The Bargain of a Baroness Page 14

  “Not any longer, I won’t,” Henry groused.

  Understanding had Sophia allowing a long sigh. Her suspicions were confirmed when she noticed how Hannah stared at her, her eyes wide and her head jerking as if she were suffering some sort of tic. “Well, good. Because I have someone I wish for you to meet—”

  “Mother,” he scolded.

  Sophia exchanged quick glances with her husband before she said, “Come. I think it’s time you had a cup of tea with some brandy in it.” She turned her gaze onto Hannah. “Will you join us, too?”

  Noting the time on a nearby clock, Hannah shook her head. “I must go, Mother. I’ll barely have time to change for dinner as it is,” she said as she kissed her mother on the cheek and did the same to her father. She was about to kiss her brother on his cheek, but she hesitated, sure he was on the verge of tears. “Courage, Brother. I promise you. She is not married.”

  Before Henry had a chance to question her words, Hannah took her leave of her childhood home and stepped into the Mayfield coach, half-tempted to have the driver take her to Woodscastle. Even if Graham wasn’t there, at least his mother would tell her if he was expected in London any time soon.

  In the end, she had the driver take her to Harrington House. After all, if Graham Wellingham was back in London and if he intended to hold her to her bargain, wouldn’t he pay a call there?

  Chapter 20

  A Coach Ride Reveals Much

  Meanwhile, somewhere near Kensington

  As the Overby town coach rumbled over the cobbles on its way to Knightsbridge Road, its occupants were entirely unaware their departure had been witnessed by one Henry Simpson. Their conversation soon turned to include the bank clerk, however.

  “I’m very glad to know your family has grown even more and your parents are well,” Graham said, his gaze occasionally darting to the scenes beyond the coach windows as they made their way.

  “Did you even recognize my father when you saw him at Wellingham Imports?” Laura asked, relaxing into the squabs. Given her distant cousin’s size, she worried there might not be room in the coach for her legs and his, but they soon arranged themselves so they weren’t sitting directly across from one another. “He said you had not been in England for a very long time.”

  “About eighteen years,” Graham acknowledged. “But I would know your father even from a distance,” he claimed. “Other than a few gray hairs, he has not changed much at all.” He paused a moment. “Which has me wondering about my parents’ neighbors. Have you met the Simpsons?”

  Laura’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh, yes.” She sobered a bit. “Well, Lady Simpson, at least. She’s been joining me for tea in the afternoons whilst I paint your mother’s portraits.”

  “Is she well?”

  “Oh, very,” Laura assured him. “Other than pining for more grandchildren.”

  Graham stilled himself and tried not to stare at the young woman. “By way of... Henry, no doubt?” he guessed.

  Nodding, Laura said, “She is worried because he has not yet taken a wife.”

  Not entirely surprised by the comment—he had occasionally exchanged letters with Henry—Graham said, “There are those of us who must make our fortune before we consider matrimony.”

  Laura shook her head. “Lady Simpson claims he has always been able to afford to marry, but apparently he’s not even courting anyone. Did you know him well?”

  Graham had to resist the urge to let out a guffaw at the reference to Henry’s financial situation. He was quite sure Henry would have been able to afford a wife before he even completed university. “I did indeed, and not just because our parents’ townhouses are so close,” he replied. “He was always very amiable when we were in school,” he added, noticing that Laura seemed especially interested in his assessment of Henry.

  “I have seen him,” Laura said, not adding that she had done so by watching from the guest bedchamber window in the Wellingham’s townhouse as well as from the front parlor window. “But we’ve not been introduced.”

  Straightening in the squabs, Graham said, “I can introduce you.”

  Laura dipped her head. “I expect Lady Simpson will do so Monday morning. I’m due to begin a family portrait of the Simpsons at eight o’clock.”

  His head jerking at hearing her pronouncement, Graham stared at her. “The entire family?”

  She nodded. “The four of them, yes. I feared the time would be too early, but Mr. Simpson must not be late to the bank, so the early time is necessary.”

  “Eight o’clock in the morning?” Graham repeated, his eyes widening in disbelief.

  “Indeed. But Lady Simpson insisted, since there is light in the parlor at that time of the day. I, of course, wondered about Lady Harrington, but her ladyship assured me the baroness would be dressed and ready.”

  Graham held his breath at the mention of Hannah and then allowed a knowing grin. “She was always a bit of an early bird,” he murmured.

  “I’ve not yet met her,” Laura said. “But my mother insists she is amiable.”

  “As does her son.”

  Laura furrowed a brow as she regarded him. “You have met the Earl of Mayfield’s heir? But not been reacquainted with his mother?”

  Allowing a shrug, Graham said, “That about sums it up.”

  “You seem disappointed.”

  Graham inhaled. “I am. I...” He let out the breath and decided he could tell his cousin his intentions. “You see, I’ve returned to England to make her my wife.”

  Laura blinked. “Does she know that?”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Graham couldn’t help but chuckle. “She will.”

  “I rather imagine she’ll be attending all the entertainments now that she is out of mourning,” Laura said, remembering what Lady Simpson had told her.

  “I intend to be at every one of them,” Graham stated. “And given her son’s... intentions for me, I rather expect my invitations will begin arriving Monday.”

  “Intentions?” she questioned. “That sounds rather ominous, but your manner in which you said it would suggest it is not.”

  Graham grinned. “It seems Edward Harrington is my champion when it comes to his mother.”

  “Oh!” she replied in delight. “He wants you to marry his mother,” she murmured on a breath.

  “A situation I intend to exploit at my first opportunity to do so.”

  Laura seemed to think on his claim for a moment before she said, “Will you go to Harrington House?”

  He nodded. “I’ve been invited to dinner on Monday night,” he replied, barely able to contain his excitement.

  “She’ll be at the Simpson townhouse that very morning for the sitting,” she reminded him.

  “If I am back in town, I may arrange to pay a call. How long do you suppose she’ll be engaged in... in sitting?”

  Laura grinned at the query. “Only an hour every morning for a few days at least. Possibly a week or more. Mr. Simpson must depart for the bank no later than nine-oh-five every morning but Saturday, according to Lady Simpson.”

  “He must hold a position of some importance?” Graham half-asked.

  “He’s a clerk and will be promoted to head clerk upon the current head clerk’s retirement. In a fortnight, I believe is the schedule.”

  His eyes widening at hearing the news, Graham said, “Surely he will take a wife given his promotion. In social circles, he’ll no doubt be considered a real banker, which means...” He gave a huff.

  “What?”

  “When I was last in London, the ton included bankers and wealthy tradesmen in addition to the aristocracy,” he explained, “which means Henry’s status will be elevated. I do hope he’ll have time for the likes of me.”

  Laura’s gaze moved to the window, her expression pleasant but her lips pressed together as if she feared what she might say.

  Graham regarded her a moment before his eyes narrowed. “Are you betrothed?”

  “I am not,” s
he replied, almost too quickly.

  “But you wish to be.”

  Hiding her mouth with a gloved hand whilst she cleared her throat, Laura finally said, “It all depends, I suppose.”

  “On?” For a moment, she stared at him, and Graham realized his query was far too personal. “Forgive me. I... I forget myself,” he said on a sigh. “Forget where I am. In America, people are far too forward with their queries. Far too curious, but then, we were also far too free with our answers.”

  A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “I suppose it makes for less gossip if everyone knows everyone’s business.”

  “Oh, there’s still gossip,” Graham said with a grin.

  “Well, I hesitate to speak of betrothals given my avocation. I don’t wish to give it up, you see. The painting, I mean, and accepting commissions. But Father says there is no man who would allow me to continue my painting for profit after we are wed.”

  Graham frowned. “I rather doubt that is true,” he replied. “There must be an open-minded man somewhere here in England. Someone who would appreciate a woman who can help with the expenses, although I would be concerned should you end up with a man who doesn’t earn his own keep.”

  “If he’s not in London, I rather doubt I will meet him,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

  “True,” Graham agreed. “Still, I shouldn’t recommend you give up on marriage just yet. You’re still young. You’re biddable. Your uncle is an earl. When Trenton commissions a family portrait, you will find your prospects increasing ten-fold and suitors lining up to escort you to the park.”

  A blush suffused Laura’s face. “I appreciate your words. I do,” she replied.

  “But you already have someone in mind?”

  The pink blush deepened to a near scarlet, and Laura’s eyes once again darted to the window. “As I’ve said, I’ve not yet been introduced to him, so I cannot say—”

  “You would be perfect for Henry,” Graham said in a hoarse whisper. “At least, the Henry I knew before I left.” He gave his head a shake. “We have exchanged correspondence over the years, of course. I cannot say that he has changed much, other than he is more serious about the world than he was as a young man.”

  Laura leaned forward. “You mustn’t say anything to anyone,” she hissed.

  Graham blinked. “Even if I might persuade him to consider you, should he be so blind as to not have already noticed you?”

  Stilling herself on the bench, Laura held her breath a moment as she remembered the face that had watched her from a third story window. “I believe he has noticed me,” she countered with a frown.

  “How long have you been working on the paintings of my mother?”

  Laura furrowed a brow at hearing the change in subject. “Three weeks.”

  “So, you’ve been arriving in King Street...?”

  “Monday mornings. Usually by seven o’clock.”

  “And leaving?”

  “Much as I did today,” she said on a shrug. “Late afternoon on Saturdays.”

  A brilliant smile lit Graham’s face before he let out a guffaw. “Oh, he’s noticed you, mark my words.”

  “Really, Mr. Wellingham—”

  “I am Graham to you just as I am to the rest of your family,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I will not speak of you when I am reacquainted with Henry, but I would be happy to introduce you should the opportunity arise before Monday morning.”

  Laura stared at her distant cousin and finally allowed a nod. “Very well. But I rather doubt there will be such an opportunity. Your mother was quite clear that she and your father are to have you in their presence for the entire day tomorrow.”

  Graham winced, realizing there wouldn’t be an opportunity to see Hannah if his parents expected him to remain at Woodscastle for the entire day of Easter. “Well, then, I guess this means Lady Simpson will have to do the honors,” he replied with a hint of disappointment.

  For at that moment, Graham wanted to be present when Henry and Laura were formally introduced.

  Especially since Hannah would be there as well.

  Chapter 21

  An Identity Revealed

  Monday morning, seven o’clock, Simpson townhouse

  Henry was ready to ignore the sound of the coach coming to a halt on the street in front of the Simpson townhouse. Given the time, he had already decided it was the same coach that had departed only the Saturday before, its passengers the curly-haired woman from the Wellingham household along with her protector.

  Her husband, he thought, given the tall man’s consideration for the young woman. Then he remembered his sister’s comment.

  I promise. She is not married.

  Hannah hadn’t had a chance to explain what she knew.

  Curiosity prevailed, and Henry moved to the window to peer out.

  The coach was indeed familiar, as was the driver, who stepped down and then escorted the young lady to the door. He handed her a valise, and she disappeared behind the red door.

  Allowing a sound of dismissal, Henry was startled when he turned to find his valet, Hopkins, regarding him from the threshold of the bedchamber.

  “Morning, sir. I hope I am not too early.”

  “Just in time,” Henry replied as he indicated a folded strip of silk. Although he usually wore a linen cravat to the bank, he had decided he best don a silk cravat to pose for the painting.

  “Did you have a good Easter, sir?”

  Henry inhaled, not about to admit he had been in a blue mood for the entire day. His heart felt as if someone had torn it out of his chest and stomped on it. He had spent the entire night before chiding himself.

  How could he have such a reaction when he hadn’t even met the woman who had haunted his dreams?

  In the middle of the night, he had taken his member in hand, determined it would be the last time he would do so. All the while, he imagined her beneath him, writhing with pleasure as his lips took purchase on one of her nipples and suckled them until her quiet mewls and soft gasps summoned his ecstasy.

  His release had been so welcome and yet so heartbreaking, for when he had awakened expecting her to still be beneath him, he found only mussed bed linens and a pillow.

  How would he forget her? What could he do to put her from his mind?

  His first thoughts on this morning had to do with finding a mistress. Well past the age he should have married, Henry’s devotion to his parents had kept him from leaving and setting up a household in a townhouse he already owned. Had kept him from courting. Had even kept him from dalliances that would have at least seen to his baser needs.

  He had half a mind to ask his valet if he had a mistress. The man might be married for all he knew.

  Remembering Hopkins’ query, he finally answered, “It was much like any other Easter. And yours?”

  “Very good, sir. My mother was in fine form at church.”

  “As was mine, and my sister,” Henry murmured, remembering how elegant the women had dressed for the Easter service at St. George’s. How their hats, festooned with silk flowers, had brightened an otherwise gray day. “Today will be different from most Mondays, however. An artist is coming to paint our family portrait. An effort I expect will take several days. Weeks, perhaps.” The words came out sounding as cross as he felt. “I don’t suppose Lady Harrington has arrived yet?”

  “Lady Harrington is in the breakfast parlor with Lady Simpson,” Hopkins replied as he moved to the bathing chamber.

  Henry gave a start before he remembered that Hannah had elected to spend the night at the Simpson townhouse rather than at Harrington House.

  Her lady’s maid and a rather tall Mayfield footman had arrived the afternoon before bearing a trunk and a valise. The maid took up residence in the same servant’s quarters she had occupied before Hannah married while the footman returned to Harrington House.

  “Well, I suppose I should not keep them waiting,” Henry said as he wondered how he had missed his sister’s arrival
the night before. Except for the cravat and a top coat, he had already dressed for the day, but he was in desperate need of a shave.

  Hopkins mixed shaving cream and, sensing Henry’s impatience, saw to applying it without delay. His strokes with the straight razor were quick and practiced.

  “Tell me, Hopkins. Have you had the occasion to meet the young woman who has been working for the Wellinghams this past few weeks?” Henry asked as he absently watched his valet’s skill with the razor in the looking glass.

  “Are you referring to Mrs. Larsen?” Hopkins asked, expertly directing the razor along Henry’s jawline.

  “No. The younger woman.”

  Hopkins stepped back and regarded Henry with furrowed brows. “Mrs. Larsen is the only servant they employ at their townhouse, sir.”

  “Perhaps she’s a lady’s maid?” Henry suggested. “The young woman who leaves every Saturday afternoon and returns early on Monday mornings.”

  Hopkins gave him a blank look. “I’ve not met anyone but Mrs. Larsen and her husband, the groom,” he said, removing a hot towel from a rack over the bathtub. He placed it around Henry’s face, using the ends to wipe away the leftover shaving cream.

  For a moment, Henry reveled in the heat from the bath linen. Perhaps the steam would erase the memory of the woman from his brain. But now that he was imagining what she might look like with a sheen of perspiration covering her body after a particularly spirited round of lovemaking, he found his mind replaying what he had dreamt about only the night before.

  How ever would he erase that memory?

  When Hopkins removed the towel, Henry blinked. His father stood to the side, regarding his son’s reflection in the mirror with a furtive expression. “Father?”

  “Don’t mind me, son. I just wanted to be sure you didn’t have a mind to sneak down the back stairs and escape to the bank.”

  Henry gave his father a quelling glance. “I will admit the idea has crossed my mind,” he replied. “And yours?” he guessed.