Beguiling the Baron Read online

  But the lure of that library—

  For her own sake, as much as for Polly’s, she would have to find some way around Lord Ansford’s nonsensical rules. Otherwise, her future life at Foxleaze Abbey was going to be frustrating in the extreme.

  Chapter 7

  Hal picked up a chisel and applied it to the stone, then struck hard with his mason’s hammer. A chip flew off and grazed his cheek, but he relished the pain.

  Pain proved he was alive. Pain proved he was still paying Mary back for all the harm he had done to her.

  The sound of steel on stone echoed about the chamber, its stridency at odds with the dark, silent chill of the folly tower. Hal’s mouth quirked—here he was, challenging the ghosts again, spirits whose inimical eyes had, it seemed, watched him all his life.

  He’d believed himself accursed from the age of seven. That was the year his pony tossed him into a dry ditch and put him in bed for a month, thus terminating all his pleasures for what seemed like a lot longer. Seven was also the age he began to believe in ghostly nuns, evil witches, headless horsemen, and spirit animals, any number of which could be imagined haunting the echoing passageways of Foxleaze Abbey.

  Hal brushed at the grit adhering to his chest. Soon he would resemble a phantom himself, covered in white dust, with only his eyes visible through the crust, wild and staring. How fortunate it was to have the river running through the Foxleaze estate. A way not only of mortifying the flesh but of cleansing himself.

  On the whole, he had grown out of those childhood fears. Or perhaps the ghosts had ceased to torment him because he’d attempted to live an exemplary life. He’d spoken out against slavery, voiced his opinion about the Corn Laws, and criticized the government for using agitators to infiltrate those amongst the lower classes who were campaigning for reform. Having won their trust, the agitators represented them all as Jacobins and a threat to national security.

  Campaigning for the downtrodden was all well and good while he was the heir to Foxleaze, but his responsibilities increased monumentally when he came into the title. This led to more misunderstandings with his wife, primarily because he had no time to ensure any disputes between them were amicably settled.

  Hal winced as he recalled the years immediately preceding Mary’s death. He hated himself for growing dourer, quicker to anger. Presents and promises were given in lieu of his attention, but it sometimes struck him he and his wife were leading such different lives, they might as well not be married at all. And they’d seemed to argue all the time.

  As he lined up the chisel for another blow, Hal recalled how he’d deliberately stay up late poring over his papers so he could avoid deciding whether or not to go to her bed. Inevitably he ran the risk of censure either way.

  Gradually rumors began to circulate Mary had taken a lover.

  Possibly more than one.

  At first, Hal thought it was simply a case of political rivals—men with no moral scruples whatsoever—trying to disquiet him and send him running back to the country.

  And go back he had, eventually. Only to find his wife in a precarious state of both mind and health. She’d obstinately refused to talk to him about it or give him the name of the physician she was seeing. When he found the small bottles of mercury in her jewelry box, the cruel truth had hit him with the force of a charging bull.

  Syphilis.

  He struck another blow at the marble, the base this time, so he could vent his rage without damaging his more delicate work. There must have been something he could have done to prevent her developing this awful malady.

  If he hadn’t left her so much on her own . . .

  Then had come the fateful day when he’d been at the top of the folly, attempting a sketch of the Mary he remembered, young, fresh, and beautiful. She’d come out to speak to him—for what reason, he never discovered—and he watched her halting progress across the lawns, sorrowing at how thin and awkward she was compared with that lively diamond of the ton she’d been when he first met her.

  In retrospect, he should have gone down to see what she wanted. But anger had gripped him, anger that she’d thrown away everything they’d ever shared together and made herself sick into the bargain, and anger at himself for letting it happen.

  It took her a long time to reach the top of the folly, and by the time she’d emerged onto the roof, her face was pale and oily with perspiration, her chest heaving raggedly from her exertions.

  Her mouth had formed a pinched, disapproving line when she saw him watching her. “I disgust you now, don’t I?”

  “Not at all. I’m sad for you. I want you to be well again. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

  This had been a bone of contention between them ever since he’d discovered how ill she was. It was his belief she should be pampered, remaining in bed, attended by the best physicians in the land, with himself and Polly paying regular visits to stop her from getting bored.

  She had stubbornly refused to accept his advice, going about her household tasks with an obsessive ardor he’d never seen in her before.

  Mary had glared back at him, her red-rimmed eyes dark with malice. “I have no intention of wasting the short time I have left simply lazing in bed.”

  She’d hobbled toward him. Her legs were tightly bandaged to contain the incipient ulcers, making it harder for her to walk. She often complained the bandages were so tight, her feet went numb.

  He’d put down his sketchbook and resigned himself to a tirade. He could read in her face that he had, yet again, unwittingly done something heinous. But her gaze fell on his sketchbook, and before he could stop her, she lurched forward and grabbed it.

  “What have you been drawing? Oh!”

  Too much the gentleman to snatch the book back, it would have been childish of him to fight her for it. And what, after all, did he have to hide? His artistic skill was good, and he’d made dozens of sketches and paintings of his wife in the early days of their marriage.

  She turned her back on him and examined the drawing on which he’d been working. Then, glancing over her shoulder, she gave him a look which froze him to the marrow and began systematically tearing the sketch to pieces, dropping the scraps of paper between the crenellations of the folly, where they wafted down like feathers on the breeze.

  “Mary, no!”

  In response, she turned to him, eyes blazing. She spoke slowly, malevolently. “Henry Pelham. I. Hate. You.”

  What happened next would return to him in nightmares, relentlessly torturing him. Even when he was awake, he continually relived those moments, trying to determine if she had fallen deliberately or by accident.

  The first physician who had seen her after Hal, sick to his core, had her broken, lifeless body conveyed back to the house, had proclaimed the fall an accident. The baroness’s illness interfered with her balance, and the cures she took sometimes did more harm than good. It would have needed no more than a spell of dizziness or fainting when she was so close to the edge, to unbalance and tip her over.

  Despite what Hal truly believed—that she had thrown herself from the tower to spite him as well as to end a life already doomed—he’d accepted the doctor’s verdict.

  As, luckily, did the rest of the world.

  Bodies of suicide victims were not welcome in hallowed soil, and the chapel at Foxleaze Abbey was consecrated. For Mary’s remains to be allowed to rest in the place she had called home, and where she’d borne and brought up her child, her death had to be put down to a tragic misadventure.

  He blinked away the memories.

  Mary had the power to wound him, even from the grave. She had ruined his life, had killed the man he once was and destroyed any hope of ever becoming the man he’d wanted to be.

  His thoughts strayed unbidden to his recent encounter with Miss Wyndham. In some ways she was quite the oppo
site of Mary but in other ways, too similar for comfort. Galatea Wyndham had shaken him, though he’d refused to show it. He wasn’t used to being disputed with in his own home—Mary was the last person who’d ever dared do such a thing. And that was where the similarity lay. Both women were a mixture of feminine wiles and downright stubbornness.

  But if Miss Galatea Wyndham hoped to win him ‘round with her dancing brown eyes and cheerful aspect, she had better think again.

  Chapter 8

  A full two weeks had passed since Tia’s unpromising encounter with the reclusive Lord Ansford in his study, and neither she nor Mama had had more than a glimpse of him since.

  He’d occasionally been seen striding across the lawns in the direction of his folly tower, not that she’d deliberately been trying to get a glimpse of him. Perhaps in view of the fact he now had two gentlewomen in the house, he no longer walked about shirtless which might—or might not—indicate some improvement in his character.

  Seated in their snug sitting room, Tia and her mother shared a light supper. A summer shower had recently passed by, and the croquet lawn outside the window sparkled with fresh raindrops. The exotic rhododendrons lining the drive stood proudly in their freshly washed foliage, and fingers of sunlight picked out occasional droplets of water, filling them with a fiery gold.

  It was a tranquil scene, entirely at odds with the one she had confronted earlier the same morning.

  Tia cleared her throat. “I came upon his lordship’s folly this morning.” It was a hard admission to make—she’d breached The Rules and Mama would not approve.

  “Did you, dear? I hope you were discreet.”

  “Oh, but I bumped into Lynch, who told me Lord Ansford had an appointment in town, so I knew the coast was clear.”

  Mama raised her eyebrows. “So, you didn’t exactly ‘come upon it,’ did you?”

  Ignoring the taunt, Tia went on, “It’s in a clearing in the trees, but it must be visible from some of the windows in the east wing. There’s a huge mound of granite boulders glued together with mortar containing a good deal of dark ash, presumably to match the color of the stone.”

  “It appears you made a close inspection of it.” Mama helped herself to another slice of almond tart and regarded Tia thoughtfully.

  “It’s quite horrid,” Tia persisted. “As I looked up at the tower, it was as if someone had walked on my grave. The sun went in, and I had this awful presentiment of doom, as though I were being watched by someone, or something, with evil intent.”

  “This place is melancholy when there’s no sunlight to cheer it. But I’m sure there’s nothing evil here. Lord Ansford would never allow it.”

  Unless he’s a part of it, of course.

  Tia had sensed the empty window embrasures as inimical eyes, watching her as she walked back to the abbey. An unwelcome crop of imaginings had crowded her mind at that moment. Could the folly tower be the spot where the late baroness had fallen to her doom? Did it hide a maze of tunnels or a secret room where Hellfire Clubbers held their abominably sinful, godless rituals?

  She shook the ideas away. Mama would chide her for being fanciful if she said anything more. But now she’d seen the place, the folly lurked at the back of her mind, a mystery to be solved, an obstacle to overcome.

  As was its owner.

  Time to change the subject. “Polly and I are getting along quite comfortably now. I’m giving her work to stretch but not overwhelm her, as well as tasks so simple she has the instant satisfaction of achieving full marks. This will, I hope, increase her confidence. Why, we even managed some conversation yesterday. You know how fond I am of sketching birds? Well, there was a pair of long-tailed titmice in the orchard this morning. I identified them for her and commented on their pink and black and white plumage. She began asking me questions about them and why I liked birds and how was it possible to draw them when they would never stop moving? I won’t say we became fast friends as a result of that exchange, but I consider it progress.”

  “You’d think Ansford would have been to the schoolroom by now, to ensure you are following his dictates.”

  “Ah, but that would mean having to converse with me, an activity he utterly detests. However, for Polly’s sake, I have a plan to bring him forth. I’ll take books from his library he’s sure to consider most unsuitable for a young girl’s education and leave obvious gaps, so he’ll realize what’s gone. He’s sure to come stomping into the schoolroom, ready for a battle.”

  Her mother put down her pastry fork with a clatter. “I sincerely hope you won’t fight in front of Polly. Tell me, do you think it wise to antagonize him when we are his dependents?”

  “Trust me, Mama. Underneath the grim exterior, I believe Lord Ansford has a heart, and although it may be an awkward path to reach it, I’m prepared to try, for it will make him a better man.”

  “You mean to reach his heart?”

  The shock in Mama’s tone made Tia blush furiously. “You misunderstand me. I don’t wish to win his heart, merely to set it beating again, to arouse the sort of paternal affection he ought to have for his child. Once he loves her as he should, he’ll realize he mustn’t send her away to Miss Gates’s Academy. Polly divulged to me the other day she’d already been taken on an inspection visit of the place. She made no complaint, for Polly seldom shows her emotions, but I could tell she was terrified.”

  “Oh no, please say you’re not going to make him one of your projects. You remember what happened last time. Poor Mr. Roach—he went around aping the Romantic poets for weeks after your interference, and let his hair grow so long all the young ladies looked at him askance.”

  Tia knew a pang of distress at this reminder of the Wyndhams’ halcyon days. She was fifteen when she tried to ‘improve’ young Ralph Roach. Papa was alive, the wine import business flourished, and the family owned three ships, with additional ones on charter.

  But in the ‘Year Without a Summer’ the vintages had been poor, the weather worse, the charters were let go, and two years later, in October 1818, a cruel gale had dashed her father and the ‘Sarah Gay’ onto rocks off the Cornish coast.

  And afterward had come their removal to that hideous institution, the poorhouse, where husbands were separated from wives, where children were sundered from their parents—

  “Don’t be so downcast—I’m only teasing you. Mr. Roach is surely quite recovered—he must have reached his majority by now and will be well set up indeed and attractive to all the matchmaking mamas.”

  Tia forced herself to look amused, but her thoughts were no longer on Mr. Roach. Lord Ansford must see that sending Polly away would be wrong. She’d have to appeal to his finer feelings, if he had any. Surely, all the kindnesses bestowed on the Wyndhams could not have come from a man with no heart?

  Unless they had his steward, Josiah Lynch, to thank for it all. She could well imagine Lord Ansford saying to him, “See to it, will you?” and taking no further interest.

  Why the devil should she not try to reform the baron? He was desperately in need of it. He was only flesh and blood after all and must have some weakness she could exploit. If she could determine what his Achilles heel was, she’d soon have him behaving like a loving father toward Polly, hugely benefitting the child.

  And it would make her own existence a good deal less uncomfortable.

  Chapter 9

  Hal kicked the marble dust off his shoes, sending a small shower of dark mortar to the floor. He really should clean this room, but somehow it never seemed important enough. The stairs leading up to the folly’s door were gritty too, from weathering, but as his were the only feet ever to tread that way, he’d never seen fit to sweep them.

  As he picked up his chisel once more, a sound from outside made him miss his mark. Cursing softly, he glared across at the embrasure, widened in this room to admit more light. />
  Where usually the only sound was the sighing of the wind in the trees or the shouts of rooks and clatter of pigeon wings, he could hear voices.

  He turned again to the statue, brushing away the dust from the misplaced scrape. Not too deep. He could remedy the fault.

  Another snatch of conversation. Deuce take it! He’d given explicit instructions no one but himself should approach the folly. When a certain voice drifted up to him more clearly, he rolled his eyes. He’d heard that one before, defying him to his face.

  Had the Wyndham chit any idea with whom she was dealing?

  There was no need to look out the window to confirm his suspicions. Yet his feet carried him there, and when he could see nothing, he dropped his chisel on the workbench and headed up to the roof.

  It was a fine day. He supposed he couldn’t blame anyone for choosing to be outside in it, but with gardens covering twenty acres and a park extending a good hundred, there were plenty of other places where people could be.

  He bent over the parapet to see what was happening below but swayed forward as the nausea took him again. As he did each time he came up here, he experienced the pull of the ground as an irresistible force, compelling him to leap out into oblivion.

  No. At least, not until the statue was finished, and Polly able to hold her own amongst her peers. But she could only do so if Miss Galatea Wyndham stopped being so damned soft on her.

  He would have to confront the disturbers of his peace. Hal dragged himself down the spiral staircase of the tower and eventually burst out into the sunlight at its foot. Locking the door with trembling fingers, he crunched and slithered down the steps, took a deep breath at the bottom, and strode around the base of the tower.