The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series)

by Miranda Davis

  The effusion of plumes in question quivered atop the baroness’ head as the subtle set-down landed. Her ostentatious display was noted and found amusing by one of the ton’s wittiest women24. What’s more, Lady Wesley’s droll delivery quelled any retort the baroness might’ve offered.

  “Girls,” Lady Petra said, “have you refreshed yourselves? The musicians are about to resume.” She held her hands out to Constance and Elizabeth. “Shall we?”

  Lady Clun and Elizabeth looked daggers at one another while Lady Petra and Lady Wesley herded the young woman from the hushed room.

  Tongues wagged for the rest of the ball. Those who’d suffered Lady Clun’s waspish set-downs in the past anticipated the joy of dining out on The Confrontation till New Year.

  * * *

  When, at breakfast the next day, the Fury fussed about Elizabeth’s impertinence, wilted hope revived and bloomed anew in Clun’s breast.

  Sadly, that was exactly how his lordship felt — hopeful after a lifelong drought. Yet, he would never have described his improved mood in such mortifyingly flowery metaphors before meeting Elizabeth. Such lapses into poetical nonsense occurred all too frequently now and, by God, it irked him when he caught himself at it. Any day, he was bound to make a complete fool of himself out loud if he didn’t nip this ghastly mooncalf-ishness in the bud.

  Thus, he berated himself for hoping when any rational man would recognize hopelessness and carry on stoically. It was futile, he reminded himself sternly, mooncalfery notwithstanding. (Though not a proper word, mooncalfery ought to be, he felt certain Elizabeth would agree.)

  Clun reminded himself that his mother brought out the worst in some ladies. The Confrontation meant nothing. His engagement was no less doomed in its aftermath.

  In this vein, Clun discouraged himself until comfortably wretched once again.

  Chapter 28

  In which our heroine seeks blood from a turnip.

  Elizabeth returned home early from the evening. In truth, she’d escaped from the fresh whirlwind of gossip she and the baroness whipped up in the Roebuck’s cream and gilt withdrawing room. Before she fled, Lady Petra consoled her that the Christmas season seemed to encourage bad behavior so another imbroglio was bound to surpass hers quickly. Cold comfort indeed.

  As soon as she handed her velvet cloak to Nettles, she sought out her father for consolation. She found him at his writing desk, piles of open dictionaries arrayed around him.

  When she entered the library, he put down his quill and leaned back in his chair.

  “You look lovely.” He perused her over the top of his reading spectacles. “Did you enjoy your evening, Elizabeth?”

  “No, I did not. Lady Clun will not be satisfied until she has crushed any hope I have of a happy marriage with her son.” She recounted the baroness’ several attempts to interfere.

  “Daughter, I grieve for you, but you have brought this on yourself with your inexplicable behavior. You announce your engagement to the world — against my explicit wishes — then dilly-dally rather than marry the man. You are unfair to Clun and risk irreparable harm to your own reputation.”

  “Has Clun complained?”

  “No, he has not. He is too gentlemanly to do so. Lady Clun expressed concern on his behalf.”

  “She hates me, Father, I know it.”

  “No. She cares for her son.”

  “She thinks of herself and no one else.”

  “She has his best interests in mind. You have set tongues wagging all over London. At minimum, you are condemned as fickle, at worst, that you scheme for a more advantageous offer which,” he shook his head when she opened her mouth, “I know is not true in either case. Elizabeth, I cannot cope with the chaos you’ve caused or the criticism you’ve called down upon yourself. If you intend to cry off, do so. Stop shilly-shallying. Spare us all further upset.”

  “I am not dallying for some frivolous, selfish reason. I hope to establish the proper foundation for our marriage, but Clun insists love has no place. So I must convince him.”

  “Have you considered that he might not change his mind? That he might not wish to be convinced.”

  “I don’t believe he means what he says.”

  “But Lady Clun does.”

  “What does she know?” Elizabeth said with a snort, “She only sees her spouse in him. That’s an awful burden for a child to bear at any age.” Without meaning to, she described her own life as much as the baron’s and saw the earl’s expression stiffen in reaction.

  “Father, she is the first to point out his faults, even before he exhibits them.”

  “Better you accept him as he is than set your heart on changing him to suit you. If you cannot let him be, let him go. Release him.”

  “No. I love him and I suspect he loves me.”

  “Then by all means marry him,” the earl said with growing exasperation.

  “I can’t until he has a change of heart.”

  The earl removed his spectacles carefully and set them aside. “If only you were more like your mother, God rest her soul,” the earl said morosely, “She was a practical miss not the dedicated romantic you like to imagine.”

  “But she loved you and you her.”

  “She most emphatically did not. Nor I her. Not when first we married. She was entirely too managing and opinionated.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes goggled at the earl. “No.”

  “We fell in love after we married,” he said. “And she made me promise to do for you as her father did for her, to find you a worthy man. In Lord Clun, I thought I had.”

  “You did.”

  “I’m glad you have at least that much sense. Mrs. Abeel and I always worried you were too susceptible to flights of fancy. We feared an unscrupulous man would take advantage of your sensibility and break your heart.” The earl shook his head slowly. “This unseemly hesitance cannot continue, Elizabeth. If you will not marry Lord Clun, I must insist you end the engagement immediately.”

  “Immediately, why?”

  “I have let this go on too long.” Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, but the earl declared, “You will end it or I shall on your behalf.”

  “A little time, Father, just a little more time. A few weeks,” she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears.

  “To what purpose?”

  Elizabeth cast about for an excuse. “Lady Petra believes it would be best done after Twelfth Night, with fewer gossips in Town to stir up a scandal broth. That’s not much more than a fortnight from now. Please.”

  “You will do so by then, daughter, or I shall. In the meantime, you’ll go to Devonshire after Christmas, do you hear? There you will rusticate until this brouhaha blows over. By Twelfth Night, you will do what you must. That is all.” He waited for her to acknowledge his order and when she barely nodded, he added, “I am sorry, Elizabeth.”

  Without looking at her again, the earl returned to his books, clearly uncomfortable with her turbulent emotions. She stood for a moment to watch him resettle himself in his large, leather chair. He brushed his papers free of sand and aligned the leather mat perfectly parallel to the desk’s edge. He did not look up when she walked out and quietly closed the door behind her.

  She stumbled up the stairs to her bedchamber. She should’ve known better than to seek consolation from the earl. Hadn’t she learned that lesson often enough growing up? He preferred to fix a problem rather than listen sympathetically. This was especially true when, to his mind, she was the problem. Whenever she came to him with a grievance, he invariably pointed out the ways in which her behavior was wanting. Worse, whenever her behavior disappointed him, he invoked her dead mother, and mourned her absence, till he became morose and impatient. With eyes heavenward, he would mutter ‘How am I to take her in hand, Bess?’

  Well, at least he hadn’t begged for ghostly guidance in this instance. She’d have burst into tears if he had.

  If only her mother’s death hadn’t devastated her father, perhaps he could’ve loo
ked past her resemblance to his wife and perceived the daughter in need of a parent’s unconditional love. He never could. Her mother still claimed her father’s whole heart from the grave.

  With that, the puzzling pieces of her life fell into order. Finally, Elizabeth understood that she had been orphaned not once but twice when her mother passed away. She lost her father as surely as her mother on the day of her birth. All those years, she idealized the earl’s devotion to her mother’s memory, and she ignored the price she herself paid. She grew up a lonely child, envying a beloved spectral being and wishing someday for an undying, perfect love of her own in compensation.

  Her next thought stunned her: she would never wish that childhood on any child of hers.

  For the first time, she judged the love she’d always idealized from this new perspective, as a woman contemplating marriage and a family of her own. Perhaps, she allowed, it was better if Clun did not love her with such single-minded devotion. Then, if she were to die, he could lay her to rest and carry on without her. Their children would never compete with a ghost for his affection, because he would love them, even if he never allowed himself to love the woman who bore them.

  Then, Elizabeth’s natural optimism reasserted itself. Who’s to say she’d be first to stick her spoon in the wall? Perhaps, he’d shuffle off this mortal coil and leave her widowed with children to raise. The possibility of his death dropped her stomach to her knees.

  But hold there, she chided herself. She must not make her father’s mistake either. Best she develop a cooler, more rational regard for her impossible Shropshire lord.

  For the sake of their future children, she would try to be more levelheaded and less in love.

  She considered him objectively. Lord Clun was hardly an ideal husband, what with his stubborn, unreasoning nature, his inappropriate sense of humor, his pessimistic propensities, his disdain for romantic attachment and his confidence that he knew best, first and always — even when he was wrong. He was often wrong and never willing to admit it. In truth, if he weren’t so terribly appealing in other ways, he’d just be terrible.

  With that, her mind calmed. Her thoughts cleared. This changed everything.

  She could in good conscience accept his terms and marry him. Once wed, he would appreciate her mature, moderate affection and perhaps reciprocate it. Perhaps, affection might one day lead to warmer feelings, one could never tell. But, she reminded herself sternly, it mustn’t get out of hand. Nor should she ever expect any reciprocity, because that might lead to disappointment.

  The solution to their impasse was at hand. Elizabeth had to see Clun immediately.

  Bearing in mind the fuss Lady Caroline Lamb caused visiting Lord Byron at his lodgings in disguise, Elizabeth decided Clun must meet her as if by chance in an unexceptional, semi-public location. Happily, she knew just the place.

  * * *

  At a crowded card party, Clun felt a shiver run down his spine for no reason. He hadn’t recognized anyone on his way into the saloon where tables were already occupied by players. He stood by a foursome playing whist when he sensed her standing behind him. He turned his head slowly, adjusted his stance to address Elizabeth properly and bowed over her hand.

  She wore pale ivory silk. And pearls. Everything about her reminded him of fresh, rich cream skimmed from milk.

  “Good evening, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Lord Clun, may I have a word?” Her tone was crisp.

  His body reacted as if to danger with a quickening of his pulse. “Of course.”

  She was about to jilt him at a card party of all places. He stalked after her to a quiet corner of the room.

  “You surprise me, Elizabeth, I’d have thought you’d prefer a more private spot for this.” He bent his head near so she might say her piece without avid ears overhearing it.

  She hissed at him, “You surprise me as well, sir, to accept whatever happens so passively. I thought you a man of spirit.”

  “Constraints of Polite Society keep me from display. Well?”

  “Will you meet me tomorrow at Mr. Soane’s house?”

  “John Soane, the architect?”

  “Yes, I’ll go there on an errand for my father and it will be private enough to discuss important matters with you.”

  He relaxed. “When?”

  She suggested a time in the afternoon to which he agreed.

  Lady Elizabeth Damogan would be his betrothed one more day. He was happy even though she looked as if it’d be one day too many.

  Chapter 29

  In which our hero and heroine meet as if by chance.

  All morning, Clun ignored his rancid stomach and sweating palms. However, he couldn’t forget that his betrothal to Elizabeth was scheduled to end that afternoon. With each passing hour, he reminded himself grimly, one less hour remained of their connection. And after those cruel hours crept by, he counted the minutes.

  He was about to leave to meet her, when a mud-spattered Tyler Rodwell strode in the front door.

  “What brings you here in such a state?” Clun asked. He dropped his hat and gloves back on the table, glad for a temporary stay of execution. His half-brother half-dragged him down the hall. “Roddy, you should know the baroness is here.” Roddy stopped dead in his tracks. “Though not home at the moment.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies,” he said and resumed his march. “I’ve disturbing news so I rode hell-for-leather to pass it on.” They went into the baron’s study and Roddy shut the door behind them.

  “What’s happened?”

  Roddy paced back and forth. “You recall how odd it was the baroness knew your doings soon as you’d done them.”

  Clun leaned against his heavy desk. “Only too well.”

  “Yet she didn’t know what you were up to at The Graces when Lady Elizabeth was there. Tried to ferret news from me, but I put her off the scent.”

  “And she went rampaging off.” Clun chuckled until he remembered she’d rampaged her way to his London townhouse and roosted there ever since.

  “As you suspected, she has a spy in your household.”

  “I see,” Clun said, his expression flinty. “Who?”

  “Ted overheard a conversation after you left with your lady. Her man ap Rhys snuck himself over to meet with someone staying behind.”

  “Several stayed back,” Clun said, his jaw working. “Who is it?”

  “Before I tell you, I’ll have your word as a gentleman you won’t kill him without hearing him out first.”

  Clun stood tall and snarled at his half-brother, “Tell me.”

  “Your word, my lord,” Roddy crossed his brawny arms and the two eyed each other, as matched as bookends. “Will.”

  “You have my word. Now, tell me.”

  “Your valet.”

  “Fewings? Timid-as-a-dormouse Fewings? He’s afraid of my mother. And terrified of me.”

  “Still, he keeps the baroness informed.”

  “So that’s how she knew of my trip to Bath,” Clun started to piece the evidence together as he paced in the library, “I took Fewings with me. From Bath, I sent him back to London and went on to The Graces alone.”

  Roddy nodded and said, “And she grew desperate enough to quiz me during his absence.”

  “He joined me when I extended my stay.” Clun’s grim visage grew darker. He clawed through his short hair.

  “But she’d rushed to Town before he arrived, so she didn’t know of Lady Elizabeth,” Roddy added.

  “She doesn’t much like Elizabeth, as I predicted.”

  “Ap Rhys told Fewings you’re to marry a Miss Mangold. That so?”

  “Ha!” Clun barked a mirthless laugh. “No, she’s not for me.”

  “But ideal for the baroness to keep doing as she pleases,” Roddy pointed out.

  “Apparently.” Clun rubbed his cheek, feeling the closeness of Fewing’s afternoon shave. “I’ve let her have her way at the castle too long.”

  “I take full responsibility f
or the situation.”

  “No, Roddy, don’t bother. This is my fault, but I hope you’ll help me remedy the situation.”

  “With pleasure. Where’d you like to begin?”

  “First, let’s have a word with Fewings, shall we?”

  “Will,” Roddy reminded.

  Clun cut him off. “I gave my word, Roddy. I’ll hear him out first.”

  The two hulking men entered Clun’s bedroom to find Fewings in the dressing room up to his elbow in one of the baron’s large boots applying his formula for bootblack.

  Upon seeing them, Fewings started. “Your lordship, I thought you’d gone out.”

  “My brother is here all the way from The Graces with unpleasant news,” Clun said, careful to keep his tone neutral. This was no mean feat, given how he longed to break his man’s man into two half-men.

  “N-n-news?” Fewings quivered. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked warily from one scowling de Sayre to the other. He let the boot fall. “I see.”

  “Perhaps you do, perhaps not,” Roddy said in a menacing tone.

  “I’ve wondered for some time how my mother could be so well-informed about me. It occurred to me that she might have someone on my staff keeping her apprised of my private concerns. How could that be? I’m lord of the manor. What fool would be disloyal to me?” Clun asked quietly.

  “F-f-fool, yes, my lord,” Fewings replied with a hard swallow.

  “It was a mystery for lo these many months until my nephew overheard a conversation in the stable between this spy and ap Rhys.

  Fewings blinked without comprehension.

  “Lady Clun calls him Price,” Roddy explained.

  Clun’s valet closed his eyes. What little color was in his face drained down his neck. He placed the blacking compound back in its wood box, folded the chamois, put it inside and closed the lid. He stood before them, a slim man struggling not to collapse before a firing squad.