Bedding The Baron (18 page)

“Did he live here alone?”

“Mercy, no. He had his young wife with him.”

Fredrick winced, feeling as if he had taken a physical blow at her unwitting words. She had to be speaking of his mother since his father had not wed his current wife until after he had inherited his title and returned to Oak Manor.

“His . . . wife?”

“Oh, yes.” She gave a brisk nod. “Such a sweet, lovely young lady. She was with child when they came to stay here. She died giving birth, poor dear.”

Fredrick could not halt his rather bitter smile. “And Mr. Colstone claimed that they were wed?”

Surprisingly, the woman regarded him with a chiding frown. “Now really, sir, there is no need to stir up such an old scandal. It is true enough that the two came to live here without the blessings of the church, but they soon enough shared their vows. All right and proper it was and in plenty of time to give the babe a respectable birth.” She gave a choked gasp as Fredrick surged to his feet, knocking his chair backward. “Good heavens.”

Fredrick tipped the chair upright, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. Hardly a surprise. He had just endured the greatest shock of his life.

“Forgive me,” he muttered.

“Is anything the matter?”

“I . . .” Fredrick was forced to halt and clear the lump from his throat. “You are certain that the two of them were wed?”

The older woman stiffened, her expression faintly offended that he dared to doubt her word.

“I should be sure enough, I attended the ceremony, along with Mr. Dunnington,” she said tartly. “They, after all, did need witnesses to make it all legal.”

For the first time in his life Fredrick came perilously close to falling into a swoon. What else could explain the light-headed dizziness and sensation that he was tumbling into a deep tunnel?

Sheer pride allowed him to battle through the encroaching darkness, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the window frame.

“Where? Where was the ceremony?” he rasped.

“At the small church just around the corner, St. Mary’s,” the elder woman retorted absently, her gaze trained on Fredrick’s pale countenance. “Really, Mr. Smith, I think you should sit down. You do not look at all well.”

“I am fine.” Knowing that he was incapable of conducting a reasonable conversation, Fredrick instead moved to take one of the older woman’s hands and performed a stiff bow. Later he would no doubt return and question Mrs. Greaves more thoroughly, but for the moment he needed time to adjust to the shock he had just received. “I must thank you, Mrs. Greaves.”

“Whatever for?”

“For agreeing to meet with me and being so patient to answer my questions.” He reached beneath his jacket to withdraw a handful of coins that he pressed into her hand. “You have been of great assistance.”

“I do not know what I have done, but I will happily accept your gratitude.” The blue eyes abruptly twinkled as she hastily tucked the coins into her pocket. “Oh, if you do not mind, you might keep this between the two of us. My daughter is a fine woman, but she has a distressing lack of imagination. She would no doubt insist that this little windfall be used for something quite tedious.”

“My lips are sealed,” he promised as he headed for the door.

“Bless you, lad.”

Leaving behind the woman who was happily plotting the secret treat she intended to purchase with her coins, Fredrick managed to make his way down the stairs to the front foyer without falling and breaking his neck. He even managed to fumble open the door and was headed down the walk when Ian abruptly darted from the side of the house and grasped his arm in a painful grip.

“Good Lord, it is about time,” he hissed directly into his ear. “I thought you meant to leave me with that rabid spinster . . .” He broke off his words and conjured a smooth smile as Miss Greaves grimly charged in his wake. “My dear, I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed our brief stroll. Now, I fear, we must be on our way.”

“You will remember that the Boar’s Head is not at all suitable for a gentleman,” the woman puffed, out of breath as she attempted to prevent Ian from slipping away without a proper farewell.

Covertly, Ian inched Fredrick closer to the gate. “Yes, indeed, and I will be sure to have my luncheon at the Royal Oak.”

“And, of course, I do have a tidy tea tray prepared every afternoon at precisely five o’clock.” The broad face was faintly flushed and the pale eyes glowing with an unmistakable enchantment. “You and Mr. Smith are always welcome.”

“Ah . . . yes,” Ian muttered. “We will most certainly keep that in mind. Good day.”

Fredrick would have found the entire encounter stunningly amusing at any other time.

The hardened spinster, batting her lashes like a dewy-eyed chit. Ian, the Casanova, awkwardly retreating from the frontal attack like a skittish greenhorn.

Fredrick, however, felt inexplicably numb as he allowed Ian to hustle him through the gate to gather their horses. Even when he was mounted and headed down the cobblestone street, he could manage no more than a vague sense of unreality.

Swaying in his saddle, Fredrick managed to make it out of the neighborhood when Ian abruptly reached out to grasp the reins he held loosely in his fingers, pulling them both to a halt.

“Holy hell, Fredrick, you look as if you have seen a ghost. What the devil did that old lady say to you?” The golden gaze searched Fredrick’s countenance that was bathed in a thin coating of perspiration. “What you need is a drink, Freddie boy.”

Fredrick managed a short nod. Perhaps a few pints would help to clear the fog in his brain.

“Here, boy, see to our horses.” Tossing the reins to a nearby lad, Ian helped Fredrick dismount.

The urchin caught the reins with a practiced ease. “Aye, sir.”

“Do not get any foolish notions unless you wish to be strung from the nearest tree. Understood?” Ian growled as he pulled Fredrick firmly toward the nearby pub.

The lad swallowed heavily. “Aye.”

“This way,” Ian commanded his silent friend, managing to maneuver Fredrick down the worn steps that led to the dark, open-beamed room with a handful of tables scattered across the planked floor. “You, there,” Ian called toward the man standing behind the heavy bar at the back. “Two pints of your finest.”

Fredrick discovered himself settled at a small table in a shadowed corner as the barkeep hurried to place two mugs of ale in front of them.

“Here you are, sir,” the round-faced man said, expertly pocketing the shilling that Ian tossed in his direction before bowing back toward the bar.

A silence descended as Ian studied Fredrick with a discomfited expression. “You are not intending to cast up your accounts, are you?”

Fredrick smiled wryly, knowing just how difficult it was for Ian to remain at his side. He was the sort who preferred to solve troubles with his fists, not dole out comfort over mugs of ale.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Good. I do not play nursemaid, not even for my brother,” he muttered.

“You never fail to touch my heart, Ian.”

Watching as Fredrick drained his mug, Ian at last leaned forward with a frown.

“Can you tell me what you have discovered, or would you prefer to keep it to yourself?”

Fredrick battled back the hysterical urge to laugh.

Good Lord. He had been so stunned by the mere possibility that his parents had been wed that he had not considered what the truth might mean to others.

Rather ridiculous since there was a great deal more at stake than the fact that he was not a mere bastard.

Did he reveal the extraordinary truth and change the future of the entire Graystone clan, or allow the lie to continue?

“Fredrick?” Ian prompted, his expression hard with concern. “What the devil is the matter?”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Fredrick made a determined effort to gather his shattered wits.

“Mrs. Greaves confirmed that Dunnington was a tenant at her boarding house,” he at last admitted.

Ian took a sip of his ale as he made an effort to disguise his puzzlement. “That is what you suspected, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And my father was a tenant as well.”

“I’ll be damned.” Ian sat down his mug with a short laugh. “It was a brilliant plan after all.”

“So it would seem.”

“Whatever your father’s secret, it must have occurred while he lived in the boarding house. That would explain how Dunnington came to know of it.”

“Oh, yes,” Fredrick muttered. “It did indeed occur while he was at the boarding house.”

The golden eyes narrowed. “Did you discover what the secret is?”

“I . . .” Fredrick sucked in a steadying breath. “I at least discovered a secret he has been harboring for the past twenty-eight years.”

“Bloody hell.” Ian reached out to slap him on the shoulder. “You have done it.”

“Yes.”

Sensing Fredrick’s seething turmoil, Ian slowly leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest.

“You know what, Freddie boy, it does not matter what the damnable secret might be,” he said firmly. “We might have been burdened with worthless wastrels for fathers, but we have managed to do quite well.” He paused, a determined smile curving his lips. “No, you have done better than well, Fredrick. As difficult as it might be for me to admit, those ridiculous gadgets of yours have managed to make you one of the most influential men in all of England. Whatever your jackass of a father did twenty-some-odd years ago cannot change all you have accomplished.”

Fredrick smiled at his friend’s obvious attempt to distract him from his troubles. “Actually, Ian, it might very well change everything.”

“Not unless you allow it to.”

“True . . .” Fredrick shuddered at the thought of the turmoil and tumultuous pain the truth would cause. “I suppose it is now my decision whether to go forward or let well enough alone.”

“Come, let us forget our troubles in a barrel of ale,” Ian commanded gruffly, his golden eyes dark with worry. “Troubles are always best left for tomorrow.”

“Ian Breckford’s philosophy of life?” Fredrick demanded wryly.

Ian shrugged. “’Tis not a bad one, even you must admit.”

“No, not a bad one.” Fredrick gave a sharp, bitter laugh as he abruptly rose to his feet. “Oh God, Ian, what am I to do?”

“Damn, Fredrick . . . tell me what it is.” Ian was swiftly standing at his side, his hands clenched in frustration as he helplessly studied his friend’s tortured expression. “Tell me what it is so that I can hunt down your father and beat the bloody hell out of him.”

“They were wed.”

The words tumbled from Fredrick’s lips before he had ever realized he intended to confess the truth to his friend. Not surprisingly, Ian’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“What?”

“My mother and father, they were wed before I was born,” Fredrick rasped, shoving his hands roughly through his hair. “I am not a bastard.”

Ian appeared nearly as stunned as Fredrick felt, his golden eyes wide with shock and his mouth opening and closing a half a dozen times before he could speak.

“Holy hell, Fredrick. If you are not a bastard, then . . .”

“Then I am the legal, legitimate heir of the Graystone family.”

“Holy hell.”

Casting a glance about the taproom that was slowly beginning to fill with the local tradesmen, Ian gave a slow, disbelieving shake of his head.

“Are you certain?”

“Mrs. Greaves claims that she attended the wedding at St. Mary’s,” Fredrick muttered. “It should be a simple matter to search the church records and discover the truth.”

“Then why the hell are we at this shoddy pub instead of at the church?”

For a moment Fredrick struggled to sort through his tangled emotions. He could not deny a reluctance to charge off to the church and find the proof of his legitimacy.

It was not so much fear, he slowly accepted. Or at least not precisely fear.

No, it was more a sickening sensation at the thought of discovering the truth of his birth written upon some crumbling piece of parchment.

Surely any man deserved better than that?

Fredrick forced himself to meet the searching golden gaze. “Because as ridiculous as it might seem, I want the truth from my father’s lips.”

Ian made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. He had always been a man who held a simple, if rather cynical approach to life.

Always believe the worst in others and one is never disappointed.

“You believe the old man will tell the truth after all these years?”

“Since I do not know why he felt compelled to hide the marriage in the first place, I do not know what he will do.” His heart gave a painful squeeze even as his thoughts shied from the staggering implications. “Of course, it is rather difficult to deny a wedding that was attended by Mrs. Greaves and Dunnington.”

“Dunnington was at the wedding?” Ian sucked in a sharp breath, his brows jerking together. “No, I do not believe it.”

“That is what the old lady claims.”

“Then she must be batty. I mean . . .” Ian gave an angry shake of his head. “Surely to God Dunnington would not have allowed you to be tossed aside as a bastard if he knew for a fact that you were the legitimate heir to the Graystone estate?”

Fredrick gave a sharp jerk at the blunt question. Gads, he had not yet given thought to Dunnington’s culpability in keeping such a secret. It seemed bad enough that his father had spent eight and twenty years lying to him.

Dunnington’s seeming betrayal would have to be pondered and mourned later.

“Perhaps my father managed to convince him to keep his silence,” he muttered. “Dunnington did, after all, manage to extort a fortune from the old miser.”

“You think Dunnington sold your legitimacy for twenty thousand pounds?”

“It is a possibility.”

Ian muttered a foul curse. “If it is true then it’s a bloody sin. It is one thing to keep a secret, it is quite another to steal a man’s name.” Reaching out, Ian grasped Fredrick’s arm and gave him an impatient shake. “By God, Fredrick, you have been cheated of your very destiny.”

Fredrick swallowed a choked laugh as Ian’s furious words rang through the room with enough force to turn the heads of the half a dozen patrons. His own anger was still rigidly contained behind a thick layer of shock.

Given time he would no doubt be ranting and raving like a lunatic. For now, however, he was uncannily calm.

“Come, we are attracting attention,” he said, taking Ian’s arm and firmly steering him out of the pub. Once on the street he loosened his grip and halted in the shadows of the building.

Ian studied his tight expression with undisguised concern. “What are you going to do?”

“The first thing I must do is speak with my father.”

“Do you desire me to accompany you?”

Fredrick debated for a silent moment. A part of him wanted Ian to travel to Oak Manor with him. Despite the man’s sharp tongue and sardonic wit, he possessed an unwavering loyalty and would readily commit murder if he thought it would make Fredrick happy.

“No,” he reluctantly muttered. “I believe it would be best if I confront him alone.”

“Are you certain?” The dark, elegant features hardened. “It might take some . . . effort to make him amenable to confessing the truth. I happen to have a talent in making unwilling gentlemen amenable.”

Fredrick gave a short laugh. There were few in London who did not know the dangers of stirring Ian Breckford’s ready temper.

“So I have heard.”

“If nothing else I can help you bury the corpse.”

“A most generous offer.”

“What are friends for?”

Fredrick stilled as he regarded the man who had been such an essential part of his life for so many years. The bond between them went far beyond the ties of blood. Whatever happened, whatever he learned from his father, he would never be alone. Ian and Raoul would always be at his side.

It was a knowledge that offered a deep, unshakable comfort that nothing could touch.

Not even his father’s treachery.

Reaching out, Fredrick placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Ian, I do not know what stroke of fortune brought you to my side just when I needed you, but I am grateful.”

Ian shifted, his expression revealing his discomfort. “Good Lord, you need not become maudlin, Freddie boy. I am here because it suits me to be here, and the moment I decide otherwise I shall disappear without a care as to whether or not you have need of me.”

“Oh, yes,” Fredrick drawled in tones of patent disbelief. “Of course you will.”

Ian gave him a small shove toward his waiting horse. “Hell and damnation, would you be on your way already? I intend to devote the rest of the evening to becoming corned, pickled, and salted. And after that . . .” A wicked smile curved his lips. “After that I intend to find a beautiful, willing woman to ease my loneliness.”

Fredrick reluctantly accepted the reins to his horse from the waiting urchin. He could not deny a hint of envy.

A few drinks and the night spent in the arms of a beautiful woman (so long as that woman happened to be Portia Walker) sounded far preferable to the upcoming confrontation with his father.

Unfortunately he knew that until he had settled matters with Lord Graystone he would be unable to concentrate upon anything else.

With a smooth motion he was in the saddle, and with a brief wave in Ian’s direction, he was headed down the street.

Before this night was through he intended to have the truth.

After that . . .

He gave a shake of his head.

He would worry about “after thats,” well . . . after that.

Fredrick pulled his mount to a halt as he turned onto the lane that led to the manor house.

Before this moment the towering oaks and sprawling parkland had meant nothing to him. At least nothing more than the fact that he had arrived at his father’s estate for another tedious, painful visit.

There was no sense of homecoming, no innate pride of ownership, no pondering of how he would alter this or that once his father came to his timely end.

Now he forced himself to truly study the estate. The sculpted gardens with their fountains and Greek statuary. The untamed woodlands. The refurbished conservatory. The rich farmlands that offered an endless source of income for a proper and diligent owner.

It was truly beautiful.

A graceful, elegant testament to the rich tradition and power of the Graystone family.

A tradition that could very well belong to him once he forced his father to confess the truth.

Fredrick abruptly urged his horse forward as an unpleasant shiver raced down his spine. He had never been a mercenary gentleman. The wealth he had accumulated over the years had been nothing more than an unintended result of the success of his business.

Certainly he had never eyed a statue or tidy outbuilding and considered the worth when the lord of the manor was dead.

Gads, it was little wonder that Simon had become such a pathetic twit if that had been the manner he had passed his days rather than pursuing a decent career. Could there be anything more disgustingly morbid than waiting for your own father to die?

At last reaching the house, Fredrick readily handed his horse over to the waiting groom and climbed the stairs. He had barely managed to make the top step when the door was yanked open, and Morgan was regarding him with an expression that lacked its usual impassiveness. Indeed, there was very nearly relief etched on the long, stoic countenance.

“Oh, sir, it is good to see you,” he murmured, showing Fredrick into the foyer and shutting the door behind them. “The master feared you might not return from Winchester in time to share dinner with him.”

Fredrick set aside his hat and gloves, his brows lifting at Morgan’s low words.

“Lord Graystone knew I was in Winchester?”

Morgan gave a discreet cough as he led Fredrick down the Staircase Gallery. “I believe the master visited the Queen’s Arms and was informed you had gone to Winchester.” His steps slowed as he realized that Fredrick had halted before the large portrait of Simon. “Will Mr. Breckford be joining us?”

“No, he is remaining in Winchester.”

“Very good. If you will come this way, the master is in the library.” The elder servant cleared his throat as Fredrick continued to stare at Simon’s round pudding face. “Sir?”

“Do you know, I have never so much as exchanged greetings with my own brother,” Fredrick muttered, his fingers lifting to touch the solid wood frame. “Indeed, if it were not for these portraits I should be able to pass him on the street and never even recognize him. It is odd, is it not?”

“I believe that Lady Graystone was quite insistent that the two of you not cross paths,” Morgan was forced to reveal in strained tones.

Fredrick gave a sharp laugh. “No doubt she feared that I might contaminate her precious offspring with my tainted blood?”

“More likely she is a jealous cat who has always harbored a nasty belief that your father preferred you to that tallow-faced son of hers,” a female voice retorted from the end of the hall.

Morgan gave a strangled sound as the cook’s large bulk bore down upon them. “Mrs. Shaw, it is not your place to—”

“’Tis true enough, and you know it, Morgan,” the woman interrupted with a hint of impatience. “How many dinners has the master endured listening to that woman lecture him upon his ‘unnatural disinterest in her beloved Simon’ ? As if any gentleman wouldn’t prefer to read of his son’s business success in the newspapers rather than what foolish prank the boy has been committing, or what color his coat might have been when he attended the Petersons’ Ball.”

“What is said between the lord and lady are none of our concern, Mrs. Shaw.” Morgan managed to glare down the length of his pointed nose despite the fact the woman had a good inch on him. “We are here to serve, not to judge.”

Mrs. Shaw offered a disdainful sniff. “I serve as well as any other, but that does not mean I do not have eyes and ears.” She turned to offer Fredrick a knowing smile. “And I know true quality from the rabble.”

Sensing the onslaught of a full blown squabble, Fredrick stepped away from the portrait and lightly patted his staunch defender upon the shoulder.

“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw, but I will not have you risking your position in such a manner.” He managed a strained smile. “It would be a sin against nature for Oak Manor to lose your magical touch in the kitchen.”

A misty smile touched her lips as she preened beneath his fulsome flattery.

“There, that is what I mean.... Quality. It always shows.”

“Magical touch,” Morgan muttered beneath his breath, turning on his heel to march toward the nearby stairs. “The master is waiting, sir.”

Following the bristling butler up the staircase, Fredrick briefly considered the cook’s unwitting words.

Quality.

What the devil did it mean?

Did the fact that his mother was the daughter of a doctor rather than a common farmer make him quality? Did the fact that his parents had exchanged a handful of vows before a vicar purify his tainted blood? Did the . . .

Damnation. He was precisely the same man as he had been before arriving in Wessex, and yet . . . everything was different. One piece of paper and the entire world would soon see him as much, much more than Fredrick Smith.

It was as confusing as it was unnerving.

At last reaching the library, Fredrick waited for Morgan to announce him and silently disappear down the hall before he stepped into the long, shadowed room.

Abruptly turning from the window where he had been standing, Lord Graystone regarded his son with a restrained pleasure.

“Fredrick, you are here. I feared . . .” He halted and cleared his throat. “I was not certain that you would be able to join me.”

“It was something of a last-minute decision.”

“Ah.” The blue eyes warily regarded Fredrick’s pale countenance, perhaps sensing the tension that held him in a fierce grip. “Come near the fire. Will you have a sherry?”

Fredrick instinctively moved toward the cheery flames despite the knowledge that the chill gripping him would not eased by the heat from a fire.

“Actually, I think the evening calls for a brandy,” he said, leaning against the mantle as his father carefully poured the amber spirit and carried the glass back across the room to press it into his fingers.

“My grandfather laid this down the year my father was born. I think you will enjoy it.”

“Thank you.” Fredrick drained the fiery brandy and set aside the glass. At the moment he had no desire to savor the well-aged spirit. “Morgan mentioned that you visited the Queen’s Arms.”

“Yes.” The pale blue gaze flickered toward the fire. “I was concerned.”

“Concerned?” Fredrick gave a short laugh. This man had devoted a lifetime to proving his absolute lack of concern for his eldest son. “Why?”

The faintest hint of color stole along the chiseled line of his cheekbones. “The country is not much different from London when it comes to gossip. The rumors of your scuffle with Griffith reached me before I sat down to luncheon.”

“And you rushed to the inn to make sure I was unharmed?”

Lord Graystone’s brows drew together at the edge of mockery in his son’s voice. “Mrs. Walker assured me that you held your own.”