Bedding The Baron (16 page)

The golden eyes narrowed as Ian took a deep sip of the whiskey. “Portia?”

“Mrs. Walker, the owner of this establishment.”

A smile of pure male appreciation curved Ian’s full lips. “Ah, the raven-haired beauty.”

Fredrick abruptly turned to pace toward the fine bay window that overlooked the stables. Why bother attempting to convince Ian that an ugly brawl with the local dandies was a poor notion? The rogue’s favorite sport was humiliating the upper crust.

“What the devil are you doing here, Ian?” he at last demanded.

With a nonchalance that did not entirely hide the hint of wariness on the dark, beautiful features, Ian took a deep drink of his whiskey.

“I came to visit an old friend. Surely that is not so strange?”

“How did you know I was staying at this inn?”

Ian shrugged. “Your father was gracious enough to give me directions.”

Fredrick gave a strangled cough as he stepped toward his friend. “You spoke to my father?”

“Yes.” The dark, smoldering gaze flared over Fredrick’s near delicate form. “You know, you look a great deal like him. Much more so than that squishy, sallow-faced boy I saw in portraits
ad nauseam
throughout the house. Oh, and before I forget, Lord Graystone requested that I offer you an invitation to dine with him tonight, and I of course, am included in the generous invitation.”

“Dammit, Ian, this is no time for your games,” Fredrick rasped. For some reason the thought of Ian calmly chatting with his father was more than a trifle bothersome. Perhaps because he had always managed to keep his life in London so completely separated from his painful existence at Oak Manor. “Why are you in Wessex instead of Surrey where you belong?”

There was a thick silence before Ian gave a sharp laugh. “Actually, I did leave London with every intention of visiting Surrey.”

“And?”

Ian drained the last of the whiskey and shoved the flask back into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“And somewhere along the road I managed to end up in Wessex. I never did have much of a sense of direction.”

A wave of sympathy flooded through Fredrick. Ian would skewer himself on a hot poker before he would admit that he had lost his nerve on the road home.

“Ian, there is no need to travel to Surrey, you know,” Fredrick said gently. “Return to London and enjoy your fortune. It is what we would all do if we had any wits.”

“I have the feeling that you are attempting to rid yourself of my presence, Freddie boy,” Ian drawled as he moved to settle himself in one of the gold and ivory striped chairs. “Is it just a general dislike for my companionship or does it have something to do with that lovely little angel that was so concerned for your wounds?”

Fredrick ignored the hint to reveal his relationship with Portia. He never spoke of the women who caught his interest. And certainly not one who was beginning to mean a great deal more to him than a passing fancy.

“I am always pleased to have your company, Ian. You know that.”

The cynical expression that Ian wore like a mask softened at the unmistakable sincerity in Fredrick’s words.

“Thank you.” He templed his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Fredrick with a curious gaze. “Tell me what you have managed to discover.”

“Precious little thus far, I fear.” Fredrick gave a frustrated shake of his head. “At the moment, the only thing I have to go upon is the fact that Dunnington and my father both resided in Winchester for a brief time.”

“Winchester, hmmm.” Ian considered a moment. “It is at least something.”

Fredrick was struck by a sudden thought. Ian was already aware of his reason for being in the neighborhood, so there was no need to hide his search for Dunnington’s boarding house. And in truth, he could use a measure of the man’s indecent luck.

“Actually, I intend to visit Winchester later this afternoon if you would be interested in joining me?”

“Why not?” Ian stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “While I am there, I can see about renting a room for the next few nights.”

Fredrick gave a lift of his brows. “Why not remain here?”

“For once you appear to have enough sense to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful woman.” Ian flashed his wicked dimples. “I would not desire to steal away her heart.”

“You fear that your charm is irresistible?”

“Of course,” Ian agreed with a casual arrogance. “I am known as Casanova, after all.”

Fredrick chuckled at his companion’s blatant confidence. He was not at all concerned at being cut out by his more dashing friend. Although most women were captivated by the dark, restless passions that smoldered about Ian, Fredrick was confident in Portia’s unwavering dislike for well-practiced rakes.

“Somehow I am quite certain that Portia would be indifferent to that practiced charm,” he murmured with a faint smile. “Still, it might be best if you stay in Winchester. I do not desire any unnecessary questions as to the reasons for my stay in the neighborhood.”

“What excuse have you given?”

“Business.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Predictable.”

“Which means that it is believable,” Fredrick pointed out in reasonable tones.

Ian smiled wryly, his long fingers tapping a steady tattoo on the padded arm of the chair.

“Your father was quite . . . delighted when I appeared at his door,” he said without warning, the golden eyes watchful. “In fact, he refused to allow me to leave until I had tasted of his particularly fine brandy and he had managed to ply me with a dozen questions.”

Fredrick stiffened. “What sort of questions?”

“About your life in London. If you are happy.” His smile widened with a taunting amusement. “If you have a particular female you have shown an interest in. If you have need of anything. He did not appear nearly as indifferent to you as I expected him to be.”

Fredrick grimaced. “I will admit that he has been behaving in a distinctly odd manner since my arrival. If I had to guess I would say that he is feeling guilty for forgetting my existence during the past ten years.”

Ian caught and held his gaze. “Are you so certain that he forgot you?”

“How could he not?” Fredrick paced across the room, his emotions tightly coiled as he refused to consider the notion of his father giving a bloody damn. “Lord Graystone has not bothered to so much as scribble me a note in the past decade. Not even when he was staying in London. Hardly the behavior of a devoted father.”

“Perhaps not, but—”

Fredrick held up a warning hand. “It does not matter, Ian. I am not here to win my father’s affection. I am here to discover why he willingly paid Dunnington twenty thousand pounds for his silence, nothing more.”

The golden eyes twinkled with a sudden fire. “And to seduce a certain innkeeper?”

Portia.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Fredrick headed directly toward the door. Dammit, he had allowed Ian to distract him. He needed to get rid of the unconscious noblemen before they awoke and created difficulties.

“Remain here,” he commanded in stern tones. “I will return in a moment.”

Portia kept her composure firmly intact as she commanded Quinn to seek out the unconscious gentlemen’s servants. With a minimum of fuss the three noblemen were carried to their waiting carriage and the public rooms were returned to a semblance of normality.

Inwardly, however, she was battling a most astonishing fury toward the idiotic fools. How dare they enter her inn and insult and attack Fredrick? Could they possibly believe that they were superior to a gentleman who had managed to build a vast business with nothing but his own wits? That they possessed any redeeming value just because of their name?

What had they ever accomplished beyond drinking and gambling and whoring?

Gads, Fredrick was worth a dozen of the worthless fribbles.

Managing to smile and chat with the lingering guests, Portia was wise enough to move toward the door as she caught sight of Fredrick marching down the hallway.

“Where are the bodies?” he demanded, his eyes dark with a shimmering emotion.

Threading her arm through his, Portia calmly turned him away from the public rooms and toward the kitchens. Although Fredrick was blessedly above the stupidity of most males, he was clearly still in a temper. It seemed best to conduct their conversation in privacy.

“I had them dropped in the nearest well,” she teased, futilely hoping to lighten his dark mood. “I do not believe the magistrate will search for them there.”

He frowned, clearly not amused. “What?”

Portia heaved a faint sigh. “I had their servants collect them and sent them on their way. It is hardly the first occasion I have had to deal with loutish guests or a boxing match over breakfast.”

A muscle worked in his jaw as he struggled to hide his seething anger. “No, I do not suppose it is. Still I regret being the cause of such an ugly encounter in your establishment.”

“It was not your fault, Fredrick.” Coming to a halt, she turned to confront him. “Men such as that will always find some means of causing difficulties. As you said, they must have attention constantly drawn to themselves.”

“Yes, but these buffoons were friends of my . . . brother,” he gritted. “And I suspect that they deliberately chose to come to the Queen’s Arms because they had learned I was staying here.”

A hint of unease trickled down her spine. His expression held a grim hardness that was not at all like him.

“So what if they did?”

“Portia, perhaps it would be best if I went to stay at another inn.”

“No.” She clenched her hands at her side. “Fredrick, that is absurd.”

“Actually, it makes very good sense.” His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “If Simon’s friends desire to create difficulties for me I will not have you and your establishment caught in the mess. They could do your business a great deal of harm.”

Did Fredrick mean to leave her inn and never return?

No. It was unthinkable.

Never to see his elegant, beautiful countenance again? Never to have him interfering in matters that were none of his business? Never to feel those clever, wicked fingers skimming over her skin?

Portia swallowed her biting fear. She would brood on her strange, panicked reaction later. Much later.

For the moment she was intent on making sure that he did not disappear in some spat of glorious nobility.

Men could be such idiots.

“I am not without my own power and connections, Fredrick, and I do not need you to protect me from petty autocrats.” She regarded him with an expression of offended pride. “I have been taking care of my inn for a number of years without interference from you or anyone else.”

He frowned in concern. “Portia—”

“The gentleman who arrived, he is a friend of yours?” She interrupted as she turned and began to move down the hall.

Fredrick absently fell into step at her side. “Actually, he is more a brother than a friend.”

There was no mistaking the warmth in his voice at the mention of the unexpected gentleman. “Will he wish a room for the night or is he just passing through?”

“He will be staying in Winchester. Portia . . .”

“I must speak with Mrs. Cornell about dinner this evening,” she muttered, intent on escape before he could say another word. Her companion, however, had an entirely different notion. Before she could take more than a step she discovered her elbow caught in a firm grip as Fredrick wrenched open the door to a narrow linen closet. She gave a startled gasp as he shoved her inside and followed swiftly behind her. “Fredrick . . . what the devil are you doing?”

His only answer was to slam shut the door and haul her roughly against his chest. Even in the thick darkness his mouth managed to find her own, claiming her lips in a stark, near brutal kiss.

For long moments, Portia simply allowed herself to enjoy the heat and magic of his touch. After being alone for so long, she would never take the pleasure of Fredrick’s touch for granted. And much to her astonishment, she found being in the dark, cramped confines of the linen closet, while the servants passed just a few yards away, oddly erotic.

Then, as his fingers brushed tenderly over her flushed cheeks she forced herself to pull back.

She did not trust this strange mood of his. “Fredrick?”

“I hate this,” he muttered as he rested his forehead against hers.

“Kissing me?”

“God, no.” His hands lightly framed her face, his warm breath brushing over her skin. “I hate that we must hide in a linen closet just so I can kiss you.”

“You knew that I could not risk a scandal . . .”

“I hate those idiots who ruined a perfectly wonderful morning,” he continued in a low, fierce voice.

Her heart gave a painful jerk. “Yes.”

“I hate that no matter what I achieve in my life I will always be a bastard who is scorned by society.” His fingers tightened on her countenance. “And that just by being at the Queen’s Arms you have been tainted as well.”

She reached up to grasp his forearms, wishing that he could see her frown. “Balderdash,” she snapped in annoyance.

“Balderdash?”

“Yes. I think that I would know if I had been
tainted
.”

He made a frustrated sound deep in his throat. “God, I just wish we were far away from here, poppet. Somewhere that we could forget everything but being together.”

A poignant longing touched her own heart. Oh yes. To be alone with Fredrick—far from the inn and those who knew either one of them—it would be paradise.

It was also an impossible dream.

“I . . .”

“I am certain she came this way.” The intrusive sound of Molly’s voice floated through the door, followed by the thud of footsteps. “Maybe she went to the kitchens.”

Portia heaved a sigh. Paradise seemed very far away.

“I must go.”

Fredrick’s fingers briefly tightened before they abruptly dropped away. “Of course you must.”

Feeling oddly chilled as he stepped away, Portia instinctively reached out in the dark to clutch at his arm.

“Fredrick?”

“What?”

“Are you . . .” She was forced to halt and swallow the lump in her throat. “Are you leaving with your friend?”

“Ian is traveling with me today to Winchester.”

“You will return tonight, will you not?”

There was a short pause before he heaved a deep sigh. “I will keep my rooms here, but I think it would be best if I remain in Winchester for the next few days.”

“No, Fredrick . . .”

“Portia, I am doing this for you,” he said, the certainty in his tone warning Portia that he had made his decision and nothing would alter his mind.

Her lingering annoyance deepened. Damnation. There were times when this gentleman could be just as thick-skulled, illogical, and downright idiotic as any other man.

Wishing she was large enough to give him a good shaking, Portia was forced to content herself with brushing past his stiff form and yanking open the door to the closet.

“Because I, of course, cannot possibly know what is best for me?” she accused as she stepped into the hall and headed directly for the kitchen.

“It is not that . . . damn you, Portia.”

“Have a safe journey, Mr. Smith.”

The scenery about Winchester was hardly the most famous, or the most dramatic in England. There was little more to boast of than quiet streams that ran through thick forests and heaths. As well as an occasional village spread across a pretty parkland.

The more whimsical might take to heart the stories of Arthur’s Roundtable that was once believed to be hidden at Winchester’s Great Hall and consider the area somewhat magical, but most were wise enough to accept (and some to even appreciate) that its days of glory were nicely in the past.

Despite its lack of spectacular mountains or cliffs or looming castles, however, it did have a placid beauty that was quite undeserving of the fierce scowl that Fredrick Smith was currently bestowing upon it.

Riding at his side, Ian at last flashed him an aggravated glance, weary of the brooding silence and deep sighs worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy.

“I must warn you, Fredrick, that you are not the most scintillating companion under the best of circumstances,” he drawled. “When you are in this surly mood you are downright tedious.”

With a small jerk, Fredrick pulled himself from his brown-study to meet his friend’s sardonic smile.

“Forgive me, Ian. Would you prefer that I sing a jig or do a bit of juggling to keep you entertained?” he demanded, his nerves still raw. It had been one hell of a day thus far. And not likely to improve if he were to spend the next few nights in Winchester rather than in the arms of Mrs. Portia Walker.

“You could tell me of your Portia,” Ian said, his gaze absently lingering upon a buxom dairy maid who leaned against a nearby fence.

Fredrick smiled wryly. His friend’s gaze was always lingering upon one female or another. His gaze, however, like his attention, rarely lingered for long.

“Unfortunately she is not mine,” he muttered, his own gaze staring aimlessly down the narrow road that led toward Winchester. It was a beautiful morning for a ride. The sun shining, the breeze still cool, but not unpleasant, and the crocuses just coming into bloom.

With a last smile that sent the dairy maid to her knees, Ian turned his head to stab his companion with a searching gaze.

“Do you want her to be?”

“I think . . .” Fredrick sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to acknowledge the truth that had been fermenting in the back of his mind. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Good God.”

He gave a lift of his brows as Ian nearly tumbled from his saddle. “Why is that so shocking? Even you must admit that she is uncommonly beautiful.”

“Without a doubt,” Ian readily agreed. Too readily. “She is one of the most beautiful women that I have ever laid eyes upon.”

Fredrick resisted the urge to warn his companion. For all his faults Ian would never poach on a friend’s territory. It was an unspoken rule that the three of them had upheld no matter what the temptation.

Which was no doubt one of the prime reasons the three were still friends after all these years, he acknowledged with a faint flare of amusement.

“Then why your surprise, Ian?”

The dark-haired gentleman shrugged, his expression pensive. “When you spoke of your perfect woman I always supposed that she would be a meek and biddable sort of female who would provide you with a mob of brats and keep your house in order. I did not suspect you had a taste for exotic angels with a dictatorial nature.”

Fredrick’s smile widened. “It is even worse than you know, my friend.”

“Indeed?”

“Oh yes, she not only demands to be in charge of everything and everyone about her, but she has a habit of collecting unsavory strays, from smugglers to prostitutes.” He gave a resigned shake of his head. “Anyone foolish enough to take her on will be stuck with an endless parade of worthy causes.”

Ian gave a sudden laugh. “Actually, she is probably just the female for you, now that I think upon it. She will fuss over your employees who, even you cannot deny, are odd, reclusive creatures. And hopefully make sure that you recall to eat your vegetables and to dress warmly when the wind is chill.” He tilted his dark head to one side. “And there is no doubt that any children the two of you produce will be insufferably beautiful. Yes, it is obviously a good match. You have my blessing.”

On the point of making a flippant retort, Fredrick abruptly halted his words, the memory of the ugly scene at the inn returning with a vengeance.

“Perhaps not that great a match,” he admitted, his heart unpleasantly heavy. “At least not for her.”

“Ah, I recognize that tone.” Ian narrowed his gaze. “What is troubling you?”

“Portia has . . . suffered over the years.”

“Who has not?”

“She has suffered more than any young woman should have,” Fredrick insisted, knowing that there were still dark secrets Portia did not feel comfortable confessing. “I cannot help but wonder if she would not be better served if I were to walk away and leave her to enjoy her peaceful existence.”

Ian’s brows snapped together. “What the devil are you babbling about?”

Fredrick slowed his mount, carefully considering his words. “Until this morning I never truly considered what my lack of pedigree would mean to my wife and family.”

Ian made a rude sound. “Bloody hell, Fredrick, you cannot allow a herd of mincing jackasses to trouble you.”

“Jackasses or not, they only said what others will always be thinking.” He caught and held the golden gaze. “I
am
a bastard.”

“A bastard who has acquired a fortune greater than half those grand aristocrats rattling around London. And a bastard with the ear of some of the most influential politicians in the country.” Ian smiled with an expression of wicked satisfaction. “If you truly desired to wield your power I do not doubt you could force those three dandies to beg on their knees for your forgiveness.”

Fredrick did not bother to argue. He could make them beg if he wished to go to the effort, he supposed. Over the years he had managed to acquire the sort of fortune and connections guaranteed to punish those foolish enough to treat him with less than respect.