A Baron in Her Bed (18 page)

“Well, I don’t believe it to be right now.” He eased away a lock of her hair from her cheek. “I haven’t forgotten your odd notion of remaining a spinster.”

She stiffened. “Is it so odd?”

“’
Twould be a dry and
passionless
life. And
you
are not
passionless
,
Horatia
.
”

She huffed out a breath. “I shall meet great poets while in London. Aunt Emily expects Wordsworth to call again, Byron too, when he returns to England.” She knew she sounded half-hearted. Did the notion still have the power to thrill her?

“Byron again,” Guy muttered through tight lips. He tapped on the roof with his cane. “King Street please, John.”

“Right you are, my lord.”

Horatia felt rather flat. Her gaze drifted down as Guy adjusted his pantaloons. She was thrilled by her power to excite him, and her need to argue evaporated. Studying his serious profile, she placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Don’t you wish to make love to me?”

He gave a laugh, which became a half-growl, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I do. I definitely do.”

Thrilled, she said, “Then why can’t we…”

A firm light entered his eyes. “You will never be my mistress.”

“Oh.”

He turned to take her hands in his. “Would you make an exception for me, Horatia? Marry me when I am free to ask you?”

Horatia was so surprised she could hardly speak, and when she did, she sounded accusatory. “You’ve never said you love me.”

“How can I when I don’t know if I’ll live from one day to the next? As things stand, I have little to offer you. I cannot ask you now.”

“Oh, Guy. I’ll wait for you.” Her lips trembled into a smile. “If you do want me.”

“I do, Horatia. When I consulted the solicitor about the codicil to the will, I asked him to draw up the marriage settlement.”

She gave him a mock frown, unable to be angry at him for taking her for granted. “You assumed I’d say yes?”

He shrugged, looking disarmingly helpless. “Do you think I’d deliberately gull your father? I always intended to ask you. I hoped
‒
trusted I could persuade you. I sensed you cared for me. Is it true?”

“Oh, Guy, I love it that you are so honorable. I love you.”

“Do you?” He studied her mouth, his dark lashes shadowing his cheek. His eyes met hers. “Enough to give up your dreams of becoming a famous poet?”

She laughed and nodded.

He took her mouth in a scorching kiss then pulled away. “It might be best if we talk.”

Knowing the danger that stalked him gave her little peace. “You have made no inroads into discovering who was behind the attacks?”

“Strathairn is making enquiries.”

She remembered John’s steely gaze. “Lord Strathairn would be a good man to have on your side, I should think.”

“He made some useful connections during his years away at war,” Guy said. “You’re right, a better man at my back I couldn’t find.”

The carriage approached her aunt’s house. Guy tied up her gown and pulled her against his hard body. His lips found the sensitive skin below her ear. “I’ll see you as soon as I can,
ma douce
.”

Horatia smiled to herself as she swept inside the house, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses. Her aunt appeared on the stairs in her dressing gown and nightcap. “You gown is rumpled, and your hair is coming down. I hope you acted with decorum, Horatia.”

“Guy wants to marry me.” Horatia ran up the stairs and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I mean when he can ask me properly.”

“I expected he would,” Aunt Emily said with amusement.

Horatia reached the top step and whirled around. “You knew?”

“I did. That first day. When I saw how he looked at you.”

“It is indeed surprising that a baron should wish to marry a poor man’s daughter.”

“Poor? What are you saying? Your father is plumper in the pocket than he makes out, my dear.”

Horatia widened her eyes. “He is?”

“He’s close to what one might call a nabob since he made a good deal of money with the East India Company in India.”

“Father a nabob? I can’t believe it!”

“Nevertheless, it is true. The Cavendish family is a very old and important one, even if we do not hail from its upper echelons. You are quite sure your baron is wealthy?”

“His father lost his properties during the revolution and Guy’s estate, Rosecroft Hall, is in need of renovation. But I believe he has a considerable income.”

Aunt Emily scooped up the grey tabby at her feet and followed Horatia up the stairs. “It doesn’t matter, my dear. I’m quite sure he loves you for yourself alone.”

Horatia went to bed, but she was too excited to sleep. Guy must have funds to renovate the Hall. And Lady Kemble had it on good authority he was wealthy, although Horatia wasn’t entirely sure where she got that information. Lady Kemble relied heavily on gossip. Horatia refused to worry about such things. She didn’t care if Guy was as poor as a church mouse.

Chapter Twelve

When the hackney stopped outside Count Forney’s palatial home, Guy paid the jarvie and stepped up to rap on the brass knocker.

He presented his card to the butler.

“You are expected, my lord.”

Guy followed the butler to an impressive salon decorated in the extravagant Napoleonic style the prince regent had adopted at Carlton House. The furniture was a combination of oak, ebony, gilt, painted bronze and marble. The walls were papered in a chinoiserie pattern of birds. It was a showcase for a beautiful woman like the countess, perhaps, but far too ornate for Guy’s taste.

The count openly displayed his penchant for Napoleon, which in itself wasn’t a crime. The prince regent was known to have a deep respect for Napoleon also but had refused Napoleon’s invitation to meet with him when aboard the
Bellerophon
in Plymouth Sound. Guy suspected it was because Prinnie had never stepped onto a battlefield and felt he would not present well beside the famous general.

The count appeared not to be one of those French émigrés who had arrived with barely the shirt on their backs and found it hard to survive. They flocked together at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street where the Constitutional Monarch of France, Louis XVIII, had stayed in 1814.

A gilt-edged paneled door opened, and Count
Forney, a narrow-faced, swarthy Corsican appeared. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish.
“Bienvenue,
Baron Fortescue.
Je m’excuse pour vous avoir fait attendre.
”

“Not at all, Count. You wished to see me?”

“
Oui,
Baron
.” Forney waved Guy to a Louis Quinze chair.

The count’s clothes were more elaborate than most Englishmen wore, with lace at his cuffs and a waistcoat embroidered in a pattern of golden bees.

A touch of yellow in the depths of the count’s eyes lent him a wolfish air. “We are to speak in the English tongue?”

“We live in England now.”

“Ah, England, I prefer it in the autumn when the shadows in the wood grow long.” He paused and studied him. “May I offer you a fine French brandy?”

“
Oui, merci
.”

“A rumor has reached my ears that you were once a confidant of Napoleon, Lord Fortescue. Would that be true?”

Shocked, Guy narrowed his eyes. “
Non
! It is not true.”

The count poured liberal portions of brandy into two balloon glasses and placed them on the marble and gilt table. He sat opposite Guy, crossed his legs, and gave a tight-lipped smile. “How bizarre.”

Guy shifted in his chair. “Why is it so bizarre?”

The count swilled the golden liquid in his glass and put it to his lips. Guy, with growing uneasiness, left his untouched on the table. “I have it on good authority you were part of a group of men instrumental in Napoleon’s escape from Elba.”

Guy jumped up.
“Absurde!”

“You wish to deny it?”

“I do.”

The count banged his glass down on the table spilling its contents. Throwing back his chair, he strode to a pier table. He returned with a document he held out to Guy.

Guy took it and read the French words, which included his name and an accurate description of him, along with a detailed list of activities in which he never took part. According to the French he had committed treason and murder! His gut roiled in anger as he stared into the count’s strange eyes. “This is a lie!”

The count’s thin lips stretched into a contemptuous smile. “It is not I who wrote it. As you see, it comes from a very reliable source.”

Guy flicked the paper. “How did this fall into your hands?”

“I have not the least intention of telling you how I got it. I had hoped you’d be honest with me. After all, we are on the same side.”

Guy swallowed the bile rising to choke him. Like his father, he believed in the sacredness of the hereditary monarchial government and wished to see France restored to the monarchy. The revolution which began with the good intentions of idealists, ended with the death of hundreds of thousands of innocent people. And he had witnessed firsthand the awful consequences of Napoleon’s ambition. It still gave him nightmares. He read
The French Foreign Office
on the heading once more. “This can’t be genuine. It is false.”

“It describes you perfectly. See…” He pointed. “Baron Fortescue of Rosecroft Hall. Six foot two, black hair, blue eyes, born in Paris on …”

“There’s no need to continue, I can read.” Guy thrust the document at him. “But it’s a mistake, I tell you. I can’t understand how it came about. Who is behind this? Name this person.”

“That I cannot do.”

“You hand me that…bundle of lies and won’t tell me who accuses me?”

Count Forney adjusted his cuffs. “
Très bien
. I see that we have nothing more to discuss.” Reaching for the bell, he summoned a servant. He and Guy eyed each other without attempting further conversation until the liveried footman entered.

“Show the baron out.”

The countess hovered, a splash of vivid emerald in the grey marble entrance hall. It appeared she was adept at listening at keyholes. “I had hoped we might see more of you, Lord Fortescue. It seems you have chosen to put your past behind you.”

“I am not ashamed of my past, Countess Forney. You might examine your own more closely as well as your loyalty to the country you have made your home.” Guy bowed and put on his hat, noting the angry downturn of her mouth as the butler opened the door for him.

Was he to be accused of sedition? His name besmirched before he could produce the proof of his identity? It was outlandish. Rage and frustration twisted inside him as he stepped out into the road to search for a passing hackney carriage.

When he finally located one, he climbed in with grimace of distaste, for it smelled of stale sweat. But it was soon forgotten as he thought over what had just happened. Might he confide in Strathairn? Had the English government learned of this? He still wasn’t sure if it was purely coincidence that brought John to that laneway to save him from footpads when he first came to London. He needed time to think, to learn more of what lay behind it.

At Berkley Square the next day, Guy received a note from the constabulary at Bow Street. It advised him the man who attacked him was to appear before the magistrate on the morrow. Guy read the brief missive again, hoping he’d missed something, then crumpled it in his fist in frustration. Now that Forney had shown him the list it was even more imperative that he learn who was behind the attacks. Perhaps when up in front of the magistrate, the man might reveal the name of his assailant and he could begin to make sense of all that had happened to him since he came to England.

After a sleepless night, Guy had decided to confide in Strathairn. He waited in the library with great impatience for John to return from his morning ride. It was an impressive room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with musty leather tomes. John’s father had been a keen reader of the classics.

John was a different beast to his father, a strong vigorous man of action who preferred to drink, gamble and enjoy women rather than read. He strode into the library in riding clothes smelling of horse and threw himself down in one of the pair of oxblood leather chairs flanking the fireplace.

Guy wasted no time recalling his interview with the count.

John’s eyes lit with interest. He tapped his boot with his riding crop. “Did he reveal any more information? Any other names?”

“Nothing. He clammed up.”

“A slippery figure Forney is a known Bonapartist. He has been suspected of spying for Bonaparte during the war, but nothing was ever proven. Whitehall will be interested.”

“I’m anxious to get this sorted this out.”

John nodded. “You intend to visit Bow Street today?

“
Oui
.
Toute suite
,” Guy uttered.

“You have received a letter from your sister, have you not?”

Guy nodded. “She has decided to come to England.”

“Go to Bow Street,” John said. “I will visit Horse Guards. My old regiment, the Seventh Hussars may have heard a whisper or two.”

Despite his anguish, Guy had to laugh. It was common knowledge that the Horse Guards housed the Grenadier Guards who guarded the Royal family. The Commander in Chief, Frederick, the Duke of York was to be found there. The most powerful men in England would seek information there when they wished to learn of sub rosa activities. “I often wonder what you did during the war, John. Would you tell me if you had been one of Wellington’s spies?”