Beguiling the Baron Read online

  “No, madam, he is not away.”

  “Has he not been told of our arrival?” Surely, he must have noticed their carriage.

  “I regret his Lordship does not wish to be disturbed at present.”

  Tia exchanged a glance with Mama. How unutterably rude of him not to be here to welcome his guests. Not so much peculiar as ill-mannered. This did not bode well.

  “Oh, how disappointing.” She laughed lightly. “I hope he’s not avoiding us deliberately.”

  The housekeeper said quickly, “No, indeed, miss. But his Lordship is always occupied. He does most of his work at home and goes out no more than he needs to. But that’s not to say you may not make social calls of your own. There are riding horses available and both winter and summer carriages at your disposal, as well as a curricle if either of you ladies cares to drive.”

  Tia brightened. No, she didn’t know how to drive a carriage, having been brought up in the busy port of Southampton where the roads were too clogged to be safe. But she’d love to learn. There must be many splendid sights hereabouts, and what a wonderful sense of freedom it must give to be able to drive oneself. She would take Polly out with her.

  Would Lord Ansford have the patience to teach her to drive? Or even the inclination to do so? Lucy had tried to enlighten Tia as to Lord Ansford’s character, but it seemed the more she heard about him, the less she knew.

  That matter could be put aside for now. First, she must learn to find her way around the house. She could hardly expect her new pupil to respect her if she were constantly getting lost.

  Despite the modern facade, much of the original abbey remained. There were some obvious Tudor period renovations, including the addition of wooden paneling and vast brick fireplaces. These had presumably been added after the Dissolution by the new lay owners, to make the place more like a home and less like an institution.

  Tia shuddered. After the poorhouse, she never wanted to set foot inside an institution again.

  As she followed her mama and the housekeeper through the maze of passageways, she discovered her new home was a real hotchpotch of different styles and intentions, testament to the wealth and taste—or lack thereof—of many generations of Pelhams.

  As they ascended a sweeping staircase, a dark oak affair of the previous century, she paused in front of a multifaceted window of yellowed glass. This ancient insertion shone a sickly light onto the half landing and the menacing suit of armor set there as adornment. Through the glass Tia could make out the wavy shapes of trees and, realizing how high up she was, she impulsively opened the window to see what manner of view it afforded.

  “Oh!” The sight that met her eyes was the very last thing she’d expected to see.

  A half-naked man strode past the house.

  She stood and stared, transfixed by his grace as he walked barefoot across the lawn, his dark gold hair hanging in damp tendrils down his back, only partially concealing the well-defined musculature of his torso. His sole item of clothing was a pair of soaked black breeches, clinging revealingly to his muscular thighs. He was wringing something out in his hands as he walked. His shirt, perhaps?

  Well, who’d have imagined Lord Ansford employed a hermit? Tia knew some members of the aristocracy kept them, for the amusement of their friends. Oh, to have the money to waste on such foolishness. The hapless creatures were expected to live in caves or grottoes, often constructed in the previous century when the building of fanciful follies on country estates was highly popular.

  Something hung about the hermit’s neck and swung as he walked, but he was already too far away for her to identify it. A crucifix, perhaps? The man continued on in the direction of a stand of tall trees and melted from view when a sudden squall of rain cut across Tia’s vision.

  As she struggled to close the ancient catch of the window, she refused to be shocked by what she’d seen. Fascinating, though. Might the man be not only a hermit but a flagellant as well? But no—she’d seen no marks on his pale flesh. Maybe there was such a thing as a partial flagellant, someone who exposed themselves to the rain and the cold as a penance but didn’t go so far as beating themselves with sticks. Perhaps the black garment he’d been holding was his horsehair shirt.

  She hoped not. Concealing such a splendid body beneath a hair shirt would be like putting a frock coat on a Praxiteles—all that masculine magnificence hidden away . . .

  As Tia hurried to catch up with her mama and the housekeeper, she wondered what young Polly thought about this hermit. Surely the sight of him was enough to terrify a child, and the idea of him lurking in some rocky cave within the grounds might deter her from venturing out alone.

  She’d talk to Lord Ansford about it—when he finally made an appearance. Half-naked men wandering around the place did not create a comfortable environment for a gently bred young girl.

  Nor—as the heat suffusing her own cheeks testified—did it create a comfortable environment for a woman of one-and-twenty.

  Chapter 3

  As the tour continued, it became increasingly apparent to Tia she was not to have as much freedom in her new home as she’d hoped. Various places were out of bounds, including the croquet lawn at the front of the house. The entire east wing of the building was utterly forbidden, since that was where Lord Ansford held sway, and he didn’t want to be disturbed. There was mention too of the folly, within the grounds and in use, therefore also forbidden.

  In use? Surely the whole point of a folly was that it had no use, apart from being a blatant show of wealth and adding interest to the gardens. Tia would have liked to question the housekeeper about the hermit she’d seen but dared not. Letting herself think about the semi-naked man had a powerful impact on her composure and would definitely put her to the blush.

  The end of the tour brought them to the west wing of the house where she and Mama had been allocated their own bedchambers with attached dressing rooms, and a private sitting room to share between them.

  “Miss Pelham sleeps in the nursery further along, where she’s looked after by Nurse,” Mrs. Dunne stated. “Now, shall I have tea sent up to your sitting—ah, here’s Nurse herself. Miss Oates, meet Mrs. Wyndham and Miss Wyndham.”

  Miss Oates, who’d just issued from one of the nearby rooms, bustled forward to make her curtsy. She appeared kindly enough, but there was a wariness about her Tia found odd.

  As Miss Oates and the housekeeper headed toward the stairs, Tia and her mama investigated their new living arrangements. Yet she couldn’t help but think on the tragedy this household had suffered a little less than three years ago. Perhaps there was a reason for its inhabitants to seem somewhat . . . haunted.

  Lucy had informed them of the horrid event in a letter she’d sent to confirm the final arrangements for their removal to Foxleaze. Lucy’s husband the duke had shared what he’d come to know about Lord Ansford through the man’s political successes and his vociferous campaign to hasten the abolition of slavery in every land subject to the British Crown.

  A cause deemed worthy by many, but one taking up so much of the baron’s time, he was reputed to have neglected his wife, a bright young thing with whom he was known to have been deeply, if unfashionably, in love.

  What followed, Lucy declared to be mere rumor, and she’d begged Tia to tear up and burn the letter after she’d read it, lest Lord Ansford should ever chance upon it.

  Tia wandered across to the small sitting room’s stone-set window and gazed down onto the croquet lawn and the carriage drive below. She opened the window, despite the steady drizzle of rain. The habit of opening virtually every window she came upon had developed after her grim sojourn in Selbury Poorhouse, where she’d never been able to look out of one because they were too high up.

  Briefly, Tia pondered Lucy’s last letter. Ansford’s neglected wife supposedly took lovers while her husband was up in Town. S
he had remained at Foxleaze for Polly’s sake, as she loved to play with the child.

  If the late baroness’s affaires had been conducted in London, there would doubtless be more than mere gossip about with whom, how often, and when she’d had them. But in the country, it was possible to evade such eagle eyes and wagging tongues—if one was careful about it.

  What had happened at the end of the baroness’s short life was unclear. Officially, she had fallen from one of the towers. Asking further was indelicate, to say the least. Perhaps Lord Ansford, when Tia got to know him better, might give her the story himself.

  But the most important fact remained, Lucy’s husband and every one of their acquaintances completely rejected the gossip laying the cause of Lady Ansford’s fall at her husband’s door.

  “Tia, come away from the window, or you’ll catch a chill.”

  “Sorry, Mama. I’ll shut it.”

  But Tia wasn’t ready to sit down yet. She’d been cooped up in a coach for two hours, bursting with curiosity as to what her new home—and her new relations—would be like, and she was itching to explore further. “I’m going to stroll to the end of the corridor and back while we wait for tea to be brought up. I haven’t stretched my legs enough.”

  At her mother’s nod, she left the room, then hesitated. There were voices coming from the chamber she’d been told was the nursery.

  Her heart flipped. One of the voices was high and childish. Polly, no doubt. The other was deep and strange. Was Lord Ansford himself in the very next room, talking to his daughter? Would it be dreadfully rude of her to poke her head in and see, and introduce herself to him?

  Curiosity won out. The nurse had left the door ajar, so Tia peered through the crack into the room beyond and was astonished to see only one occupant, a small girl with tow-colored hair and dark eyes, sitting straight-backed in a wicker chair and dandling a doll on her lap.

  Tia smiled. A child who played with dolls was normal enough, even if said doll was dressed in trousers and had an eerily deep voice.

  “Now Polly,” the male doll was made to say, “you must eat up all your porridge, even if it reminds you of sick. If you are a very good girl, I might let you have a kitten, but you must keep it out from under my feet, d’ye hear? Yes, I will come and see you more often, I promise. It’s only that I’m so busy all the time.”

  Polly replied, in her own voice, “You always say that, Papa, and you hardly ever come. You know I’ve no mama anymore, so you should come and see me twice as much, to make up for it.”

  “You are such a bad child,” Polly’s pretend father retorted. “You always ask for far too much.”

  Perhaps I’m not going to like Lord Ansford after all.

  Even so, Tia plastered on her most cheerful expression and marched into the room.

  Polly immediately stowed the doll beneath a cushion and got to her feet. She stared briefly before looking at the floor, then executed an awkward curtsy.

  “I am Miss Wyndham. Your new—” Tia paused. Goodness, what was she? A companion, a teacher, a distant cousin? “I’m your new governess,” she continued, thinking the title would serve for now, although she hoped she might one day be accorded the title of friend.

  The girl gave no answer but remained standing with her back ramrod straight, studying her shoes.

  “I assume you are Miss Mary Pelham.” Tia tried to keep her tone light, encouraging. “Although I hope I may call you Polly.”

  Polly merely shrugged.

  Goodness, in Miss Gates’ Academy, anyone who made such a rude, dismissive gesture would be put on bread and water for a week. Even the poorhouse children had such behavior beaten out of them—and none of them would ever be in the same social circles Polly Pelham was likely to frequent.

  Was the child truly sullen, or simply shy?

  An image of her deceased sister Phoebe’s face swam before Tia’s eyes. Though Phoebe had been gone many years, her loss continued to cut Tia like a knife. And made her castigate herself about things she should have said to her sibling while Phoebe was alive, the small acts of kindness she could have performed.

  It stiffened her resolve not to be put off by Polly’s manner. The child needed encouragement, understanding, and love. Tia would do her best to provide all three.

  “I can see I’ve caught you at a bad moment. We will no doubt meet later.” She backed out of the room.

  Rather than be dispirited by this inauspicious beginning, Tia vowed to talk to the nurse as well as the girl’s father and find out how best to deal with a child who preferred talking to toys than to real people.

  Closing the door softly on her new charge, Tia proceeded to the end of the passageway where a large crown glass window afforded a view across what must surely be the original abbey cloisters.

  This window, too, she opened, to suck in a bracing breath of air and dispel the unease that had stolen upon her during her eavesdropping on Polly and their subsequent meeting.

  Her hand flew to her throat.

  He was there, the hermit, right below the window, staring up at her. She swallowed hard. What did one do with a hermit? Nod, wave, say, “Good afternoon?” Completely at a loss, she simply gazed at the fearsome creature, with his lank, dark gold locks and his black slashes of eyebrows. Fortunately, he had now donned his shirt, saving her blushes, but it was damp enough to cling to his frame.

  She’d expected a hermit’s body to be all skin and bone, but this man was sinewy and slim, although the clinging black shirt revealed the well-developed muscles of someone who exercised religiously.

  Tia was struck forcibly by an image she recalled from Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur, that of Sir Lancelot run mad and lost in the wilderness, unkempt, long-haired; wild-eyed.

  She suppressed a shiver. Yes, Lord Ansford’s hermit was definitely frightful, not only to children but to adults as well.

  She’d made up her mind to show her disapproval of him by shutting the window with no sign of acknowledgement, when he turned his back on her and stalked off into the cloisters.

  What odd behavior.

  If it weren’t for the relative normality of Mrs. Dunne, Tia might imagine she’d wandered into a chapter of Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto.

  “Ah, Miss Wyndham, your tea has arrived.” The voice spoke so close to her ear, it made her jump. Tia turned, to find Mrs. Dunne right by her elbow, carrying an ancient cow-shaped creamer.

  Yet another thing to unnerve her today—servants who crept up on one in complete silence.

  She was about to thank the housekeeper when Mrs. Dunne added, “I see you have been making the acquaintance of Lord Ansford.”

  Tia froze. That disheveled, manner-less creature was Lord Ansford? Her distant cousin, her new employer, her benefactor, and the owner of Foxleaze?

  If that were truly so, it was possible the stories of him as a madman who’d murdered his wife in a jealous rage . . .

  Might not be rumors after all.

  Chapter 4

  The Wyndhams had only been in residence a day and a night, and already Hal’s old anxieties were flooding back. He’d thought his backbreaking labors, his strict physical regime, and the amount of time he devoted to honoring his dead wife’s memory would have appeased her spirit.

  Yet every time he ventured to please or reward himself, her ghost would rise up to chastise him.

  The memory of her last cruel words to him resurfaced and repeated themselves like a chant in his head. You’re worthless. You’re a pathetic husband, a useless father, an eminently forgettable lover. I despise you.

  Of course, Mary hadn’t meant those words, had she? She’d been ill, not herself, and he must never forget the fact. But he feared there was a kernel of truth in every word she spoke.

  Except for the lover part. That aspect of their marriage had gi
ven great pleasure to them both, but Mary’s appetites, it seemed, could not be satiated by a husband who devoted so much of his time to his work.

  And Polly looked a good deal like her mother.

  As Hal mounted the stairs to the top of the folly, he reassured himself—yet again—that his daughter would not take after Mary in character. His wife had been gay but selfish, beautiful yet vain, as witty as she was incisive. He would do whatever was needed to make sure Polly never took after her mother. A few years at Miss Gates’ Academy would turn her into a truly respectable and proper young lady. When it came time to find a husband for her, she would be so poised, so perfect, the vicissitudes of her parents and dark family history would be completely forgotten.

  When he reached the roof, he came out into sunshine. As he always did, he walked right up to the battlements and directed his gaze downward, to test himself. One day he would be able to view the steep drop with equanimity. Not that anyone was ever likely to throw themselves to their death from the top of the folly again . . .

  Unless, perhaps, that someone was himself, when the black despair overwhelmed him.

  An unexpected movement caught him up short. Three people were strolling across the lawns in the direction of the sheep pasture.

  The smallest of them was clearly Polly. He always experienced a pang upon seeing her. Whether it was guilt, pain, or dislike, he had yet to fathom. Generally, he found it easier not to think about her much at all. One of the women kept falling behind due to her slower pace. Mrs. Sarah Wyndham, no doubt. She appeared refined and well-dressed, and he congratulated himself on having made his distant relatives a generous allowance for clothing. They had good taste in apparel.

  The other woman, who walked close to Polly, was quick and determined in her walk. Good. A brisk character was exactly the kind to which Polly would respond.