The Bargain of a Baroness Page 2

  “Would you like me to find out for you?”

  The enthusiasm in her query had him immediately shaking his head. “No,” he had replied before he quickly turned the conversation to the upcoming theatre season offerings.

  Now he wished he had expressed more interest.

  Then he thought of what he feared she might be.

  A housemaid.

  He wasn’t sure why a housemaid seemed unacceptable. His father had been in service at one time. He had been a butler—the head butler of the large estate home of Merriweather Manor near Chiswick.

  That had been long before Henry was born, though. Long before his parents were known as reputable landlords of a string of townhouses in King Street.

  Long after his widowed mother’s disappearance from Merriweather Manor had set the ton’s tongues to wagging as to what might have happened to her.

  No one would have guessed Sophia, Lady Grandby, youngest daughter of a duke and aunt to the current Duke of Ariley, had married the butler.

  Sometimes love made for some hard choices. And sometime it resulted in the best decisions.

  If the comely young woman was indeed a housemaid, Henry decided he could at least give her the benefit of a doubt. Discover more about her.

  Who knew? She could already be married.

  But he doubted it.

  As he nodded off to sleep, his mind filled with images of her naked body tucked against him, Henry vowed he would discover who she was.

  And whoever she was, he vowed he would not be too disappointed.

  Chapter 2

  Preparing to Paint

  Meanwhile, across the street at 3 King Street

  The sensation of being watched was so powerful, Miss Laura Overby nearly glanced over her shoulder as she let herself into the Wellingham residence.

  It wasn’t the first time she had sensed someone watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled only the Saturday before when she was leaving the Wellingham residence to return to her parents’ townhouse. Then there was the Monday prior when the sky was still gray at the time of her arrival in King Street.

  On that particular morn, she had spotted a young boy in front of a nearby townhouse. Still dressed in his sleeping gown, he had no doubt escaped the nursery and hadn’t yet been missed by his nursemaid. He stared at her as if he thought she might thwart his attempt to run away. Even before she was past the Wellingham’s threshold, though, a servant captured the urchin and returned him to the residence.

  Laura grinned at the memory, but a quick glance at that particular townhouse proved the boy hadn’t repeated his attempt at an escape.

  She allowed her gaze to sweep up and down the side of the street, acting as if she might be looking for the source of a particular sound, but there was no one nearby.

  Laura knew it wasn’t the driver of the Overby coach. He had already bounded up onto the box and was about to set the horses in motion. Horses she had just calmed with some apples she had pilfered from the pantry at her parents’ townhouse in Curzon Street.

  So that left the other side of the street, including the window to which she had directed her attention ever so briefly just a few moments ago.

  Lifting her valise and pausing a moment on the threshold to once again glance up and down King Street, Laura was struck by how little traffic there was on a street that had at one time been far busier. The addition of nearby Regency Street had relieved the congestion on King as well as replaced the part of King that had at one time connected its northernmost end directly to Oxford Street.

  Seeing only a few passersby, none of whom seemed the least bit interested in her, Laura was closing the door when she once again caught sight of the face in a third-story window across the street. Pretending not to notice, she continued to shut the door until she heard the latch click into place. Then she hurried into the front salon and peeked around the closed drapes just in time to see the face move in the window.

  Move and then disappear.

  A rather handsome face, she thought. Angular in a strong sort of way, with high cheekbones. Although she couldn’t make out his eyes from her brief glance, she knew his head was topped with light-colored hair.

  Perhaps he was the husband she had learned about from the lady of that house. If so, he appeared on the younger side, but then Laura hadn’t yet learned the woman’s age. Lady Simpson had the good fortune of possessing ageless beauty. She could have been forty or eighty years of age for all Laura knew.

  “Is something the matter?”

  Laura whirled around to discover Emma Fitzsimmons Wellingham regarding her from the salon’s doorway. The subject of her current painting, Emma was resplendent in a teal dinner gown, her hair caught up in a simple but elegant bun atop her head. “No, ma’am. I was checking on the morning light,” she replied as she dipped a curtsy. “In a few minutes, there should be enough of it.”

  “I so appreciate you coming this early on a Monday morn,” Emma said as she moved to the fireplace. “Mrs. Larsen will bring tea in a few minutes. I trust you had a good visit with your family yesterday?”

  “I did. Thank you for asking.”

  “How is the baby?”

  Laura allowed a smile as she moved to the valise and opened it. “Todd is not so little any longer,” she replied, referring to her youngest brother. “He’s just started walking. Emily is excited for her come-out this week, and Stephen and William have a new tutor, although Father believes he might hire another given the difference in my brothers’ ages.”

  “I’m surprised Mr. Overby hasn’t sent your oldest brother to Eton,” Emma remarked. William Overby Sr. was one of Wellingham Imports’ most valued employees, a broker for imported goods from the Far East.

  William had begun his tenure as a caddy to her husband when he was still a street urchin. Upon the death of his mother, the warehouse manager, Stephen Bingham, had adopted William and his sister, Kate, and had raised them as his own.

  Given such humble beginnings and his status as a commoner, it was a surprise when Lady Lily, the illegitimate sister of the Earl of Trenton, chose William to be her husband. But she had at one time been a housemaid and then a lady’s maid to Emma’s half-sister, Samantha.

  “I know he has considered sending him off to school,” Laura said, pulling several tubes of paint from a satchel, “but I think Mother would miss him too much. She might be an earl’s sister, but I think she favors the life of a commoner. For all of us.”

  For a moment, Emma considered the comment. Lady Lily could have chosen a life of privilege. A husband who was an aristocrat—she’d had at least four suitors besides William who were—but instead she had set her cap on William.

  That had been over twenty years ago. Their children’s births had been spread out over that time. Laura was the oldest followed by her sister, Emily.

  “Besides, Mother has heard too many stories of what the boys do to get into trouble at Eton,” Laura went on as she pulled several brushes from the valise. “But I think she’ll be glad when he goes to university. Less chaos in the house.”

  “Todd will be three by then,” Emma said, her eyes twinkling in delight. She remembered very well how her only child, Graham, had behaved at that age.

  “If you’re implying there will be more chaos, then you catch her meaning perfectly,” Laura said with a giggle. “Father has offered to hire a nursemaid with every birth, but Mother insists on seeing to the babes herself.”

  “So... you don’t miss living there when you’re staying here?” Emma asked carefully.

  A blush colored Laura’s face. “Would you think me a terrible person if I said I do not?”

  Emma allowed a chuckle. “I was an only child, so I am not familiar with having brothers and sisters,” she replied. “I do wish I had grown up with my half-sister, though.” Her gaze went to a painting of a Yorkshire landscape on the wall above the settee. “Samantha, my half-sister, painted that during the first year of her marriage to Ethan, Marquess of Plymouth,�
�� she explained. She didn’t add that it had been the same year Samantha learned Emma was her sister. Emma had known far longer, but only because she had discovered letters her late father had received from Samantha’s mother, Caroline, Viscountess Chamberlain.

  “I wondered if it was a Fitzsimmons,” Laura said in awe, her attention going to the painting of a castle on the moors near the sea. “My mother has a Fitzsimmons in her salon. It was a gift from her brother,” she added, referring to the Earl of Trenton. “I’ve heard there are others here in London.”

  “I have one in my office,” Emma said as her brow quirked. “It was painted during the spring, and the greens depicted in the pasture are exactly as they appear in Derbyshire during that time of the year.” She paused as she watched Laura strip a Dutch cloth from a canvas that was mounted on a wooden easel. “Have you given a thought to painting landscapes?”

  Laura shook her head. “I have not, but that is only because I have lived here in London my entire life. I hardly think the squares can be considered landscapes. Perhaps I will find a good landscape should I ever travel outside of London.”

  “I rather imagine you would be as skilled at landscapes as you are at portraits,” Emma replied, her gaze going to the back of the canvas. Although she could have peeked at what lay beneath the Dutch cloth at any time the day before, she had resisted the urge, deciding to wait until she was invited to do so by the artist. “Let me know when you’d like me to resume my pose.”

  “I’ll be but a minute,” Laura replied as she turned to regard the canvas on the easel. The painting, very close to completion, displayed Emma as a well-to-do gentlewoman. Dressed in an elegant dinner gown of deep teal and accessorized with jewels that included aquamarines and sapphires at her ears, around her neck and one wrist, a quick glance would have the viewer believing Emma was an aristocrat.

  Given her relationship to so many, it was an easy assumption to make. Her late father’s brother was Viscount Chamberlain, the head of the Foreign Office. His cousin, Temperance, was the Countess of Mayfield. Emma’s half-sister, Samantha, was the Marchioness of Plymouth. And Emma was married to Thomas Wellingham, whose cousin, Gabriel, was the Earl of Trenton.

  For the last few weeks, Emma had been sitting—or standing, rather—for a portrait her husband had insisted on having painted. “For my office,” he had explained. “So I can look at you whenever I wish.”

  “My office is directly behind yours,” she had argued, thinking his reason a folly. Reminded he was far too inundated with paperwork to rise from his desk and make his way to hers, Emma had acquiesced and arranged for Laura to do the painting along with another to be kept secret from Thomas.

  Laura had agreed with the proviso that she be allowed to live with the Wellinghams—except on Sundays—until such time as the paintings were complete.

  Emma was happy to grant Laura the use of the guest bedchamber and have her join Thomas and she at the dinner table every evening. Their London home had grown far too quiet over the intervening years since their son’s departure for Boston, and they rarely made the trip to Chiswick to spend time at Woodscastle.

  Moving to the window, Emma opened the drapes and arranged the gathers in the sheers that covered the glass until they were even. As she did so, she noticed a face in a window across the street. Recognizing Henry Simpson, she gave a wave and grinned when he acknowledged her with a salute.

  “Mr. Simpson is certainly up early this morning,” she remarked as she made her way to where she had stood for an hour every day for the past fortnight.

  “Mr. Simpson?” Laura repeated. “Do you mean Lady Simpson’s husband?”

  Emma grinned. “Her son, actually. He’s a clerk at the Bank of England. I noticed him in a window across the street,” she explained. “Probably his bedchamber window given its height.”

  Laura’s eyes widened, and she wondered if he had been the one watching her. “Lady Simpson has been ever so kind to share her tea with me,” she said as she carefully moved the easel closer to the window and angled it so the filtered light illuminated it.

  As if her words were a cue, Mrs. Larsen, the housekeeper, appeared at the door carrying the tea tray.

  “Oh, please do the honors, Mrs. Larsen. We’re just getting started,” Emma said from where she stood in front of the fireplace.

  The housekeeper dipped a curtsy and went about preparing the cups of tea. She placed one on the table next to Emma and gave the other to a grateful Laura before she took her leave.

  Laura drank deeply before she set aside the cup. A surreptitious glance out the window confirmed she could see the first two stories of windows across the street, which meant she could be seen from them.

  The thought had her wondering if Lady Simpson’s son was watching. Could he see her through the sheers as she mixed paints into a flesh color? Watch as she began applying them to the part of the painting where one of Emma’s hands was resting on a plinth? There was no plinth in the parlor, but Laura had fashioned one from a stack of books on a side table. Behind her subject, the fireplace was acting as the edge of a Greek temple.

  Had his mother made mention of her to him?

  “I’m so happy you and Lady Simpson met. I should have introduced you the first week you were here.”

  “I was happy to make her acquaintance,” Laura replied. “I think she is lonely in that large townhouse,” she added, not taking her attention from the canvas.

  “She’d like another grandchild or two,” Emma remarked.

  Laura paused her brush mid-stroke. “Doesn’t she already have... eleven, I think she said?”

  Emma tittered. “Indeed, but she has only the one by way of her daughter, Hannah, and now that Lady Harrington is widowed, I suppose Lady Simpson thinks it’s time her son marry.”

  “Past time,” Laura confirmed as she continued her work on Emma’s fingers. “Apparently he hasn’t courted anyone, but he grows longer in the tooth every day.”

  “I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t taken a wife,” Emma murmured. “When he was a young buck, the young ladies flocked to him at balls and such. He was so amiable.”

  “And handsome,” Laura put in. She cleared her throat. “At least, according to his mother.” The face she had seen in the window had to have been him, she decided.

  Once again, Emma struggled to keep from laughing. “He was handsome. He’s still handsome, and given how his father has managed to remain so despite his age, I rather expect Henry will keep his handsome appearance as well.”

  “So his mother does not exaggerate?” Laura murmured, changing brushes.

  “She does not,” Emma replied. After a pause, she asked, “Has she offered to introduce you?”

  Laura paused in mid-stroke. “Pardon?”

  “Has she offered to introduce you to her son?” Emma clarified.

  Resuming her work, Laura considered how to respond. “She has not. But I rather imagine she wants him wed to the daughter of a peer.”

  Emma frowned. “I’ve never had that impression from her,” she argued.

  Pausing her work again, Laura glanced back out the window, almost letting out a yelp when she realized Henry was watching her.

  Dressed in a fashionable great coat and having just donned a top hat, he disappeared from view when a town coach pulled up and stopped. Before it continued down the street, she was sure he was gazing at her out the coach window.

  A frisson passed through her entire body, for the way he stared at her was most disconcerting. Most disarming. Alarming, really.

  For she had seen that look in her father’s eyes every time he returned from Wellingham Imports and took her mother’s hand in hers to kiss it. Every time he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Every time he rose from the dinner table and suggested it was time for bed.

  Laura was old enough to know what such a look meant. In the case of her father, it was most certainly love, for he professed it every morning and every night to her mother, even when all the children were p
resent.

  But she knew there was more to it.

  Lust.

  Even before she had formed the thought in her head, her nipples tightened and a blush covered her face. She inhaled sharply and held the breath a moment.

  “Laura?”

  She gave a start, careful to pull the brush away from the canvas lest she make an errant stroke. “Yes?”

  A slow smile spread over Emma’s face. “It was him, was it not?”

  Realizing she’d been caught staring out the window, Laura gave a slight shrug. “I... I really can’t say. Just someone getting into a coach.” She resumed her work, humming softly.

  Emma’s smile settled into a grin of satisfaction, but she said nothing.

  Chapter 3

  Cousins Reunite

  March 29, 1839, at Grandby & Son, 300 Oxford Street, London

  Graham Wellingham stepped from a worn hansom cab and regarded the front of his cousin’s place of business a moment. He let out a low whistle before he made his way to the front door on legs still adapting to dry land.

  A secretary watched from behind an elegant marble-topped counter as he made his way along the corridor, his expression betraying his initial revulsion at seeing who he thought might be a beggar invading the premises. Then his eyes widened in recognition. “Mr. Wellingham?”

  “How do, Mr. Adams? Is Thomas about?” Graham had barely finished his query when he turned to discover the subject of his search hurrying from behind a mahogany desk.

  “Graham?” Tom Grandby halted on the threshold of his office and regarded his cousin with a look of shock. Not only was Graham several years older than when he’d last seen him, he was sporting a short, thick beard and clothes suggesting he had taken up farming in the country. “How are you here?”

  Graham gripped Tom’s proffered hand and shook it before he said, “I stowed away on the Alanzaar. We arrived in Wapping early this morning. Thought I’d stop here first to discover if I still have a home to go to.”