Her Mad Baron (19 page)

“I believe they don’t want to send me into some sort of decline. They fear I might be damaged permanently should I grow too excited, and the subject does agitate me.”

She listened to him, now sounding rueful, and she reflected that once the tension of the library episode was behind them, they spoke relatively easily together. Perhaps only passion turned him into a chunk of frozen man. Or rather after passion. Too excited, he’d just said. Perhaps the lovemaking they shared did him harm.

He pulled to a stop, and she was startled to realize that they’d reached her boarding house. He jumped down, tied the horses and went back to help her climb down from the tall perch. He pulled off the heavy driving gloves and brushed a finger down her face. It was warm against her chilled skin. “You called me secretive, yet you told no one what happened in Derbyshire,” he said.

“That was one night of my life, not weeks stolen. And it was a mistake that I was trapped. No one made a deliberate attempt on me.”

“No one other than me.” And yes, that was a smile that flitted across his face.

Her back, which had been ramrod stiff with tension, released slightly.

“If I’m to find out if your uncle is guilty, I suppose I’ll have to spend some time in his company,” she said heavily.

“Yes, and surely that is reason enough to allow me to pay you a decent wage. A person doing hazardous work should be able to demand more pay.”

She laughed. He didn’t.

She didn’t have long to discover what Nathaniel meant.

The very next afternoon, Mrs. Parsons’ daughter banged on their private sitting room door and announced they had a visitor.

“It’s that gentleman. Lord Bessette. Here,” Miss Parsons whispered as if he could hear her voice up three flights of stairs. “Lord Bessette, and I’d swear he looks just like those cartoons in the newspaper. All blood-and-thunder-y. Makes me feel the weight of my sins.”

The silver-haired man waited downstairs in the formal sitting room, a full cup from Mrs. Parsons’ best tea set already at his elbow. The Parsons had fled the room and probably were so much in awe of him they didn’t even press an ear to the door to eavesdrop.

Lord Bessette unfolded from the chair and bowed as Florrie and Duncan entered. It was Sunday so at least she and Duncan were still dressed well. Yet she was suddenly conscious of her hair falling down in back and of her ink-stained fingers.

He had silver-blue eyes that bored straight into hers, an immaculate straight-backed figure that reminded her of an even thinner version of Nathaniel. His nose was hooked, his jaw square. He should have been ugly with such strong features, but he was only impressive.

“Lord Bessette?” Duncan came forward, hand outstretched. “I’m delighted to meet you, my lord. I’m Duncan Cadero. Oh, do pardon me. This is my sister, Miss Felicity Cadero.”

Lord Bessette stared down at Duncan’s hand for a fraction of a second before shaking it, just long enough to convey the message that he disliked touching him, but not so long that he was rude. Exquisite timing, Florrie thought. As good as any actor on the stage.

The thought served to buck her up as she curtseyed. If he could play a part, so could she. Demure. Yes, she’d be quiet to the point of shy. She twisted her hands and wished she could force herself to blush. The thought of rolling naked w
ith Nathaniel on his library carpet did the trick.

It was easy to convince herself that she was frightened of the man.

He resumed his seat at her faltering request and looked out over the Caderos as if examining the view from a carriage passing along a particularly dirty poor street.

Yet he wasn’t outwardly bad-mannered, and even engaged in pleasantries.

In his famous baritone voice, he agreed with Duncan that the weather was fine. Lord Bessette didn’t pay attention to the flowers blooming in the park. He didn’t have time to appreciate such niceties, but knew that others did.

Florrie shrank into her seat. The intimidation was real, yet how could a man discussing flowers and weather manage to make her feel as if all of her sins were exposed for the world to see and mourn over?

Even ebullient, smooth-tongued Duncan stuttered. He smiled nervously and at last gave up trying to eke out more conversation.

Lord Bessette’s scowl brightened slightly once he’d crushed them into silence. His lean cheeks flushed, and something like a smile curved his wide mouth.

“I understand my nephew has made you an offer, Miss Cadero.”

“Do you?” She tried to look perplexed.

“I don’t think much of shilly-shallying. I am prepared to make you another offer, call it a counter-offer. Ten thousand pounds to go back to the country. That should be enough to keep you and your brother out of debt for a time, eh? You’d have no need to rent out your family home. You could live quietly in the country.”

Duncan gasped. He shifted in his chair, obviously trying to catch Florrie’s attention. She gazed at the pattern on the carpet instead.

“Um,” Duncan squeaked. “I’d think my sister’s pain would be worth more than ten—”

“No.” She raised her head and looked into the frosty grey-blue eyes. The same shape as Nathaniel’s, the same intelligent force, but so cold they burned.

She had to clear her throat. “No, I don’t accept your offer, and I am sorry you wasted your time here today.” She got to her feet and thanked God for long skirts that hid trembling knees.

As she stood, he immediately rose too. The standard polite gesture seemed a threat.

She contorted her mouth into a smile. “I don’t want to keep you from your important work, Lord Bessette. If you have concerns about your nephew’s choices, I think you should take them up with him.”

A pity her voice quavered, but her words did seem to enrage him, so perhaps it would be enough to make him leave her alone.

She saw the anger in the white around his compressed lips and waited for him to explode, but he only gave her an elegant bow. “I am not a good man to have as enemy,” he said softly and was gone. She’d expected a crash as he slammed the front door. In fact the tick of Mrs. Parsons’ prized grandfather clock was louder.

Duncan stood and reached for the tea Lord Bessette hadn’t touched. He gulped it down, and, after a moment, groped into his waistcoat for his silver flask. “I thought… I wondered… But I was wrong.” He drank deeply, coughed and tried again. “I had the impression, my love, that you had no interest in marrying Lord Felston.” He sighed and took off his glasses to polish them.

The clock ticked through the silence until he spoke again, almost sounding his normal cheery self. “I’ll wager it’s the sheer bloody-mindedness of going up against the powerful Lord Bessette. It’s the challenge. Good thing you’re not a male or you’d be marching out to conduct duels every morning.”

She sank back into her chair and picked up her cup. “Perhaps,” she said.

Duncan carefully put his glasses back on. “I’m surprised he didn’t roar at us. He can bring down the roof with his oratory skills, you know.”

“Maybe he doesn’t waste them on an unappreciative audience.”

He brushed his mustache with his fingers. “My God, Florrie. You do enjoy risks.”

“Yes.” She drained her tea.

“You’ll have good fun with this one then. I’ll be sure to find a good barrister once he’s got you thrown in prison.” He grinned at her. “Lord, what a thing, Florrie. What a thing!”

She looked at him with dismay. Any second Mrs. or Miss Parsons would creep into the room and ask why
the
Lord Bessette would call upon the Caderos. Duncan might enjoy listening to their impressed exclamations, but she needed to escape. “Don’t make mention of my engagement to anyone, Duncan,” she warned. “Or I’ll leave toads in your bed.”

Without thinking, she grabbed her cloak, and began to walk. And ended up at
his
house, again.

He wasn’t there. The butler asked if she would care to wait. She suspected the butler—Thompson, that was his name—knew about the engagement. He didn’t exactly beam down on her, but there was a more gentle glow about the old man along with a well-disguised polite avid curiosity as he led her to what was fast becoming her favorite room, the library.

A few minutes later, Thompson showed up with a tray. The sandwiches and slices of cakes were all the varieties she’d eaten on her last visit. The thought that he’d paid attention to her preferences gave her a slight chill—as if he’d been spying. No servants she knew of had time to pay attention to such minutiae. It made her wonder what other details he’d noticed. She refused to look in the direction of the carpet where some traces of their lovemaking might lie.

She was consuming her third exquisite, thin sandwich when Nathaniel strode into the library in riding breeches, leather gloves in one hand. He looked disheveled, as if he’d been going at a gallop. He carried with him the scent of fresh air and horses.

His smile was warm and real as he dropped the gloves to clasp both her hands. She resisted the urge to open her arms and instead demurely sat back down when he waved at a chair.

“Your uncle just paid me a visit,” she said. “He knows of our engagement.”

His brows went up, but the smile didn’t falter. “My mother must have told him. Or perhaps he heard that banns had been called this morning in church. No, definitely my mother. I imagine he’s been scouring the city looking for you since I told her. Surprising it took so long to find you.”

“Two days? Oh, I see you’re being funny. Nathaniel, it’s so strange. Not only did he find our boarding house, he apparently knows all about us.”

“Certainly. The man is the very best at ferreting out information about anyone he considers a threat to his power or territory.”

“Why would he want to harm you? Are you a threat?”

“There’s my journal.” He hesitated. “And he doesn’t care for people who don’t fear or respect him and I do neither. I have enough money to be a potential nuisance to him. I expect it irks him that I hold more power in his world.”

“More?”

“As baron I potentially have more wealth and influence. And my journal is gaining a wide readership. The man has spent much of my life trying to gain the upper hand with me. Why stop now?” He fell silent. “It is a dull subject, Miss Cadero. Tedious.”

Nathaniel went to the tray and poured himself a drink, though not as much as the last time. And he didn’t gulp it all down. “How much did he offer you?”

She didn’t ask how he knew. Apparently his uncle was predictable. “Ten thousand.”

He sat down with the drink cradled in his hands. “I’d hold out for fifty thousand guineas. He’s worth that at the very least.”

“Are you saying you want me to take the money? Break off the engagement?”

“No.” He lifted the glass and took a deep swallow.

“Then why did you make the suggestion?”

He smiled. “You might promise to vanish, take his money and marry me anyway.”

“I don’t want his money, and I don’t want to be a tug-of-war toy between you two.”

“I won’t tug hard. And never with him.” He put down the drink and went to her. Florrie gave up the fight and let him haul her from the chair. She even wrapped her arms around him.

“I’m glad you told him to go away,” he said, and his voice rumbled through her. “Don’t let anyone in my family tell you what to do. That way madness lies.”

The bitterness in his tone made her tilt back to examine his face.

“Even you?”

“Especially me. Florrie,” he said, and kissed her. “Why can’t I keep my hands off of you?”

“You know. You said it yourself. Animal urges. I suffer from the same affliction. But I don’t think we should indulge.” She hesitated, trying to think of words that wouldn’t drive him into hiding, which was the problem with the man—she didn’t want to have to pick every word so carefully.

Sadly, she reflected her unnaturally passionate nature inflamed him but probably disgusted him—and he was far too polite to admit as much. She’d have to carefully prod to discover the truth. “The way you behaved last night. So formal and correct. I believe it was related to what we did together. I don’t want to go through that again. Fits and illness I can live with but not that. Truly, I can’t.”

He let go of her at once. “I’m not certain I understand. I hope I have not offended you?”

His words were calm yet clipped, his face empty.

She held back the urge to shake him. “Ha! You’re doing it again. And I don’t believe it is related to your illness after all. I think it’s a part of your nature.”

“I apologize if you think I am ill-mannered.”

“No, not at all. You’re just the opposite.”

He wet his lips. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are too polite. All formal politeness and it’s like I’m seeing you through a window.”

His brow furrowed. And his mouth. The edges of his lips were white with compressed rage, like his uncle.

“Please be assured that I have no wish to cause you distress,” he said carefully.

And that bit of formal blather was more than enough to set her off. She supposed she had nothing to lose, so she put her hands on his broad shoulders and shook him. Or tried to. He was too large and solid for her to budge.