The Bad Baron's Daughter

by Laura London

  Chapter Six

  Lord Linden, attempting to remove Katie from his grandmother’s austere residence, found himself having to run a gauntlet of indignant persons, from the disapproving doorman to the wrathful owner of the Arabian mare, all of whom seemed to feel that Katie should be conveyed, without delay, to the nearest jail and there incarcerated until such time as hell grew icecaps. Katie made a valiant, though muddled attempt to defend herself to these critics, which was cut short by Lord Linden, who told her tersely to shut her mouth if she knew what was good for her and bundled her urgently into the nearest hackney, warning her to wait for him there. It was some minutes later that Linden climbed in the hack, slammed the door behind him and lowered himself to the seat opposite Katie. The carriage shuddered and pulled forward.

  “Talk,” said Lord Linden, “and it had better be good.”

  Katie cleared her throat, convinced more than ever that she should have taken her chances with The Knife. “Lord Linden,” she began, “I am so…”

  “Katie. My dear child,” said Lord Linden, slowly.

  “Do not tell me you’re sorry or I will shake you until your teeth rattle.”

  Katie plucked at the tablecloth tucked about her knee. “Did that man believe that I wasn’t trying to steal his horse, only borrow it?”

  “The gentleman didn’t appear to appreciate the distinction. However, he’s agreed not to press charges. Now, tell me about the man who came into my bedroom with a knife.”

  Katie described everything; the persistent knock, the masked figure on the balcony and the hoarse whisper behind the door.

  Lord Linden frowned. “Are you sure it was ‘Katie’ you heard? It couldn’t have been anything else?”

  “I’m sure. Do you think I should have stayed? I’m afraid that the hooded man may have robbed your apartments.”

  Linden reached over to tweak one of her tumbled curls. “No, child, you did right, though God knows social ruin stares me in the face. On the other hand, the sight of you in that disreputable nightdress gave Andrew’s hot young blood a chance to simmer.”

  Katie groaned and dropped her face into her hands. Then she peeked up through her fingers. “Who is Andrew?”

  “The ditchwater blond adolescent in the reception line who was drooling at you. He’s my little brother. Eighteen. He’s been enlivening Grandmere’s household with his presence for the season. And itching to give a green gown to some lusty wench. I can see you’re getting ready to ask me what a green gown is. Figure it out yourself.”

  “I—I could tell which lady was your grandmother. She looked exactly like a duchess—at least, she looks exactly what I’ve always thought a duchess would look like.”

  “A living cliche,” murmured Linden wickedly.

  “I thought so,” said Katie seriously. “There was a young lady with her, wearing black. Is she in mourning?”

  “Technically yes, emotionally no. She’s my second cousin Suzanne. Her parents married her off at nineteen to some rustic Irish peer who was fool enough to get himself killed riding to hounds before they were married the half year. Suzanne’s mourning period is almost up, and Grandmère has taken her in hand to ensure that any possible second marriage is not the disaster her first one was.”

  “But surely your grandmother couldn’t blame Suzanne for her husband’s hunting accident,” said Katie.

  “You underestimate my grandmother,” he said wryly. “She blames whomever she can get her hands on.”

  That recalled to Katie’s mind her own indiscretion. “She’ll blame you for my ruining her party tonight, won’t she? You should be very angry with me, you didn’t want to have trouble with your grandmother, and she looked madder than a caged cat.”

  “Yes, she did, didn’t she?” said Linden with a reminiscent grin. “The old hatchet. I imagine there’ll be some fireworks, but it’s a matter of perception as to whether you spoiled the party. The argument could be offered that you made it a success.”

  “Everyone will talk,” said Katie, mortified.

  “What do we care?” he said, with the nonchalance of someone used to being the center of gossip. “We won’t hear ‘em. Besides, it was all in a good cause, little Kate, so smile at me. Lovely. Now listen. After tonight, it’s obvious that you aren’t safe alone and I can’t stay with you. No, don’t argue with me, Katie. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, but three times is a pattern. You’re too damned accident prone to be real, so I’m afraid that somehow you’ve made an enemy. Do you have any idea who… ? No, I can see that you don’t. This attack tonight wasn’t quite in Nasty Ned’s style, was it? Still, I think I should pay him a visit tomorrow before we can securely eliminate that possibility. In the meantime, though…”

  “Do you think I should go back to stay with Zack?” asked Katie, tucking her heavy auburn curls behind her ears.

  “Absolutely,” said Linden witheringly. “Then we could lay bets on which you’d lose first, your life or your maidenhead.”

  “Well, I don’t see that I have much choice,” retorted Katie, stung.

  “No, you don’t. So you’ll have to do what I tell you if you want to save that lovely neck of yours. I’m going to take you to stay with Laurel Steele. Yes, the woman who was at my house when you arrived yesterday. God knows she’s a self-indulgent immoral hellcat, but then, so am I, so you’re just changing frying pans. And you’ll be safe from your friend with the hood.”

  “No!” cried Kate, appalled. “Why, she hated me on sight. She said I was bizarre! She’ll never have me, my lord.”

  “Yes, she will. She’ll do what I tell her. She may not like it, but she’ll do it.”

  “I won’t go,” said Katie determinedly. “I’d move in with Nasty Ned and lose my maidenhead fifty times first.”

  “Foolish chit,” said Linden, unimpressed. “Losing your maidenhead fifty times is an anatomical impossibility. I don’t think the house of one of the most notorious courtesans in London is the best place for you either, Katie, but frankly, I don’t know any respectable ladies who would take you in, especially on my introduction. Staying with Laurel could hardly be worse than working at The Merry Maidenhead. Console yourself with the thought that your reputation can’t get any worse than it is already.”

  “It may surprise you to know,” said Katie crossly, “that I don’t find that thought consoling in the least!”

  Linden shrugged and reached for a straggling hemp cord near the hack’s window. “All right, blue eyes, if that’s what you want…”

  “Wh—what are you going to do?” asked Katie nervously.

  “Signal the driver to take us back to my house,” said Linden amicably. “You don’t want to go to Laurel, I don’t want you to go back to Zack, and you are so all fired hot to lose your virtue that…”

  “But I didn’t really mean it!” cried Katie. “I’m sorry I was pettish, and I will go to Laurel, if that’s what you want. But… Lord Linden, isn’t she your mistress?”

  “Lord no. Was that what was bothering you?” asked Linden, scrutinizing Katie’s face closely. “We’re… um, well, friends sometimes, when she’s got some damned bill that she wants me to pay. But mostly we fight like demons in a dog hole. I make a point of offending Laurel on a biweekly basis, so this will be nothing out of the ordinary, believe me.”

  When the hack arrived at la Steele’s expensive establishment on the edge of Mayfair, Lord Linden escorted Katie in and handed her into the care of Laurel’s astonished French maid, with instructions that Katie be given a meal and a bed. The readiness with which he was obeyed told its own story of Lord Linden’s power in this household. And so, by the time Miss Steele came home, Katie had long since been tucked into a luxurious guest bed and fallen into a reassuring dreamworld.

  Laurel had not been among those honored by an invitation to Lady Brixton’s soiree, but certain of the gentlemen who had been there had later joined a rather more free and easy party at a discreet establishment in Pall Mall, at which la Steele had ch
osen to appear. She had listened with great amusement to the tale of how Linden’s latest toy doll had made him again the center of scandal and conjecture. A nasty little smile itched at her lips as she breezed into her foyer and tossed her cashmere shawl to her waiting maid.

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” said the maid, smoothing the shawl tenderly over the curve of her arm.

  “‘Lo, Antoinette. I shall retire right away, so you may have these lights snuffed,” said Laurel, starting to mount her staircase.

  “Oui, Madame,” said Antoinette. “Shall I tell Lord Linden that he is to go upstairs?”

  “Lord Linden? But surely he isn’t here? They say he left Lady Brixton’s earlier, and with his hands quite, quite full. When did he come?”

  “One hour ago, perhaps more. His lordship brought with him a jeune file with great blue eyes and red hair. He said I was to put her to a bed, and maintenant, she is sleeping in the green bedroom. Madame doesn’t approve?” asked Antoinette, seeing a slowly dawning fury on Laurel’s face.

  “Damnation, no! Madame does not approve I How dare he? Oh, when I get my hands on him… where is he?” stormed la Steele, no longer finding Lord Linden’s conduct so amusing.

  Antoinette indicated the library so Laurel stalked purposefully to that room, murder blazing in her eyes. She found Lord Linden comfortably established on a serpentine-top sofa with his shapely legs stretched out before him, boot heels resting on the fragile surface of a fine Jamaican tea-table. Miss Steele ground her teeth.

  “Lesley, this is it! I won’t have it, do you hear?”

  Lord Linden had been engaged in a desultory perusal of a volume of execrable and rather smutty poetry but now he cast it aside to gaze up at his sometime mistress.

  “I hear you, the servants hear you, and probably your neighbors down the street can hear you,” said Linden, who rarely wasted energy on tact when he was not disposed to do so. “Lord, you keep late hours, Laurel. It’s after three o’clock. Must be hell on your complexion.”

  There were times when Miss Steele could be diverted from the issue at hand by Linden’s insults, but this was not one of them.

  “Lesley, you’re a provoking, promiscuous blackguard,” said Laurel wrathfully.

  “Magnifique, Laurel. You should tread the boards. You’ve always told me I’m a provoking, promiscuous blackguard. Why have apoplexy about something that’s well established?” Lord Linden wore a faint, malicious smile.

  “But this is the first time that you’ve ever dared to bring a… oh, Another Interest of yours into my home!” snapped Laurel.

  “Jealous?” he asked provocatively.

  “No! Lud, I pity the creature. At least I’ve never had the misfortune to be your financial dependent. Oh, Lesley, how could you bring her here?”

  Lord Linden lifted his long legs slowly from the table and smiled disarmingly at Laurel. “My dear, I had no place else to take her.”

  “Well, Lesley, my dear,” Laurel’s voice dripped honey, “perhaps I could suggest something. Why don’t you take her and dump her back into whatever gutter you pulled her from originally?”

  Lord Linden unwound his long body from the sofa, crossed to a dainty wine cellarette and poured Laurel a brandy, saying casually that she’d been robbed if she’d paid more than a shilling a bottle for the insipid stuff. Laurel found herself fast approaching hysteria.

  “Damn you, Lesley, will you listen to me?” she cried, stamping her foot. “I don’t want to drink brandy, I don’t want to talk about brandy and I don’t want to think about brandy. All I want is for you to go upstairs, wake up your little doxy and get her out of my house!” This last sentence ended on a note bearing an unfortunate resemblance to a scream. Lord Linden handed the brandy to Laurel with a distinctly dangerous glint in his eye. He spoke calmly and deliberately.

  “Don’t, Laurel. Be mad at me if you like. But don’t let it become a tantrum. My temper’s never sweetened enough to accommodate them, as well you know.”

  Laurel hesitated. She knew from painful experience that Linden could only be tried so far before he was apt to forget chivalry. Laurel clearly remembered a time when she had nourished hopes of being enthroned as Linden’s primary mistress. She had reproached him for one of his multiple infidelities. Finally, exasperated by his lack of response, she had lost her temper and slapped him, and Linden had retaliated automatically with a blow that had necessitated her retirement from company for some few weeks with a blackened eye. Uneasily she recalled that far from demonstrating the least remorse, Linden had callously expressed the pious hope that she would take the incident as a lesson governing her future dealings with him.

  Fretfully, Laurel turned from him and twisted her hands together. “It’s too much, Lesley. Truly. You can’t expect me to house your light o’ love.” She turned back to him, trying hard to maintain control of her voice. “Lesley, the chit is too much cause célèbre after her appearance at Lady Brixton’s. The tale is already common tongue. I’d be a laughingstock if it were known I’d taken her in.”

  Linden looked bored. “No one will hear about it from me. And if word gets out, you can think of some convincing tale. Besides, she’s not my mistress, so you won’t be lying. Not that I think that would bother you,” he added carelessly.

  Laurel gave an unladylike snort. “Not your mistress indeed! After the way the half-naked chit ran into Lady Brixton’s parlor, clasping at your shirt and prattling on about your bedroom. I wonder that you’ve the nerve to hand me such a faradiddle.”

  “I didn’t think you’d believe me, but it’s true. I’ve never laid hands on the chit.” The sable eyes sparkled. “Actually, I did lay hands on her, but it came to nothing because she wouldn’t have me.”

  “A likely story,” sneered la Steele. “Since when are there girls you lay hands on who don’t become your lovers?”

  “As a matter of fact, my sweet life, there are plenty of them,” said Linden nastily, his voice hard with sarcasm. “You see, I only boast of my successes.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Laurel was unable to visualize a lady with resolution enough to withstand Lord Linden’s charm, which she knew could be devastating.

  Linden shrugged and flung himself into a large, winged armchair. “Then why don’t we send for a physician so you can have her examined?” he said with an intensely unpleasant flippancy. “Use your mind, Laurel. If she were my skit, why would I bring her here instead of setting her up in a house in Chelsea? She’s just a poor frightened baby with pitifully little knowledge of the world. She won’t be here long, only until I can find her father—he’s disappeared to God knows where.”

  “Oh, and hasn’t your paragon any relations to see her through this crisis?” asked Laurel acidly.

  “She’s Kendricks’s daughter.”

  “What! The Bad Baron? That wayward, unprincipled ivory turner? And you’ve brought his daughter into my house? My God, Kendricks is a pariah, blacklisted from every club in town. Lesley, I’ll be ruined!” Laurel stamped her feet in good earnest.

  Lord Linden watched her angry perambulations serenely. He knew her well and could play her like an angler would a hooked carp. The carrot and the stick; he had used enough stick, now it was time for the carrot. He looked up at her. “Come here.” She stood still and regarded him hostilely. “Come here. Or do you want me to come to get you?” Misliking the look in his eyes, Miss Steele sullenly crossed to kneel by Lord Linden’s chair. She folded her arms, lay them across Linden’s knees and rested her chin on her wrists, looking angrily into his velvet eyes. Linden patted her forehead speculatively with one finger.

  “Laurel, will you keep her for a few days out of, er, affection for me?”

  “No!”

  “Will you do it if I buy you something?” he said, trying not to smile and only half succeeding.

  Laurel was avaricious to the very soul. She continued to pout, but a coy gleam entered her eyes that Lord Linden knew well. Silly, transparent jade, thought Linden. This is going to cost
me.

  “It would have to be diamonds at the very least,” purred Laurel.

  Linden grinned cheerfully. “Devil take it, Laurel. Do you think I’d sit and dicker with you like a damn bourgeois? You can have the crown jewels if you like, but mind, I don’t want the chit mistreated.”

  “Oh, la, mistreated, is it? Why this sudden spate of philanthropy? So unlike you, my sweet rogue.” Laurel reached up to run a finger gently over Lord Linden’s lips. She turned her face slightly to one side, letting her own lips graze his tantalizingly, and was pleased with the slow, sensual smile that darkened and tamed his opaque sable eyes.

  Linden began, one by one, to remove the pins that restrained Laurel’s elegant coiffure. His smile broadened and just for a moment, became heart-stoppingly boyish, though when he spoke, it was with his same cool derisive drawl. “I must be softening in my old age.”

  “Do you think so?” murmured Laurel. “I don’t remember you softening the last time you mistreated me…” And she raised her mouth invitingly.

  Chapter Seven

  It was an elegant room. The walls were hung in sculptured scarlet brocade ornamented with gilded girandole mirrors. The faded pastels of the seventeenth-century French tapestry which covered the far wall depicted the classical courtship of Zeus and Leda. A mammoth tent bed, however, was undoubtedly the piece de resistance of the bedroom. Miss Steele, now lying among the cool satin sheets, was wont to confide happily that she had spent more money on that bed than on any other single piece of furniture in her townhouse. Indeed, it was a gorgeous object. Flanked with satinwood columns inlaid with green laureling, mounted with bronze capitals and bases, its massive canopy dripped streaming layers of cranberry silk and supported a silver-veined mirror positioned directly over the bed. The mirror itself was festooned with hundreds of nodding ostrich plumes dyed to an overbrilliant gold. Gorgeous.