Not an Ordinary Baronet

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “No, I haven’t heard of such a fellow,” said the duke. “But I will keep my ear to the ground.” Catherine was impressed with Sir Bertie’s easy conversation with the duke and his wife. They appeared to be more than mere acquaintances. “You’ve talked to the Home Office?” the duke asked.

  “Yes. Cumberwell appears to be the man there.” His gray eyes switched to her with a silent appeal. He clearly wanted her to know that if it had been up to him, he would have sought advice from someone else.

  So that explains why he went to see Cumberwell. They are not particular friends. I do not think I could have borne it if they were.

  She longed for private conversation with Sir Bertie to tell him that she would far rather have him watching over her than Lord William Cumberwell. But perhaps he would think that too forward of her.

  The Wellinghams joined them, and Catherine remembered again that the duchess was cousin to Lady Wellingham. They became involved on the subject of modern literature, and soon the dinner gong sounded.

  Dear Lady Clarice had seated her next to Sir Bertie on one side and Lord Wellingham on the other. In an under voice, she asked the former, “Is it safe for me to ask you about your Egyptology studies here, or would it ruin your reputation?”

  He laughed heartily. “I have nothing to hide from these people.”

  “Have you made any progress on interpreting the Rosetta Stone?”

  “Not other than interpreting the Greek for myself. Several other scholars have already done that, but I wanted to get the feel for it myself. It is a fairly boring declaration.”

  “But its presence in Egypt does tell you that they must have had trade or some kind of relationship with the Greeks at that time.”

  “Yes, you are correct.”

  “Are you in town for long?” she asked. “Or are you anxious to get back to your studies?”

  A shadow passed over his face. “I do not wish to leave town until the devil who assaulted you is caught.”

  Catherine caught her breath and almost choked. “How is my safety your concern, Sir Bertie? We scarcely know each other.”

  He turned to look her full in the face. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I have made it my concern.”

  His eyes held hers captive, and she read his worry for her. It softened her heart. “You cannot spend your every minute watching out for me. I have decided today that I will go home to Somerset for the remainder of the winter. The duchess can certainly take over my readings for a time.” She realized she had made that decision unknowingly as soon as she knew Lord William now had an excuse to pester her.

  Sir Bertie looked relieved. “I think that is a very wise move. Will your brother agree to escort you there?”

  Catherine thought fast. “I shall write to my father, and he will send the carriage for me, along with several armed footmen and my old nurse, Pansy, as chaperone.”

  “I would that I could take you, but I am afraid that would be frowned upon by the ton.”

  Their eyes were still locked, and she had become breathless. “Such a bother, the ton.”

  Her feelings were growing so intense, Catherine was certain her cheeks were flushed. She looked down and then spoke to Lord Wellingham on her other side, telling him of her plans to be in Somerset.

  “I should like to call on you and Lady Wellingham there. When do you plan to return home?”

  “My business is finished up next week. Then we will travel down and remain until the spring. Lady Wellingham and I would love for you to call on us.”

  Lady Wellingham had made an agreeable impression on Catherine. And though she longed for the safety of Somerset, she knew she would miss Sir Bertie’s company mightily.

  Soon the ladies rose, leaving the gentlemen to their port. As they walked into the drawing room, she said to the duchess, “Your performance on Wednesday night was masterful. I enjoy Beethoven exceedingly.”

  “Oh, thank you. I do adore Beethoven. I always hope I am not murdering his works.”

  They sat together on the sofa, discussing music. Catherine found that they were both opera devotees, favoring the works of Mozart.

  Soon the men began to enter the room, not having stayed long over their port. Sir Bertie and the duke joined them. Before either of them could speak, Catherine said, “I long to hear you play again, Duchess.”

  “My aunt has told me I am the entertainment tonight,” the lady said with a short laugh. “You shall get your wish.”

  She rose from the sofa and went to the pianoforte, her husband following, presumably to turn her pages. Sir Bertie took the place beside Catherine.

  “Are you quite determined to go to Somerset, then?” he asked.

  “I will not stay and deal with Lord William,” said Catherine. “There is nothing I know that will aid him.”

  Sir Bertie frowned. “I only hope you will be safe in Somerset.”

  She tried to shake off her misgivings on the subject. There had to be someplace she was safe. Her brother would be happy enough to have her away from Sir Bertie, but she had to admit to herself that she would miss him. No matter what the circumstances, he felt so safe. Catherine looked at his broad chest and well-muscled arms. If he could just hold her . . . She let the thought trail off unfinished. She was being a goose.

  But she could not alter the fact that his close presence and concern warmed her through. Halfway through the performance, she gave in to the impulse to steal his hand from his knee and hold it under the cover of her skirts. Though her action was not at all the done thing, his very touch, even through her gloves, thrilled her through.

  Sir Bertie looked at her, a question in his eyes. She merely smiled. When the music ended, she let go his hand and, during the applause, said, “I know it is scandalous, but I shall write to you. After all, we have already begun a correspondence.”

  His face had lost its gloomy look, and his eyes gleamed. “If you leave London, I shall go to Oxfordshire,” he said. “Heyford Abbey in Lower Heyford is my home.”

  A thought occurred to her, and before she could stop herself, she asked, “Did you come to London to watch over me, then?”

  He smiled, his dimples making him look a bit rakish. “Of course.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bertie arrived at Heyford Abbey with a sense of relief. Though he had enjoyed his time with Lady Catherine, home was his preferred place in the winter months. This season had been colder than most, and a layer of snow covered the gentle hills. As he rode up the drive to the house, he was struck by the fact that, though it could probably not compare in any way with Westbury Castle, it was his home, and he loved it. The original abbey was only a ruin now, but his great-grandfather, Sir George Backman, had built a Palladian-style mansion out of Cotswold stone from the abbey. It had an abundance of windows.

  At the sound of the Hermes’s hooves, Bertie’s ten-year-old niece, Marguerite, ran out the front door to greet him, along with his golden retrievers, Sally and Sam. He leaned down, and Gweet jumped, enabling him to pull her up and set her before him on the saddle.

  “Gweet! You little minx! I swear you have grown a furlong!”

  Giggling happily, she said, “You have been gone ever such a long time, Uncle Bertie! Mama said you were in London.”

  “Yes, and I have brought you a gift.”

  “Oh! May I see?”

  “You must wait till we get to the stable. It is in my saddlebag.”

  Gweet was entranced by the porcelain-faced doll with the white lace dress. “Oh, Uncle Bertie, she is beautiful. I must run and show Warrie!” With no further use for her uncle, she ran off to find her beloved twin.

  Bertie was greeted warmly by his dogs. Sally already had her stick, which he cheerfully threw out into the stable yard. As the dog chased it, Bertie’s sister, Marianne, walked out to meet him in the stables.

  “Oh, Bertie, whatever took you to London at this time of year? We have all missed you badly.”

  “It was an obligation. But now I am fixed here for the re
st of the winter.” Out of his saddlebag, he produced a brocade pouch.

  His sister opened it eagerly, pulling out a string of white jade beads. “Oh! So lovely, Bertie. I guess I can forgive you for going to London.”

  Pulling out another paper parcel for Warrie, he accompanied his sister to the house and through the kitchen quarters, where he greeted Mrs. Merryweather, his cook, who said, “You go settle by the fire in your sitting room, sir, and I’ll be bringing you your tea. Cold through, you must be. I just happen to have made your favorite lemon biscuits. Get on with you now, out of my kitchen.”

  Because he had known the cook since he was a child, he knew not to take offense at her informal address. “Tea sounds just right,” he said.

  Warrie and Gweet were clambering down the main staircase into the hall.

  “Welcome home, sir,” said Warrie. “We have missed you.”

  Since his father’s death of typhoid in Africa the year before, Warrie had been a formal, withdrawn child, unlike his twin.

  “I’m sorry,” Bertie said. “I brought you something for your collection.”

  The boy’s eyes lit as he handed him the paper parcel. Taking it upstairs to their afternoon sitting room, he sat down before the fire. Only then did he open it. Inside were a dozen lead soldiers in uniforms of the light cavalry, together with their horses.

  “Oh, Uncle Bertie! These are as cunning as can be. Thank you.” Shedding his sober demeanor, he said to his twin, “Let’s go up to the nursery and lay out a battle!”

  In a few moments, they were gone, leaving him to enjoy a quiet tea with Marianne. She had little news to report. One of the tenants had given birth to her fifth child, a boy. The squire’s daughter was engaged to be married. Old Mrs. Thomas was said to be close to drawing her last breath. Birth, marriage, death—the usual triumvirate of village life.

  “How are the Strangewayses and the Wellinghams?” she asked.

  “All well. They send their best, of course. The Strangewayses are settled in Kent till the Season begins. Wellinghams are gone to Somerset for a few weeks.”

  “What was your business in London?”

  “Trying to catch some smugglers who do their business in Lord Ogletree’s neighborhood in Dorset. We followed them to London. No luck. The Home Office is pursuing the investigation.”

  Of course, Marianne had to hear the tale of the Gentleman Smuggler, but he left out any specific reference to Lady Catherine. After all, the association was bound to go nowhere due to their difference in social status and her brother’s disapproval. The thought had troubled him all the way from London. After the intimacy of holding her hand in Lady Clarice’s drawing room, he did not know exactly where he stood with the lady. All he knew for certain was that he was going to miss her more than he could say.

  After tea, Bertie adjourned to his library, where his post awaited. To his surprise, he found a letter from Lady Catherine.

  Westbury Castle

  Somerset

  Dear Sir Bertie,

  We did not encounter any highwaymen along the road to Somerset, so fortunately the footmen were not called upon to defend my life and honor. That was a good thing, because they are very old. My brother should have accompanied me, of course, but he would not leave his beloved Prince.

  My father was very glad to see me. We have been pottering about together in the succession houses, where he is trying to grow a new strain of wheat. You would like my papa, I think. He is very clearheaded, despite his age, and always has a new project. I do not think he has ever suffered ennui in his life.

  I have decided not to tell him about the smugglers, as I do not want him fretting. I had enough to deal with before leaving London. Lord William Cumberwell called on me again. He was overly solicitous. I would not have him concerned about me; I would just have him leave me alone.

  Papa has decided we must have a winter ball in celebration of my being home. This will keep me busy in the next three weeks, which is, I think, what he had in mind. There is quite a bit of gentry about. I shall invite the Wellinghams, which shall give me pleasure.

  I hope you found all well upon your return home. It was excessively kind of you to go to London on my behalf. I imagine your family missed your company. When you write back, you must tell me about them.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Lady C.

  The letter gave him a great deal of satisfaction but further confused him. Would a well-bred young lady write such an informal missive to someone she didn’t care about?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catherine was very glad she had the winter ball to prepare for and look forward to, because life was not terribly lively in Somerset. She settled into a routine quickly, helping her father with his year-round efforts in the succession houses in the morning, doing the flowers, calling on neighbors, and writing letters and invitations in the afternoon.

  Very glad to be home, Catherine felt safe and secure. She preferred Westbury Castle to their house in Town because she had her own wing. Since her mother had died when she was four, she had grown up with a series of nurses and governesses. Her wing of the house was a soft yellow throughout and contained not only her bedroom, dressing room, and private sitting room, but also her own small library with books she had inherited from her mother. It always gave her a great feeling of satisfaction to read and reread the books her mother had cherished.

  In addition to these things, she preferred the castle because that was where her father lived. He seldom came to Town and almost never went into Dorset.

  His succession houses were renowned throughout the kingdom. Catherine loved working there with him. He grew many varieties of citrus, which thrived in the winter months, as well as green vegetables, orchids, and forced bulbs, so they had continual floral bounty.

  To her father, she had always been a companion, and that was the role with which she continued to feel comfortable.

  “Katie, hand me that small trowel, if you would,” he said as they worked side by side in the experimental house. “I am going to transplant these seedlings into that box I have prepared. Don’t want to upset their roots.”

  “Is this your new strain?” she asked.

  “Yes. I am hoping that it will withstand drought better than any of the types of wheat we have now.”

  He worked painstakingly as she stood, watching.

  “So tell me about London. Any new young men about?”

  “No one Robert considers ‘suitable,’ as I am certain he has told you.”

  “He writes that you have been spending time with a baronet. Tell me about the man, Katie.”

  “A Corinthian, you would say, but with a scholarly bent. Well turned out, athletic. I understand his judgment of horseflesh is not to be questioned.”

  Her father paused and looked at her with his still-sharp green eyes. “You sound like you are putting him up for club membership. What is he really like?”

  “I suspect Robert does not like him partially because of his politics. He has Whig sympathies. Robert does not approve of my working to better the lives of the poor, but Sir Bertie has actually been escorting me to the East End for my charity work. He has also taken me to the British Museum to see the Egyptian antiquities. He is very knowledgeable about them. Have you ever seen the Rosetta Stone, Father?”

  “No. Something I mean to do if I am ever in London. You have not mentioned your work in the East End in your letters.”

  “I have just begun.” She told him about Lady Clarice and Miss B.’s literacy program. “The Duchess of Ruisdell is going to take over the readings for me, now that I have come down here.”

  “That sounds worthwhile. I have always had a soft spot for your Miss B., as you call her. In my day, she was being courted by the Duke of Devonshire. He gave her a monstrous tortoise.”

  “Henry Five. Yes, we are well acquainted.”

  She listened to stories of Miss B. when she was younger and had the Town at her feet. Highly amused, Catherine did not realize until muc
h later that her father had not offered an opinion on her associating with a baronet.

  Missing Sir Bertie more than she would have admitted, she called on his friend Lady Wellingham the first week after she arrived home. Somerset Vale proved to be an interesting sight—a well-maintained Tudor house set on a hill overlooking a small lake, which was iced over at present.

  Lady Wellingham was pleased to see her. “Lady Catherine! How kind of you to call. I do not know many of my neighbors as yet, but I believe you live some little distance away.”

  “Only seven miles. A nice morning’s ride. Your estate is quite lovely.”

  “Thank you. As I told you in London, it provides endless opportunities for sketching.”

  “What a wonderful talent to have,” Catherine said. “You must be very clever.”

  “Not particularly clever, just persistent. I sketch only for my own amusement. I am hopeless with a needle, I am finding. I am trying to monogram my linens, but they look like I have been dueling with them instead!”

  Catherine laughed. “I wanted to see you again, but I also came to invite you to the ball my father and I are giving two weeks from Saturday next. It won’t be terribly large, probably only about fifty people or so, but it will give you a chance to meet some more of your neighbors.”

  Lady Wellingham smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I love a ball! And I shall look forward to seeing Westbury Castle. The few neighbors I do know say that it is quite the finest home in all of the West Country.”

  Catherine demurred. “Not quite as fabulous as some others, but I do love it. And I shall look forward to introducing you to my father.”

  “Will Sir Bertie be coming down from Oxfordshire?” her hostess asked.

  The question gave Catherine pause. She had never thought of inviting him, seeing as there was several days’ distance separating them. Catherine said as much to Lady Wellingham.

  “Yes, it is a shame he lives so far away. Between us, I believe him to be quite fond of you. I do not mean to embarrass you, but in the time we have been acquainted, I have never known him to care two straws for another female.”