laughter.

  “The doctors fill it up with water, introduce the tube to the patient’s posterior, up goes water, and down comes... well, you can imagine.”

  “Sounds uncomfortable. What on earth has that to do with you having a son?”

  Hugh, doing his best not to laugh again, told him. “It occurred to Becky that the same tool could be used to deliver a man’s seed into a woman’s passage, without, er... bed sport.”

  Aldridge nodded. “I suppose there’s no reason why—Blistering hell, she didn’t think I...? Damn it, Overton, you’re my friend, but...”

  Hugh couldn’t help it. The idea of the Merry Marquis, the consummate lover, Society’s darling, his charms rejected, sent off alone to commune with a clyster syringe... And Aldridge’s reaction just as horrified as Hugh expected. He had to laugh. Aldridge, his frown so deep his brows nearly met, was decidedly disgruntled, which only made Hugh laugh harder.

  He wasn’t aware of Becky coming up beside him until she slipped her arm into his, which sobered him quickly enough. “Hugh, you did not...” she said. Then, looking at Aldridge, “He did, didn’t he?”

  “Told me your clever little plan? Yes. Thank you, Becky, for the compliment to my progenerative powers. How delightful to be appreciated.”

  Becky scoffed at his cold tone. “Do not be silly, Aldridge. It is a great compliment we have paid you, seen in a certain light. Anyway, Hugh said it was a foolish idea, and you would be insulted.” She glared at her husband. “So, why he told you, I do not know.”

  “Because he would be insulted,” Hugh muttered.

  One could always rely on Aldridge’s sense of humour , even when the joke was on him. A smile returned to lurk in one corner of his mouth. “To put me in my place, my dear Becky, firmly in the distant past. For which I do not blame him. But poor strategy, Lord Overton, to annoy a person from whom you want a favour. You have come to ask a favour, did you not say?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  When Aldridge sought her out the following afternoon, the Duchess of Haverford was resting from her exertions over the ball, by planning the next entertainment. She had her companion, her secretary, and three of the servants on the hop: writing guest lists, hunting out a fabric from the attic and a china pattern from the depths of the scullery that she was certain would go together in a Frost Fair theme; searching through her invitations to pick a date that would not clash with entertainments she wished to attend; leafing through the menus of previous parties to decide on food “that will not disgrace us, dear Aldridge, for one would not wish to do things in a harum-scarum fashion.”

  “May I have a moment, Mama?” Aldridge asked. “It can wait if you wish.”

  “Not at all, Aldridge. My dears, you all have jobs to do. I will be with my son. Aldridge, darling, shall we take a walk in the picture gallery? Very chilly, today, I am sure, but I will wrap up warm and the exercise will be good for us, do you not think? Ah, thank you, my dear.” She stepped back into the cloak Aldridge took from the waiting maid, and let him settle it on her shoulders.

  “Now, my dear, tell me how Mama can help.”

  Aldridge waited, though, until they were alone in the picture gallery, a great hall of a place thirty feet wide, twenty tall, and a hundred and twenty long. With the doors at each end shut, they could speak in private.

  “Mama, Overton has asked me to look after his wife and daughters, if he dies before the girls are grown and married.”

  Her Grace nodded. “And you have agreed, of course, dear? I will present the girls, in any case. Or your wife, if you have done your duty by then.”

  Aldridge ignored his mother’s increasingly less subtle insistence. He would marry when he must and not before.

  “Of course I have agreed, Mama. But I am wondering if something more might be done.”

  The Duchess tapped her index finger against slightly pursed lips, her eyes distant.

  “Something more might always be done. Have you an idea of what?”

  Aldridge watched her closely. “It is not unknown for a daughter to inherit a barony.”

  His mother blinked slowly as she considered the idea. Her answer was slow and contemplative.

  “Only the old ones, dear, and if there is no son. But Overton is a relatively new peerage. The Restoration, I believe? And if his Letters Patent allowed female inheritance, he would have said.”

  “Letters Patent can be changed, Mama. They did it for the first Marlborough.”

  “Over a century ago, Aldridge, and I have never heard of it being done again.”

  She fell silent, her eyes unfocused in thought. “But it does seem a pity our little Belle cannot be a baroness.”

  “I wondered if perhaps you asked His Grace...” Aldridge began.

  The duchess shook her head. “It will not serve, Aldridge. He is not popular in the House, as you know, and the Prince Regent... well, Aldridge, suffice to say, the information I might use to persuade His Grace to support the Overtons has set the Prince Regent firmly against him.”

  Aldridge was aware his mother occasionally compelled his father to an action the duke was disinclined to take, by threatening to disclose something he wished to keep hidden. She used the power rarely, both because each confrontation widened the gap in their marriage, and because very few scandals were large enough to discommode the Duke of Haverford, who cared little for the opinions of others.

  “What piece of information is this, Mama?”

  “I cannot tell you, Aldridge. But the Prince Regent is most unhappy. How he found out the Grenfords are trespassing on his preserves, I have not been informed...”

  No. Surely not. Aldridge had a sudden mental picture of the beautiful woman currently in the prince’s keeping, laughing with Aldridge at corpulent elderly men who thought they could keep a young woman satisfied. Laughing with him while occupied in... No... She hadn’t, had she? With his father, too?

  “Really, Aldridge,” his mother said. “You did not think you were being original, did you? I daresay the young lady is just securing her future, and who can blame her? You are very nice, dear. Rich, and by all accounts, virile. But you are not yet the Duke of Haverford. And you are certainly not the Prince Regent.”

  Aldridge felt slightly ill. One woman wanted nothing to do with him; one wanted hi
s seed but not his body; one was happy to share him with his... no. He could not think of it.

  “The Letters Patent, Mama,” he said firmly. “Could we get enough support without His Grace? Or even against His Grace, if he insists?”

  “I may be able to help, dear.” Aldridge’s mother had an encyclopaedic memory for the ton and all its major and minor branches, a network of contacts developed over a lifetime, and the analytical mind of a general. “Yes. That might do very nicely. And then... Yes. We will do it. Aldridge, order the carriage. We are going to make a call on the Duke of Winshire.”

  A call on Lady Charlotte’s uncle? Was Mama serious?

  “The Duke of... Winshire, Mama? He will certainly not help us and may even not receive us.”

  The duchess just smiled, her eyes far away as if watching something pleasant. “The carriage, Aldridge.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On the day of the final vote, Aldridge and his mother waited with Becky in the Overtons’ town-house. The numbers were tight. The vote could go either way.

  They had spent weeks lobbying those who would be considering the Duke of Winshire’s bill to change the Letters Patent. Becky had visited the wives, mothers, and sisters of every member of the House of Lords, and many of those in the House of Commons, accompanied by Her Grace, or the Countess of Chirbury, or Winshire’s niece the Dowager Marchioness of Barchester. Overton, Aldridge, and Winshire himself canvassed the menfolk. And Her Grace of Haverford directed all, keeping track of the supporters, the waverers, and the adamantly opposed.

  Overton had taken his seat today, of course. His presence might convince some of the waverers, though he would abstain from the vote.

  “If the bill passes, it still needs the Prince Regent’s seal,” Becky said.

  “Winshire says he is in favour,” Aldridge said.

  “Even knowing he will lose the barony?” Becky asked, as she had a dozen times before.