“Oh, that’s easy, miss,” Bessie said, handing Jemima a bowl of thick soup. “My ma is a wonderful cook. Only plain, mind, nothing fancy, but she’s a hard worker and can turn her hand to most things. She already knows where I work, and who for, and she don’t hold with gossip. I think you’d like her.”
Jemima nodded, relieved by the simplicity of the idea. “I’m sure I would, Bessie. That sounds wonderful. I shall speak to Lord Rothborn about it.”
Bessie beamed at her and they ate in companionable silence.
Jemima left Mrs Attwood enjoying a tot of brandy and chatting quite contentedly with Bessie and giving the girl advice about how to get her beau to hurry up and propose to her. It had been a strange day and Jemima was worn out, the excitement and stresses catching up with her. Making her way along the corridor, candle aloft, she almost jumped out of her skin at a knock at the front door. For a brief moment she panicked, wondering if the baron had returned, expecting to stay the night, but quickly realised she was being idiotic. For one thing, he’d never come to the front door in such circumstances.
Hurrying forward, she opened the door and exclaimed in surprise as she discovered a young woman shivering in the darkness.
“Minerva!” she said, astonished.
“Oh, Jemima,” Minerva sniffed, and promptly burst into tears.
Chapter 3
Inigo,
Is it true you are friendly with Bedwin? For God’s sake put in a good word for me. The devil despises me, but I need a damned blue blood to get my new project off the ground. Do an old friend a favour, will you?
By the by, I have no idea if you are one for investments but steer clear of anything involving a Mr David Burton. I never liked the bastard, but recent investigations have proven he’s worse than I could have imagined. He approached me for financing years ago, but I didn’t trust him, and you know my instincts are rarely wrong. I’d always wondered at his golden touch with those damned mills and now I know how he turned such a vast fortune in so short a time. I know I made my own name in the same period, but then I’m exceptional and he’s mediocre. I’d ruin a greedy aristo without a second thought, but to make money off the weak and vulnerable is another matter.
He’s about to go down in spectacular fashion, so don’t touch him or anything he’s involved with.
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Gabriel Knight to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.
26th January 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
Jemima gave a soft knock on the door of the spare bedroom, and waited for a response before turning the handle. Minerva was sitting up in bed while Bessie stoked the fire back to life and ensured Miss Butler had everything she needed.
“Thank you, Bessie,” Jemima said with a smile as the girl bobbed a curtsey and promised to be back with some breakfast soon. “That girl is a marvel.”
“She’s sweet,” Minerva agreed, her blue eyes too large against her pale face.
She’d clearly been crying, and Jemima’s heart ached for her. Minerva had been too wretched and exhausted to explain herself last night, and so Jemima had gently steered her into one of the guest rooms and said they’d speak in the morning when she’d had some rest.
“She’s a Trojan is what she is,” Jemima remarked, laughing a little as she sat down on the edge of the bed. “Now then, I think you’d best tell me what the trouble is.”
Jemima watched, still astonished the young woman had come to her. Although they were friends, Minerva had always been far closer to Helena, Bonnie, and Ruth than Jemima. Indeed, Jemima had missed out on the way many of the women’s friendships had grown. As the finances had dwindled away to nothing, she had faded from society.
“I’m so sorry to land myself on your doorstep, Jemima,” Minerva said, wringing her hands together. “Only I panicked. I needed somewhere to go to give myself a little time, and Matilda gave me your address yesterday morning. When I found it in my reticule, I just… well, it seemed like the ideal place to come to.”
“Well, I’m very glad you did.” Jemima gave her hand a reassuring pat. “But why? What were you running from?”
Minerva plunged into a halting story about her affair with a Mr de Beauvoir, about being seen by the scandalous Mrs Tate, and her lover’s determination to do the honourable thing.
“Don’t you wish to marry him, though?”
“Of course!” Minerva exclaimed, before blowing her nose noisily into a lace edged hanky. “But not because he has to.”
Jemima nodded, understanding completely. How awful to have a man forced into marrying you. One would never be free of the sense of obligation, of having become a burden. Still, as compassionate as she was to Minerva’s plight, her arrival had certain…. complications.
“I’m so sorry, Jemima. The last thing I want to do is cut up your peace. I shall leave tomorrow, I swear. I won’t bring scandal to your door.”
Despite herself, Jemima chuckled.
“Ah, as to that,” she said ruefully. “Min, darling. There is something I must tell you, and… and I’m afraid you might not think well of me once you know. In fact, you may wish to leave at once and never speak to me again.”
“Good heavens!” Minerva exclaimed. “I should think not! After you’ve been so very kind, I should be a poor excuse for a friend to act in so shabby a fashion. What on earth could you have done to consider I would be so hen hearted?”
Jemima plucked fretfully at the belt on her dressing gown, feeling the colour rise to her face. “Do you swear not to tell a soul?” she asked, unable to meet Minerva’s eyes. “I… I couldn’t bear it if the others knew how far I have fallen.”
She dared a glance up to find a spectacular pair of blue eyes regarding her with a mixture of fascination and alarm. “Jem, you do realise I have run away from my lover because I won’t marry him? I am ruined and about to become the scandal of the century, and I know that not one of the Peculiar Ladies would turn their backs on me. Not one of them. Why on earth should you think—”
“Because it isn’t the s-same!” Jemima burst out, surprised by the force of emotion that made her throat tight. She took a breath, putting her chin up. “My aunt did not leave me any money. She left only doctor’s bills I couldn’t pay. I was desperate.”
Minerva frowned, glancing about her. “Then… this house…?”
“The house, the furniture, my clothes, the food we eat… all of it is p-paid for by a man. B-By… Lord Rothborn. I am a kept woman, Minerva. He pays me for my company. I am his mistress, though not because I am in love with him, but for money. I am little better than a w-wh—”
“Don’t you dare!” Minerva said, pressing her fingers to Jemima’s trembling lips. “Don’t say such a thing. I forbid it. Besides which, what options are there are for women to earn their keep? If there’s one thing I have learned from Inigo, it’s that the only real difference between men and women is a lack of education and opportunity. If women were educated properly and given opportunities to earn a respectable living, things would be different. As it is, we are usually destined to be either wives or whores, and that is a man’s word and not one we should use. Especially when no one gives us the chance to be anything else.”
Jemima blinked, a little taken aback but also relieved. She’d confessed all, and Minerva hadn’t looked at her in disgust, hadn’t shunned her. Perhaps she had wronged her friends by believing she would lose their good opinion? Still, it was not something she wished to advertise.
“Thank you, Minerva. I think I should like to meet your Mr de Beauvoir. He sounds like an interesting man.”
“Oh, he is,” Minerva said with a wistful sigh. “He’s quite marvellous and I’m hopelessly in love with him.”
Jemima hugged her friend, murmuring reassurances, and then left her alone to indulge in a good cry.
***
Today, he would not act like a blasted imbecile, Solo assured himself as he made his way along the path to Miss Fernside’s back door. The rain had abated, thank heaven, and t
hough the sky was an unprepossessing shade of grey, he hoped it would leave off until after he returned home. He’d forced himself not to turn upon her doorstep at the crack of dawn, despite the temptation to do so, nor even by late morning. Hopefully, she would invite him to take afternoon tea with her, and this time he’d not be such a blithering idiot as last night and refuse. Somehow, he had to steer them past this awkwardness and encourage a sense of intimacy. She was, after all, to be his mistress. The trouble was, even thinking about that had him as tongue tied as a small boy in trouble with the house master. What the devil was wrong with him? Once upon a time he’d fancied himself as something of a charmer. He’d always had an easy way with women and he’d never been short of female companionship. Apparently, the skill had been lost somewhere between getting shot in the leg and jilted by his fiancée. Not that he blamed his fiancée one bit. He’d promised to bring her brother, his closest friend, back home safely….
Pain lanced through his thigh and he stumbled, grabbing hold of a tree branch before he landed face first on the sodden ground. Damn. He took a breath, trying to force back the wave of guilt and misery that threatened to tow him back down into the darkness. It had held him there for such a long time, mostly because he knew that was where he deserved to be. He had failed. He had failed Barnaby and he had failed Hyacinth. Just as he had failed all the men under his command when he’d been declared unfit for service.
Stop it, he commanded himself. Not today. Perhaps he did not deserve the companionship and comfort he hoped to gain from Miss Fernside, but she deserved his protection. She deserved to be comfortable and well treated, and that at least he could offer.
Bessie greeted him warmly and he wondered once more what he’d ever done to earn such loyalty. In truth, though her family had always worked at The Priory, he barely remembered her. She’d served in Mrs Norrell’s kingdom below stairs since his return, but the girl seemed to regard him with a slavish devotion that was as much as a balm to his battered ego as it was undeserved.
“Is Miss Fernside at liberty to see me?” he asked, moving towards the heat of the stove.
He knew he had every right to walk in as though he owned the place, because he did, but he would never treat Miss Fernside with such a wanton lack of respect. Besides which, if they were to keep their affair a secret, he would be foolish to risk finding her with one of their neighbours. They were bound to start calling upon her soon, if they’d not already begun.
“Well, she’s had the world and his wife this morning,” Bessie remarked, confirming his suspicions. “But now there is only Miss Butler.”
“Miss Butler?” he repeated, frowning. Wasn’t that Inigo’s lady love? “When did she arrive?”
He hoped she had no intention of overstaying her welcome and had only come to wish her friend well in her new home.
“Oh, last night, my lord. Not long after you’d gone. In something of an upset, too, poor thing.”
“Last night?” he said, incredulous, and then groaned.
Inigo, you stupid bastard. The silly sod had messed it all up, just as Solo had feared he would.
“I’ll go and tell her you’re here, my lord. I know she’ll wish to speak with you. Might I see you comfortable in receiving room first?”
“No, no.” He waved the suggestion away. “I’ll wait here until you send for me.”
Bessie bobbed a curtsey and hurried away, returning a few minutes later. “Miss Butler has just gone out for a walk with Mrs Attwood, my lord. So you’ll find Miss Fernside in the parlour, waiting for you.”
Solo nodded and made his way through the house. He paused before the parlour door, reminding himself he’d not be an idiot this time, and went in.
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
His mouth went dry and his palms began to sweat. Well, not being an idiot was going swimmingly so far. Really, though, it was a lot to ask of a fellow who’d been celibate for so long when presented with such a vision of loveliness. He cleared his throat.
“I trust you are not too fatigued after yesterday’s exertions. I understand you’ve been inundated with visitors this morning, too?”
She smiled at him, though this time he was ready for it and only felt mildly dazed by the onslaught.
“Indeed, no. I am quite well, and everyone has been very kind, so very… welcoming.”
She faltered a little, her gaze sliding away from his, and he realised how awkward her position was. She had been raised a lady, yet her new position was tenuous. No doubt she would like to make friends with her neighbours and enjoy what society there was to be had in Mitcham, yet if they were to discover the truth of her life here….
He felt a sudden weight in his chest, regret that he could not offer her something better, something honourable, but he had made a vow as amends for his guilt, and that he could not forget. No matter if he wanted to.
“I understand you had an unexpected visitor last night,” he said, hoping to turn the subject.
She looked at him in surprise, and he smiled.
“Bessie is somewhat in awe of my magnificence,” he said sheepishly. “If you don’t wish for her to tell me something, you must go to some lengths, I fear. She’s marvellously loyal, though why I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Her laughter, when it came, was warm and rich and curled about him.
“Oh, I know the answer to that. You are a handsome war hero, strong and brave, though she fears you read more than is healthy for you. Filling your head with so many words is a worry to her.”
Solo flushed, torn between amusement, horror, and delight in her finding him handsome. In the end guilt won the day, creeping up from out of the dark as it always did. He’d always been uncomfortable with being called a hero when he was anything but. He’d been shot, sent away from the front line, leaving Barnaby alone. Barnaby had never been what one would have considered an exemplary soldier. In fact, he was ill-suited to the life. He ought to have been a poet or a scholar, for war sickened him, and though he was brave, he was also foolish. Solo had kept him out of trouble as best he could, until Sahagun and the bullet which had left him lame. Poor Barnaby had died needlessly while Solo was flat on his back. His fault. It had been his fault.
“Have I said something wrong?”
Cursing, Solo realised he’d lost time, falling into his memories as sometimes happened when the darkness tried to get a hold of him.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. His voice sounded odd, hoarse and too abrupt. “I’m no hero, Miss Fernside. There are hundreds, thousands of fellows more deserving of the title.”
“Oh, but my lord—”
“No!” he snapped and then hated himself for the way she jumped in alarm. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, though she sounded perplexed.
Solo ran a hand through his hair, furious and wishing himself to the devil. “I…” Oh, what was the use? “Good afternoon, Miss Fernside.”
He turned back to the door, resolved not to burden her any further for one day, but before he could reach for the handle her slender hand grasped at his sleeve.
“Don’t go,” she said.
Solo paused, staring first at the elegant fingers on the dark blue fabric of his coat, and then at wide grey eyes the colour of the storm-laden sky outside.
“Don’t run away again, my lord. I promise you I am not such a feeble creature as to be routed by a sharp word or two. I am sorry if I upset you, and will endeavour not to do so again, but you must give me a chance to learn what pleases you and what does not.”
He let out an uneven breath, utterly wretched. He was making a complete hash of this and she was so…. God, she was more than he could have believed. Faced with his appalling behaviour, she was all kindness and understanding. It only made him feel ever more the brute.
“I am afraid I warned you I was not a sympathetic companion,” he said, resigned to the fact she must hate him.
The smile she returned did not seem to suggest a
nything of the sort, though perhaps she was simply adept at hiding her true feelings.
“Indeed, you told me you were abrupt and had no warm feelings to offer, so I was well prepared. However, I think you are too severe. Perhaps you are abrupt, but you have offered me no insult. The only slights you have spoken have been to your own detriment. Please, won’t you sit down and take tea with me? I’m sure this cold weather must make your leg ache, and that is bound to make you cross.”
Solo stared at her in surprise, shocked that she’d referred to his injury at all. Most ladies chose to ignore it, to pretend that it was not there. He knew they did it to make him feel better, but somehow Miss Fernside’s direct manner was refreshing, comforting even, and her care for his well-being soothed his frayed nerves a little.
He allowed her to steer him to a chair by the fire and ring for tea. The fire crackled cheerfully, the heat a relief as he massaged the taut muscle in his thigh. Solo watched her as she poured the tea, the ritual elegant and practised. She looked every inch a lady, the kind any man would be proud to call his wife. Yet here she was, debasing herself with him. Melancholy settled over him and he took the teacup from her with a muttered word of thanks and stared into the fire.
“I fear I am failing you.”
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring into the flames when her soft voice reached him. Solo blinked, regarding her with confusion. She had sunk to her knees on the carpet before him, swathes of blue satin billowing around her, making her look like a lovely nymph rising from crystal waters. He was so horribly unworthy of her.
“My job is to please you, to make you comfortable and at ease,” she said, giving him such a forlorn smile his heart was pierced with regret. “I only seem to do the opposite. I pray I will do better. I shall try.”
“The fault is not yours, I assure you,” he said. He set down the cup and saucer, wishing he had something to offer this beautiful creature. She was vibrant and alive and so very lovely, and he wanted to protect her from the harshness to be found in the world. All he’d achieved so far was to bring it into her front parlour. “I’m afraid you see now what a wretched bargain you have struck.”
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 3