Uncle Monty took me riding yesterday. My pony isn’t pink, but she is very beautiful and very fast. She always beats Uncle Monty. I must go now, as I must do my lessons. I am learning French. I don’t like French.
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Phoebe Barrington to Miss Matilda Hunt.
22nd February 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
“Oh, good morning, my lord.”
Solo waited impatiently for Bessie to invite him in, but the girl just stood in the doorway, twisting her apron between her hands.
“Are you going to keep me waiting outside all morning, Bessie?” he asked, aware he sounded too stern, but his patience was wearing thin.
He needed to see Jemima. He had hoped she would call on him yesterday, once she’d learned he had come to her, but he’d waited all day to no avail. So, here he was again, desperate for just a few moments in the company of the woman who would willingly share his bed if only he would forget what honour meant and take everything she offered him.
“She’s not here, my lord.”
“The devil take it, where is she now?” he snapped, and then remembered his manners.
It was no business of his where Jemima had gone. He had rejected her as his lover. They were only to be friends. He did not wish for her to feel beholden to him. If she did, she might start flinging her clothes at him again. His body stirred with interest at the idea and he cursed himself for a scoundrel.
“Forgive me, Bessie, that was uncalled for,” he said, trying to get a grip on his temper and his sanity, which seemed a dreadfully difficult thing to do these past few days.
“I-I don’t rightly know, my lord. I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to let her know you called, though. Good day to you.”
There was something about the maid’s demeanour that set alarm bells ringing. She was flushed and anxious, and clearly wanted him to leave. Solo caught the door and pushed it open again before he had to experience it slamming in his face once more. No doubt Bessie, who had always idolised him, now thought him a monster, just as Mrs Attwood did.
“Where has she gone, Bessie?” There was a warning note to his voice which no man under his command had ever heard with equanimity.
Bessie quailed a little, to the detriment of her apron, which was becoming a crumpled mess as she twisted it back and forth between her hands. “I don’t know, my lord, truly I don’t. Only that she’s g-gone to London to see someone. Please, don’t ask me more, for I don’t know.”
The poor girl looked so miserable that Solo did feel a monster. He could not fault her loyalty to her mistress if she knew more and, if she did not, shouting at her would not grant her the knowledge. He nodded.
“Thank you, Bessie. I’m sorry for my wretched temper but I… I worry for her,” he added, knowing that sounded pathetic but wanting her to understand.
“I know, my lord,” she said, offering him a sympathetic smile.
He turned as she closed the door on him and felt his temper flare once again as he saw the vicar, Mr Pemble, making his way up the path. It was obvious from the village gossip Mrs Norrell kept abreast of that the man was looking for a wife, and the idea that this dull, priggish fellow had more to offer Jemima than he did made Solo want to bellow with fury.
“She’s not in,” he said, knowing he sounded terse but quite unable to moderate his tone.
Besides, everyone knew he was a bad-tempered devil. It would hardly come as a surprise when half the village appeared to be scared to death of him.
“Ah, well, a pity,” Mr Pemble said, attempting to give Solo a wide berth on the narrow path, but still heading towards the door. “I shall just leave my card and the book we spoke of during my last visit. She seemed so very interested, so I thought I would lend it to her. Good day to you, my lord.”
The man gave Solo a very deferential bow, which did not improve his mood. There was nothing to be gained by staying and starting a silly row, which he felt quite able and willing to do, so he turned and made his way back to The Priory, still seething with irritation.
Why had she gone to London? Who was she seeing? From what she’d said, he knew none of her friends were in town at present. Even Miss Hunt, who seemed to be her closest friend, was here in Kent, so why…? He stopped in his tracks as he considered. Mr Briggs. Had she gone to see Mr Briggs?
The agreement drawn up between them had been a substantial one. Solo would provide her accommodation and pay all her bills as well as providing an allowance for pin money to spend as she saw fit. If, after five years, she wished to end their arrangement she was free to do so and would receive a large amount on which she could live comfortably, if not lavishly, for the remainder of her life. If she ended their agreement before five years, he had agreed to be generous, but had left that to Mr Briggs to make whatever arrangements necessary. He had supposed that, if she wanted to end things earlier, it would be because things had not gone well, and decided Mr Briggs would be best suited to handle the matter.
That Jemima might have gone to London to ask to be freed from their arrangement made his stomach twist into a knot. He ought to have spelled it out for her. He ought to have explained that he would give her anything, everything she wanted or needed. If she preferred to have no further financial dependency on him, he would sign over the cottage and a lump sum now, far more than he’d originally intended after the five years. Then she need never feel beholden again. Except she would, of course she would. So did that mean she would leave, that she would go away and start again somewhere else, but she’d promised, she’d told him she would stay.
He closed his eyes, leaning heavily on his cane as his leg throbbed, the pain echoing in the hollow chamber of his heart. How had he gotten so damn old? Surely, he wasn’t an old man yet, still in his prime, but he felt the weight of the past years spent alone bearing down on him. For every year he had passed, isolated at The Priory, he believed he had aged a decade. With Jemima near, those years had tumbled away from him. He had awakened to each day with his soul growing lighter, the pain of old scars lessening, but if she were to leave….
No.
No, damn it. He had to make her stay.
***
22nd February 1815. Hans Place, Hans Town, London.
Jemima stared out of the hansom cab and felt her stomach clench as her nerve threatened to fail her. Hans Town was familiar. Before their finances had dwindled, she had lived here for a time with her aunt. It was a decent location, just respectable enough for those on the fringes of the ton to still be considered acceptable. What a comedown for a viscount and his lady, though, as the house she was looking at through the window was not one of nicer ones of the area.
“Are you sure about this, Jem, love?” Violet asked, her voice kindly and full of concern.
Jemima shook her head. Her palms were sweaty in her kid gloves, and she wanted nothing more than to tell the driver to take them back to the coaching inn where they’d taken a room for the night.
“No. Not in the least, but I must do something.”
“Yes, love. I do understand. The silly fool is sacrificing both of you for his loyalty to a woman who’s likely no better than she ought to be, but… but I should not like to see you hurt.”
“But I am hurt, Violet.” Jemima turned her gaze upon Mrs Attwood and knew she could not hide the pain in her eyes. “I cannot continue in this fashion. It will bring us both misery, I know it. He wants me to be his friend, but we are not friends and I do not think I can pretend that we are, when the truth is we are so much more than that. He will not let me love him unless he can return my feelings honourably. If he cannot marry me, I will lose him, and I will not lose him. Not if I can prevent it. I must fight for him. He has fought so many battles for his country, surely I can face this one little skirmish for him… for us.”
“Well.” Violet smiled, her eyes sparkling with tears and her voice a little thick, “when you put it like that…. To battle, Miss Fernside. We have a foe to vanquish!”
Whilst t
he sense of camaraderie with Violet at her side remained, any heroic spirit faded as Jemima dragged her unwilling feet towards the front door and knocked. Her heart was beating so hard and fast her head spun, and she felt increasingly ill. A man opened the door. He was too young to be a butler, so she suspected they had promoted a footman to the job, as he was far cheaper. The man showed them into a bright and elegant, if sparsely furnished, front parlour and took Jemima’s card. A few moments later another man joined them.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, and must once have been a devilishly handsome fellow. His hair was thick and blond, but his face showed signs of dissipation, and his middle had become a little too thick for the coat he wore, which she suspected he could not do up. A rather garish waistcoat completed the ensemble, giving him a rakish appearance Jemima could not quite like.
“Miss Fernside.” He greeted her warmly, making her regret her harsh assessment. “I am sorry, but my wife is indisposed this morning. We had a rather late night last night. May I be of service to you? I am a paltry offering, I’m certain, but I shall do my best.”
“You are very kind, my lord,” Jemima said, shaking her head, uncertain if she was relieved or disappointed. “I should not wish to trouble you.”
“Oh, no trouble at all. It’s not every day a fellow gets a visit from such charming callers, even if they were not intended for him.”
He gave them the benefit of a dazzling smile and, for a moment, the dissipated exterior fell away, and she saw the handsome man he must have been. With a flash of anger, she remembered that this man may have stolen Solo’s life. It was possible Lord Kline had carried on an affair with the woman Solo was in love with, whilst Solo risked his life for king and country over and again. This man had married and wasted his fortune on gambling, whilst Solo had returned with ghosts and scars to an empty house and heartbreak. Her anger fired her courage, made her brave enough to speak out.
“Very, well, my lord,” she said, drawing in a deep breath, grateful for Violet’s staunch if silent support at her side. “I should like to speak to you about Baron Rothborn.”
The effect of her words was quite startling. The jovial smile fell away in an instant and the man seemed to age before her eyes.
“What about him?” he asked.
His voice was dull, and she got the sense that he had been waiting for something like this. Jemima hesitated. She had known what she would say to this man’s wife, but now, to her husband, she wasn’t sure how to begin. He stared at her, hands clenched, and she saw that he was sweating and anxious.
“Please, Miss Fernside, you came all this way with something to say, I beg you do not let your nerve fail you now,” he said. He stood a little taller, squared his shoulders. “I have been waiting these many years for the man himself to call me out. I can only wonder why you are here and not him. I know damn well it isn’t for lack of courage.”
“He doesn’t know,” Jemima said, realising at once that her suspicions had been correct.
The viscount gave an incredulous laugh and sat down, as though his knees had given out. “Good God. How is that possible?”
Jemima stared at him, realising the man had lived in fear of such an outcome for years. “Since his return from the war, Lord Rothborn has become something of a recluse.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. “I know he doesn’t mix in society much, but he was always such a popular chap. I assumed his friends still called upon him.”
“No, I don’t believe he has allowed anyone close in the past years. He lives alone, he sees no one, and no one see him.”
“Yet, you are his friend, Miss Fernside?” There was a speculative gleam in his eyes and Jemima flushed, aware of the insinuation, even though there seemed no malice in the question.
“I am,” she agreed, very aware of her rigid posture, of her gloved hands clasped demurely in her lap. “I live in the same village as Lord Rothborn and… and we have become friends.”
There was a drawn out silence into which she blurted, “He is in love with me, and I with him, but he made a vow to your wife never to marry and… and I wish to ask her to release him from this vow, for he has done nothing wrong. I believe she knows this at heart.”
Now she knew the truth, Jemima wanted to tell him his wife was a heartless, faithless jilt, but she suspected this would not come as a surprise to the man before her.
“A vow? What manner of vow?”
Jemima realised she was relieved to discover the viscount knew nothing of his wife’s behaviour. For all he appeared to be a wastrel, there was something inherently likable about the man, and she did not wish for him to be a part of Solo’s torment any more than he already was.
“You truly don’t know?”
He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “There is a great deal I do not know about Hyacinth, I assure you.”
Jemima nodded, aware of the bitterness of his words. “When Solo—Lord Rothborn—returned from the war to tell your wife her brother was dead, she blamed him for it. She told him she could never marry the man responsible for her brother’s death. He took her words very much to heart, as he already blamed himself. Your wife broke his heart, my lord, by giving him this as a reason for jilting him, and as a penance he told her he would never marry, but… but it wasn’t the reason she declined him, was it, Lord Kline?”
There was a taut silence during which Jemima held her breath, certain they would be thrown out onto the street at any moment.
“The bitch!”
Both she and Violet jumped at his outburst as the viscount surged to his feet.
“I’ll bloody kill her!”
Jemima grabbed Violet’s hand and the two women stared at each other in horror as Lord Kline ran from the room, his footsteps thundering through the house as he took the stairs two at a time.
“Oh, good heavens!” Jemima exclaimed, hurrying into the hallway where the young butler was dithering.
“Don’t just stand there,” she implored, as the fellow looked back at her with wide eyes. “Do something!”
“Not likely,” he said, shaking his head. “More than my life’s worth.”
“But he said he would kill her!”
The butler snorted. “Aye, not for the first time neither, and I shouldn’t blame him if he did.”
Jemima was so taken aback by this that for a moment she did not notice the commotion at the top of the stairs, until there was a female shriek of indignation.
“Take your hands off me, you fiend!”
“Damned if I will, Hyacinth,” the viscount shouted, towing his wife down the stairs in her nightgown. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Out, now,” Violet muttered, grabbing Jemima’s hand and heading for the front door.
“Stop them, Jones,” the viscount yelled at the butler, who finally moved and stood before the door, blocking their escape.
There was something wild in the viscount’s eyes as he dragged his wife before them. “You wanted answers, Miss Fernside. Well, I’d like a few of my own. So let’s have them, Hyacinth. What did you tell Rothborn when you broke things off with him? Why does the poor devil believe himself responsible for your fool brother’s death?”
Jemima clutched at Violet’s hand, watching in abject horror as Lady Kline was thrust before them. She was clearly a beautiful woman, though there were dark circles under her eyes, and her black hair was a tangled mess beneath the lacy bed cap she wore. She glared at her husband, and then turned her attention to Jemima.
“Who wants to know?” she demanded, her sneer marring any beauty and making her look ugly indeed. “Who are you?”
Jemima gathered her courage. She was doing this for Solo, for their future. “I am Lord Rothborn’s friend, and I ask you to release him from the promise he made you never to marry. To ask you to look into your heart, if indeed you have one, and to take away the guilt he lives with. I think you have made him suffer enough for something that we all know was not his fault.”
L
ady Kline snatched her arm from her husband’s grip and walked towards Jemima, looking her up and down with contempt. “His friend? He must be desperate. I don’t know you, so you’re not of the ton. What are you, a dressmaker, a governess hoping to snare a title?”
Violet surged towards the woman. “Why you little cow—”
Jemima snatched at Violet’s hand and shook her head at her before she could strike Lady Kline. She would fight her own battles. Putting her chin up, she stared back at the woman with defiance.
“My uncle was the Earl of Huntington.”
It had been a long time since Jemima had used her uncle’s name in such a way. He had not been a nice man, and she did not appreciate the association, but needs must.
“Aye, and one of her closest friends is the Duchess of Bedwin, so I’d watch your tongue,” Violet added with relish.
Lady Kline gave a snort of disgust, though Jemima knew she could not be faulted for her lineage even though her branch of the family had faded into obscurity through lack of funds and bad marriages.
“What did you do, Hyacinth?” The viscount’s voice was full of revulsion and Jemima was truly shocked by the hatred in his eyes as he looked upon his wife. “Lord Rothborn is a good man, one of the best I have ever known. God knows we treated him ill enough, but if what Miss Fernside says is true…. Hell and the devil, I knew you were a cold-hearted bitch, but this is something else. How could you?”
“Barnaby is dead!” she shrieked, flying at her husband in a flurry of lacy bed clothing. She hit him over and over, hysterical now as she screamed at him. “Rothborn promised me he’d keep him safe and he’s dead, dead! He was the only good thing in my life! The only thing I loved.”
The viscount took hold of his wife and gave her a hard shake. “He went to war, Hyacinth! Rothborn tried to stop him. How the devil he kept the fool alive as long as he did, I’ll never know. You know he risked his own life more than once to save the bloody idiot because Barnaby told you so. Your brother was a good fellow, but he didn’t have the brains he was born with. You know this, Hyacinth, you know it! Rothborn could not have saved him. So, not only did you cheat on the fellow while he was fighting for his country, you’ve saddled him with this guilt all these years? Shame on you.”
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 17