To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Lady Kline is a gilflirt and always has been,” Helena said, making Jemima start, for she was certain she’d not mentioned any names. Helena just reached over and patted her hand. “I know far more than I ought to about a lot of things. My brother was not exactly a model of propriety before he met Prue, and he could be shockingly indiscreet with what he told me when he was foxed. Not that I ever let on,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “I’ll bet,” Minerva said, chuckling.

  Helena dimpled, putting her pretty nose in the air and feigning indignation. “I learned a great deal about men and the world from those late night talks with him. Even better, he never remembered a thing about it in the morning. I remember him telling me about Baron Rothborn, though. Robert liked him a good deal, I believe. He always said the fellow had a lucky escape from Hyacinth.”

  “He was right,” Jemima said with a sigh.

  “From what I’ve seen of her, I agree.” Helena smiled at her curious glance. “I saw her a few weeks ago at a rout party. A dreadful dull affair it was,” she added with a grimace. “Nonetheless, I do not think that excused the lady from flirting outrageously with a handsome military man in full view of her husband. She went out of her way to make a fool of the poor viscount.”

  “She clearly has a taste for uniforms,” Jemima said, not much liking the cattiness of her words, but too wretched to take them back. “She liked Solo well enough until he lost his.”

  “Never mind her. Lord Rothborn is no fool, and he’ll come to his senses soon enough,” Helena said, with such a decisive tone that Jemima stared at her, almost able to believe what even Violet had not been able to convince her of.

  “I believe Helena is right, Jemima,” Minerva said, her expression more thoughtful. “Mrs Attwood did right to make you stay. She was also right that a man with as much pride as your baron seems to have would not take the news he’d been played a fool with equanimity. It must have been a shock to him to realise he’d wasted so many years on a woman who was not worth so much grief and guilt. How pitiful and ridiculous the poor man must have felt.”

  “Solo could never be pitiful or ridiculous,” Jemima retorted with a flare of anger.

  Minerva gave a soft laugh and reached over to squeeze her hand. “Of course not, Jem, but do you not think he must have felt it? You faced the woman on his behalf, you faced her with a truth I cannot help but wonder if he suspected but did not wish to confront. Perhaps it is easier to hide from the world under a blanket of guilt and grief than start over again, alone.”

  Jemima stared at her and then smiled. “Married life agrees with you, Mrs de Beauvoir. You are wiser than ever.”

  Minerva flushed even as she beamed with pleasure.

  “It agrees with me admirably,” she replied, looking very smug indeed.

  “Oh, please don’t,” Helena wailed. “If I have to hear any more about her wonderful, brilliant, adorable husband, I shall cast up my accounts.”

  Minerva stuck her tongue out at Helena, who immediately retaliated in kind and three of them fell about laughing.

  “I never realised what naughty children you two were,” Jemima said, feeling a good deal better than she had, with even a little hope that they were right, and Solo would come back to her. After all, Mrs Attwood had said so too, and they both believed it.

  “It’s Minerva, she leads me astray,” Helena said with a straight face.

  Minerva choked on her cake so hard, Jemima was forced to slap her on the back.

  “Lies,” Minerva said, gasping and reaching for her tea. “All wicked lies.”

  Jemima looked from one to the other of them with affection, until her gaze fell on a large, battered hat box on the floor beside Minerva. “What’s that?”

  Minerva gave her a devilish look and reached for the box, taking off the lid and removing a man’s top hat. It was still black and shiny, though the brim was a little worn. Unlike most hats, however, it was stuffed with lots of tiny folded slips of paper.

  “Oh, no,” Jemima said, her heart sinking. With a frown, she peered into the depths of the hat. “Are they breeding in there?” she demanded. “I’m certain we didn’t write that many dares.”

  Minerva and Helena exchanged glances and Minerva bit her lip. “Well, Bonnie came around the other day, and it was cold and wet, and we were all dreadfully bored…”

  Jemima groaned. “There’s only me and Matilda to go. Matilda says she won’t take one, Helena has already taken hers, and everyone else has done theirs.”

  Helena shrugged. “You never know when a young lady will need a challenge to change her life and her fortunes. One ought to be prepared.”

  “Are we going to start dragging them in off the streets now?” Jemima demanded.

  “No, of course not.” Minerva laughed and sighed wistfully at the hat, almost looking as though she wanted to take another. “But it seemed wrong to leave it empty with just a few lonely scraps of paper at the bottom. Besides, we had a great deal of fun thinking them up.”

  “Oh, I just bet you did.” Jemima rolled her eyes and then threw up her hands as the two of them batted their eyelashes at her. “Oh, very well. I’m in enough trouble, a little more won’t hurt any. The entire village believes I’m a scarlet woman, which I am I suppose, and my protector has run away to London to see his lost love. How much worse could it get?”

  “That’s the spirit,” Helena said, deadpan, at which Jemima could not help but laugh.

  With due solemnity, Minerva shook the hat so that the dares rustled, and sighed as though in expectation of what was to come. They were all silent as Jemima reached her hand in. It was foolish for her heart to beat in such an extraordinary way, as if a silly dare could change anything. Still, she closed her fingers about one little scrap and pulled it free. She stared down at it for a long moment before she summoned the courage to unfold it.

  “Well?” Helena and Minerva demanded in unison.

  Jemima read the line and burst out laughing, and then found herself sobbing into Helena’s mangled handkerchief again. Minerva plucked the paper from her fingers with a sigh and read it aloud.

  “Find something you want and stop at nothing to get it. Well, what sensible advice.”

  Helena snorted. “I suppose that’s one of yours. Still, I cannot deny the sentiment is a fine one. It’s the sort of thing I might have written myself. Of course, one might decide one wanted the crown jewels, which could cause something of a furore.”

  Minerva wrinkled her nose at the idea. “We agreed from the outset, such silly notions were not to be countenanced, and I believe we both know that what Jemima wants is Lord Rothborn.”

  “Yes,” Helena said, putting an arm about Jemima’s shoulders. “Preferably on his knees begging for her forgiveness and promising her the world.”

  Jemima gave a stifled laugh. “Nothing of the sort,” she protested, though if she were honest the idea found considerable favour in her heart.

  She knew she would run into his arms at the first hint that he had reconsidered his hasty words, but still… an apology for railing at her so would be nice. The ladies looked up as Violet knocked and put her head around the door.

  “Is everything all right? Should I have Bessie bring more tea?”

  Jemima shook her head. “No, thank you, Violet and don’t dither in the doorway, come in and meet my friends properly. Lady Helena, Minerva, this is my dear friend and companion, Mrs Violet Attwood. She’s been wonderful to me, and I don’t know what I should have done without her.”

  To Jemima’s surprise, Violet positively glowed at her words and snatched up a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress.

  “Oh, now, stop that at once,” she protested, dabbing at her eyes. “What will Lord Rothborn think if he returns and finds us bawling? We can’t have the silly man thinking he’s overset us all.”

  “Nor even Jemima,” Helena said as she gave Jemima a critical once over.

  Jemima flinched, knowing full well she looked a dreadful mess
.

  “You know, if you want to make a man fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, you must do better than that crumpled gown and… what did you do to your hair?”

  “Oh, that’s my fault, I never could do hair, but she was in such a rush to see you both she wouldn’t wait for Bessie,” Violet admitted. “And her ladyship is quite right, Jem, dear. I suspect we shall see Rothborn yet today, and it won’t do for you to be looking as though you’re pining away for him. A lady must have some pride.”

  Jemima looked between her friends and sighed. “Well, you are welcome to do whatever you will, but I tell you now, if you can find my pride hiding in a dark corner, do go and fetch it back, for I would fall at his feet if he arrived this moment, and that’s the truth.”

  Minerva took her hand, her eyes full of sympathy. “I know just how you feel, but just as the tea and cake and a nice chat made you feel better, so will preparing yourself to see him again. No matter what happens, facing him in all your finery will give you courage.”

  Violet gave an approving nod. “I’ve always said a woman’s best frock is her suit of armour. If you feel confident in your appearance, it follows through to everything else. Might seem silly, but it’s true.”

  “You are a very sensible woman, Mrs Attwood,” Helena replied, taking in Violet’s elegant Pomona green morning dress with black velvet trim with obvious admiration. “Shall we send for Jemima’s maid and see what we can do?”

  “Yes, Lady Helena, let’s do that.”

  “Oh, just Helena, please,” Helena replied, waving away the honorific. “It so stuffy otherwise.”

  With this burgeoning friendship and happy accord between all parties, Jemima was borne back upstairs, and didn’t dare utter the faintest protest.

  ***

  It was full dark when Solo felt the carriage sway to a halt and he peered outside, frustrated to discover he was not greeted by the lights of The Priory, but The White Horse in Mitcham Village. A moment later the door opened, and his coach driver appeared, touching a finger to his hat apologetically.

  “Blaise has thrown a shoe, my lord. I’m right sorry, but as we’re passing through the village….”

  Solo groaned but waved a hand at the fellow. “Fine, yes, of course. It makes sense. Tell Mr Carter I’ll pay him double if he can do it in half his usual time. I need to get home.”

  “Right you are, my lord. Will you wait inside the inn?”

  “Yes. I may as well,” he said, climbing stiffly down from the carriage.

  His leg was playing merry hell after too many hours of enforced stillness combined with being jolted over bad roads. A stiff drink was certainly in order, though having to wait still longer before he could see Jemima chafed his patience, which was already stretched too thin. If he wasn’t likely to fall down a hole and break his ankle, he’d take his chances walking home in the dark, but he couldn’t risk it. He was damned if he’d go back to being an invalid for months on end. It was hardly an inviting prospect for the young woman to whom he was desperate to propose. He might not be entirely whole, but a bit banged up around the edges was better than a broken-down crock, and so he’d best bide his time.

  The interior of The White Horse was cosy and lively. Solo had been a regular visitor once upon a time, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come in for a drink. Nothing had changed, though he thought perhaps there was an odd quality to the gazes trained upon him. The villagers had always treated him with respect—too much deference, in fact—since his return from the war. The people here seemed to think he’d won the battle of Sahagun single-handed for all the fuss they made about it, but now there was something else. A couple of fellows elbowed each other and chuckled, their conversation clearly ribald, though they kept their voices down.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  Solo looked up as George Adams, the proprietor, greeted him from behind the bar.

  “Adams,” Solo replied with a friendly nod. “A glass of your best brandy, if you would.”

  “Right away, my lord, and may I say it’s a pleasure to see you back here.”

  “Thank you,” Solo replied, frowning as the barmaid tugged the arm of another serving wench, the two of them giggling and casting him considering glances.

  Solo accepted his drink and sipped it, uncomfortably aware that he was the topic of conversation, not that anyone spoke loud enough for him to hear. Some of the eyes upon him were amused, admiring even, others… were not.

  The vicar, Mr Pemble, who had so solicitously left a book for Jemima a few days earlier, was definitely glaring at him.

  “Mr Adams,” Solo said carefully, when the man came to refill his glass. “Is there a note pinned to my back inviting people to kick me?”

  Mr Adams flushed a surprisingly bright red for such a large barrel of a man. “Er… no, my lord, not that I know of.”

  “Then do, I beg you, enlighten me as to what the excitement is. My presence seems to have stirred a pot I was unaware existed.”

  Solo’s words were polite enough but held an edge that no man had ever heard without giving him the answer he’d demanded. Mr Adam’s flush deepened before settling into a sickly green.

  “I-I-I,” the man stammered. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  “Devil take you,” Solo muttered and turned around, one elbow still upon the bar as he addressed the rest of those present. “Mr Adams seems unable to explain to me what it is everyone is finding so damned fascinating about my presence tonight, so I’ll have it from the horse’s mouth, shall I?”

  A deathly silence filled the room and Solo felt that no one moved so much as an inch as he stared from one man to the next.

  Finally, Mr Pemble got to his feet, his face screwed up with disgust as he looked at Solo. “It pains me to speak so to someone we have all long held in such high regard, but I cannot overlook the actions of a man who he brings the entire village into disrepute.”

  “Disrepute?” Solo repeated, his voice dangerously low. “You’d best explain yourself damned quick, sir. I should not like to demand satisfaction from a man of God, but slander is not something I will tolerate from anyone.”

  Mr Pemble blanched, seeming to shrink a couple of inches before Solo’s cold gaze. Still, he put up his chin.

  “Do you deny it, then? Deny what Mrs Granger and her daughters heard? What they saw with their own eyes? Your… doxy… running from your house in tears, no coat nor hat? Not only do you bring such a lewd woman into our village and install her as if she is a gentlewoman, passing her off among your neighbours as one to whom we should owe our friendship, but are you so wicked as to send her fleeing from you in fear?”

  Solo felt for a moment as if he’d been doused in iced water. It did not last long as a wave of red-hot anger surged through him. He cast his cane to the floor and crossed the distance between Mr Pemble and himself in three large strides, quite numb to the pain in his leg now. He picked the unfortunate clergyman up by his cravat and hauled him against the wall where the fellow dangled, squirming on tiptoes while Solo tried to restrain himself from doing him an injury.

  “My doxy?” he growled through his teeth. “You dare speak of a lady so, filthy little worm? Miss Fernside is everything she appears to be, and if I am lucky enough to have given a decent account of myself, I am hopeful that the lady will soon by my wife, not that I, nor any man, can claim to deserve her, you pestilent arse!”

  Solo let go his grasp on the clergyman’s cravat and made no attempt to halt his consequent thud to the ground. The fellow remained there, whimpering as Solo turned to regard the rest of the inn, all of whom were staring at him with wide eyes and rapt attention.

  “Any other questions?” he asked, not bothering to raise his voice. He had no need to; you could have heard a pin drop in the next village. Every man shook his head, never taking their eyes from him. “The next man or woman who dares breathe another vile lie disparaging Miss Fernside will answer to me in person to explain themselves, and you may invite
Mrs Granger to attend me on the morrow in my office, at nine sharp, to do just that. Good evening to you.”

  Solo returned to the bar, where Mr Adams had already retrieved his cane and handed it to him with a deferential nod.

  “Adams,” Solo said, his voice still terse as he bade the fellow goodbye and stalked out of the inn.

  Chapter 19

  Miss Hunt,

  I write in the full expectation you will throw this missive on the fire unopened but, for Phoebe’s sake I must take the chance. Since your rather abrupt leave-taking this afternoon, I have heard nothing from Phoebe but demands that I should allow you to visit her. She tells me she has invited you and refuses to accept that there is nothing I can do to make you come here. I have never seen her become so passionately angry with me, as if it is I that keeps you from her. She has now gone to bed fully resolved never to speak to me again. Whilst I have understood for some time that a woman has the power to upset my peace of mind, I had never realised a small girl could do it so thoroughly.

  I know, of course, that you cannot come here without risking your reputation, and you have made it abundantly clear this is more important to you than any other aspect of your life, but I shall not speak of that. It so happens that I have business which takes me to town soon, and if you could find a friend or friends to accompany you, you might visit Dern and Phoebe with no one to condemn you for doing so. The housekeeper is used to giving tours of the place when I am not in residence and I will ensure she welcomes you and makes you at home. If you could find it in your heart to remain at Dern for a day or two, I believe Phoebe may forgive me—in time—for disappointing her so.

  You have my word of honour that I will keep away for the duration of your visit