The Bargain of a Baroness Page 9

  Edward had only paid witness to their carnal activities once, when he was in the Harrington House library looking for a book and ended up trapped there. He hid behind some bookshelves for nearly an hour as his grandparents tupped in one of the leather sofas and then over a library table. “And when you’re sober?” he asked, just to test the earl.

  Mayfield frowned. “Fuck my wife, eat, drink, and beat Morganfield at cards,” he repeated. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Got her in the office of that rag of hers a few times. Over the desk, and once, we...” He stopped speaking when he saw how Edward had his hands pressed against his ears. “What?”

  Edward shook his head and tentatively removed his hands from his ears. “Really, sir, I shouldn’t wish to hear what you do to my grandmother in the privacy of your... bedchamber... or... or her office,” he stammered.

  Allowing a loud laugh filled with amusement, Mayfield shook in the squabs and finally sobered. “I suppose you are a bit young yet,” he said on a sigh. “Haven’t tupped a barmaid, have you?”

  “I have not yet bedded a woman,” Edward admitted with a grimace. “Although most of my classmates have managed it to some degree.”

  “Why haven’t you?” There was no censure in the query, even if it was expected a boy of sixteen would have had at least one encounter with a prostitute.

  Edward winced. “If you must know, sir, I have an aversion to contracting a venereal disease,” he said in a quiet voice. “After seeing the evidence of such on three of my classmates, I do not wish for such a fate for myself.”

  A low rumble erupted from the earl. “Ah, that is rather wise of you,” he murmured. After a long moment, he asked, “Will you stay in Mayfair for the Season?”

  Not ready to give his grandfather an answer, Edward said, “Perhaps we should sleep on it this night and discuss it over breakfast in the morning.”

  Mayfield leaned into a corner of the coach and sighed rather loudly. “Agreed. I suppose we should do the same as it applies to your mother’s next husband.”

  Alarmed, Edward straightened. “Oh, that’s already been sorted. As I mentioned earlier, I met him this evening. He’s a good man.”

  “What?” Mayfield asked as he attempted to sit up, obviously deep enough in his cups to have already forgotten their conversation just outside of the club. “Who?”

  Edward shrugged a shoulder. “The one she was supposed to have married in the first place,” he replied.

  Mayfield wavered on his seat, the swaying town coach adding to his unsteadiness. “Oh?” was all he could think to say, his alcohol-impaired brain having a hard time keeping him awake. It did manage to serve up one bit of reasoning before he succumbed to sleep. “You do realize you would not exist if she had.”

  Watching as his grandfather’s head fell into the corner of the coach and hearing the man’s soft snores, Edward allowed a long sigh.

  Well, he wasn’t about to agree completely on that point. He could not change what had happened before he was born.

  But he could certainly have a say in what happened next.

  Chapter 12

  A Reunion of Sorts

  A bit over an hour later, Woodscastle, six miles southeast of London

  Refreshed from his brief nap in the town coach, Graham made his way to the library. A candle lamp was still lit on his father’s mahogany desk, so he took a seat in the leather chair in front of it. He pulled out a sheet of parchment bearing the Wellingham Imports mark and wrote a note to his cousin.

  Dear Cousin Tom,

  It seems I am expected for dinner in two places at the same time. Please do not take offense when you read that I have accepted the offer of dinner put forth by one Edward Harrington, heir to the Mayfield earldom. Seems I have a champion in the young man, and I intend to take advantage of his good opinion and take dinner at Harrington House...

  He paused to pull out his chronometer and winced when he saw the time.

  Where had the day gone?

  Monday evening. I shall pay a call at your office to smooth things over. In the meantime, please give my regards to your bride. You have my permission to tell her my sordid story if it helps my cause.

  Yours truly,

  Your indigent cousin, Graham

  Graham shook some sand over his hastily penned missive and poured the excess into a small porcelain bowl already half-filled with the stuff. He folded his note into an envelope and sealed it, relieved the stamp in the wax revealed only a “W”. At some point, he would pay a call at a stationer’s and have a proper seal made with his initials.

  He regarded the missive as he allowed his mind to wander, and he remembered the baron’s assessment of his mother. For a moment, he had been left wondering if the two had been speaking of the same woman.

  The Hannah he knew would never have been a hermit. She never would have been satisfied spending her days holed up in a house, no matter how grand. The Hannah he remembered was vivacious. She smiled easily. She flirted and flitted and made him mad with wanting her.

  She teased him when she knew she shouldn’t, and then apologized profusely when he pretended offense. He recalled how he sometimes took his due—a stolen kiss well away from prying eyes—and adored how she blushed but didn’t scold him.

  Which always left him wondering if she teased him just so he would kiss her.

  The minx.

  Glancing at his chronometer again, he realized it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to make his way to Wapping. He had a shipment of tobacco, beaver skins and pelts to take to Wellingham Imports once the sun was above the horizon.

  Suddenly aware he wasn’t alone, he glanced up to discover the butler, Humphrey, regarding him from the threshold. “Evening, Humphrey.”

  “Good morning, I believe it is, sir,” the butler replied with a nod. “Will you be requiring a valet?”

  Graham shook his head. “Not tonight. If I am not awake by seven o’clock, can you knock on my door? There’s much to do on the morrow.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Oh, and would there be any clothes appropriate for dinner at an earl’s house in my wardrobe? Or my father’s, perhaps?”

  The query had Humphrey giving a start. “Not that would fit you, sir, given your extraordinary height. Or that would be in keeping with current fashion,” he added with a wince.

  “Ah,” Graham responded. “Then I suppose I shall need to see to acquiring some appropriate clothes on the morrow.” Although he had left his trunk on board the ship, he knew his Bostonian wardrobe would not include whatever it was British noblemen were wearing at dinner these days.

  “Might I suggest a shop in New Bond Street? It sounds as if you do not have the time for a tailor to make you a bespoke suit.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a shop close to the warehouse?” Graham asked with a pained expression.

  Humphrey shook his head. “You will find the area around Wellingham Imports has changed considerably since your last visit.”

  It was Graham’s turn to wince. “How so?”

  The butler merely shrugged. “It’s not bad, sir,” he said. “Just different. It seems your father set a precedent for the type of business that exists in that area of London now, and with having to take on additional warehouse space, Wellingham Imports no longer fits in one building.”

  Graham thought of the mishmash of businesses that existed near the Boston docks, some of questionable legitimacy. He hoped Wellingham Imports wasn’t surrounded by such disreputable concerns. “Perhaps you should wake me at your earliest convenience,” he said on a sigh.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Humphrey took his leave of the library as Graham settled back in the comfortable chair. He had a thought to make his way up to his bedchamber, but he was sound asleep before he could put the plan into motion.

  Chapter 13

  A Plot is Pondered

  The following morning

  Hannah awoke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest as the sens
ation of confusion settled over her. The pink tulle and satin canopy above her was familiar but entirely unexpected.

  Green velvet. It was supposed to be green velvet.

  Remembering where she was helped to assuage the sense of panic she’d felt as she struggled to open her eyes.

  Her parents’ townhouse. In King Street. The memory of the night before came flooding back, and she took a deep breath. When she sat up, she let out a screech.

  “Oh, beggin’ your pardon, my lady. I did na’ mean ta give a fright.” The words were said by Preston, the lady’s maid who had been seeing to her mother for the past two decades.

  Hannah stared at the lady’s maid for a moment before she lifted her hands to cover her face. “I’m so sorry, Preston. I forgot where I was.”

  “I know how that is,” the lady’s maid replied as she waddled her way to the drapes and pulled them open. “I would have let ya’ sleep late, but I had orders from Mr. Simpson that you be ready for breakfast.”

  Her eyes darting to the Baroque clock on the fireplace mantel, Hannah inhaled sharply. “That cannot be right,” she whispered.

  “Oh, it’s right, my lady,” Preston replied as she moved to the fireplace and worked to ignite the kindling for the lumps of coal.

  “Is breakfast already served?” Hannah asked as she stepped from her childhood bed. She secretly thanked her father for having seen to it the floors in the bedchamber were completely covered with Axminster carpet. Given the chill in the air, she knew the floor beneath would be cold.

  “Not for another half-hour, accordin’ to your brother. What will you be wantin’ to wear this morning?”

  Hannah moved to the dressing room, unsure of what gowns she might have left behind. A quick perusal had her sighing. “This one, since it’s the only one still half-fashionable,” she said on a sigh. She handed the maid a day gown of peach muslin embroidered with green leaves.

  “This one is rather gorgeous on ya’,” Preston remarked as she moved to pull a pair of stockings from a bureau. “How would you like me to style your hair?”

  “Something quick. Just a bun,” Hannah replied. “I don’t want to be the last one in the breakfast parlor.” She allowed Preston to help her into her chemise and corset. “What day is this?”

  “Saturday, my lady.”

  Saturday.

  “My brother hasn’t left for the bank?”

  The lady’s maid shook her head. “He doesn’t go to the bank on Saturdays, my lady.”

  Not about to question Henry’s good fortune in not having to work on Saturdays—perhaps clerks of his advanced skills weren’t required every day—Hannah then realized why it was he could pay witness to a maid taking her leave of the Wellingham townhouse on Saturday afternoons.

  “Pray tell, Preston, do you know the name of the young woman who has been working across the street? At the Wellingham’s townhouse?”

  Preston opened the day gown and held it out for Hannah to step into. “Their three servants are all older, my lady.”

  Frowning, Hannah turned so Preston could do up the fastenings at the back of her gown. “Then who is the woman who arrives every Monday morning and takes her leave Saturday afternoons?”

  Preston blinked. “Oh, you must be referring to the artist.”

  It was Hannah’s turn to blink. “Artist?”

  “Oh, aye. Mr. Wellingham hired her to paint his wife’s portrait. Since Mrs. Wellingham can only sit for an hour or so before she has to leave for her position at their company, Miss Overby lives there during the week to work on the paintin’ and returns to her home for Sundays.”

  “Miss Overby?” Hannah repeated, her eyes widening in delight.

  “Yes, my lady.” Preston’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know the artist?”

  “Blonde hair? Cut short and curly?”

  “Aye.”

  Hannah grinned. “I think I do,” she whispered as she took a seat at the dressing table.

  “Has she painted your portrait?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” The reminder that she and Charlie hadn’t had a family portrait done since Edward was breeched had her feeling disappointment.

  “Lady Simpson likes to pay a call on her in the middle of the day. I think they have tea together. Her ladyship is always in a fine mood when she returns. Says it’s a joy to spend time with a young lady who knows what she wants for her life. Whatever that means.”

  Staring at the lady’s maid’s reflection in the dressing table mirror, Hannah asked, “And what might that be?”

  Preston shrugged. “She’s not said, as far as I know, my lady.”

  Hannah winced, realizing if she wanted to know more, she would have to ask her mother. She would need to do so without Henry present, though, for she was quite sure the woman they were discussing was the one that Henry had decided was a housemaid.

  Well, he was certainly in for a surprise.

  Grinning, Hannah watched as Preston brushed her hair and then twisted it into a quick knot on the top of her head. Perhaps she would have to pay a call on the young woman before she returned to Harrington House.

  A half-hour later

  “Good morning, Mother, Father,” Hannah said as she sailed into the breakfast parlor and then bent to kiss her parents on their cheeks. “So good of you to have hosted me last night.”

  “You are welcome any night,” James said as he reached for her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You look radiant, especially in that gown. It’s my favorite on you.”

  Hannah gave her father a quelling glance. “You are the master of fabrications,” she replied as she took her usual seat. In all the years they had shared breakfast, they always sat in the same chairs.

  Her brother, Henry, gave a nod in her direction. “Sister.”

  “How are you on this beautiful morning?” she countered.

  Henry regarded her with suspicion. “Surprised to see you in such fine form given your countenance last night.”

  Her brows furrowing, Hannah said, “Last night my countenance was tired, and now it is not.” She nodded to the footman who offered her a cup of tea and then said, “Thank you,” to the servant who delivered a plate filled with a variety of breakfast foods. “I do appreciate an appropriate breakfast,” she added as she tucked into her meal.

  Although the breakfasts at Harrington House were always filling, they were done in the manner of a buffet, and only a certain selection of foods were offered on any given day.

  She couldn’t fault the countess for the oversight. Temperance Harrington was an excellent hostess, but her attentions of late were on The Tattler. She tended to spend hours in her office where the weekly newsheet was written and printed, which for a time had Hannah wondering if the countess was entertaining a lover there.

  After paying witness to how the earl behaved with his wife, Hannah soon realized Temperance’s lover was not the pressman or another aristocrat but rather her own husband.

  The two were hopelessly in lust with one another.

  Any doubts she might have had were always assuaged when Mayfield returned from having paid a call at The Tattler’s offices, his manner jovial and his words bordering on the scandalous. My countess could have been a courtesan, he had once said. Or a celebrated mistress. So I am glad she is my wife.

  Hannah had simply smiled and nodded, hoping her reddened face wasn’t apparent.

  How was it Charlie hadn’t grown up to be like his father? He would never say anything so crass. He would never say anything that might call attention to himself. Never do anything that might draw unwanted attention. Perhaps his mother’s avocation had him hiding his true self.

  The thought had her momentarily scowling.

  “Really, Hannah. You must mind how you appear when you’re thinking less than charitable thoughts about your brother,” Sophia said, just before she took a sip of her tea.

  Hannah gave a start. “But, I wasn’t think about Henry,” she argued, a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth.

  Henry
drew a hand across his forehead and followed it with a “Whew! You looked positively livid just then,” he murmured.

  Blinking, Hannah struggled to paste a pleasant expression on her face. “I apologize. I was... ruminating.”

  “Is everything all right at Harrington House?” her father asked, his bushy brows furrowed with concern.

  “Oh, it’s fine, really. I was just... lamenting over not having had another family portrait done prior to Charlie’s death.”

  Sophia’s eyes lit with excitement. “We should have that done again,” she said, her breakfast forgotten. “And I know just the artist who could do it! I’ll make the arrangements today.”

  “Really, Mother. Isn’t the one of us enough?” Henry asked. He set his coffee cup in its saucer and grimaced as if his sip of the brew was objectionable.

  “Now, Henry,” his father said. “It’s been more than three decades since our last family sitting. Perhaps it is time we do it again. I’m certainly not getting any younger.”

  “Where would you even hang it?” Henry countered, obviously not pleased with the idea.

  “Above the fireplace in the front salon, darling,” his mother said brightly. “Although I do like having a large mirror there, a current family portrait would be so much more appropriate.”

  Sophia Simpson had been hosting more of her friends in the ground floor salon given it didn’t require her elderly guests to climb the stairs to the parlor on the first floor.

  Hannah’s eyes suddenly widened. “It’s a capital idea,” she said as she straightened in her chair. “Perhaps Miss Overby could do it when she’s finished painting Mrs. Wellingham.” She wasn’t surprised when her mother beamed in delight, but she noted her brother’s reaction and wondered at why he displayed a pout.

  “Who is Miss Overby?” James asked.

  “Oh, she’s the daughter of Lady Overby,” Sophia replied. “And... oh, I can never remember her husband’s name.”