The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series)

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s overactive imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Aspen Street Press, RJP, LLC

P.O. Box 1321

Espanola, NM 87532

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the author’s written permission, except in the case of brief quotations properly referenced and used within the context of critical articles and reviews.

“If equal affection cannot be,

let the more loving one be me.”

-W.H. Auden
¹

Chapter 1

In which an irresistible force meets an immovable object
.

Shropshire, England

October 1816

S
he strode from the shadowy depths of the stable and gave William Tyler de Sayre, Baron Clun, a bold, calculating look. Actually, each sized the other up thoroughly. Lord Clun glared at the young woman before him. She was fetching in a wild-eyed, windblown, lunatic sort of way, the sort of way he found appealing, given his body’s unambiguous approbation. Her own direct green glare crackled over him. She was tall for a woman, though her head reached no higher than his nose. Her figure, stuffed in what appeared to be a tight, long sack with sleeves, was trim but lush, not wispy or liable to break in his embrace. She stood before him, arms akimbo, Diana the Huntress or perhaps Aphrodite.

Clun purred.

* * *

Lady Elizabeth Damogan, only child of George Damogan, the second Earl of Morefield, examined her potential savior. She noted with satisfaction that his enormous size alone would suffice to serve her purpose. He wore expensive boots, well-made clothes and a decent greatcoat. From the neck up, however, he had a wild, berserker-like look about him and an even wilder mane of black hair that badly needed a trim. But he would do. She looked at him again. Better than do. He had a ferocious scowl, which he was employing to no effect. She was determined to regain her valuables and she required his help.

Perhaps she ought to warn the gentleman what she intended. Then again, Elizabeth concluded, he was just a temporary henchman. He need only stand by while she retrieved what the robbers took earlier that afternoon. Given his intimidating presence, physical violence seemed most unlikely.

She heard a low rumble from the craggy, hair-strewn summit of the mountain standing before her. She fixed him with a stern look. “Are you a gentleman, sir?”

His black brows shot up and his fathomless black eyes blinked. “At times.”

“Would you help a lady in distress?”

“That would depend.” His eyes glinted in a way that should’ve given the distressed lady pause, if only she’d taken the time to consider.

“Not very chivalrous of you to quibble, sir,” she said. “It will be nothing for you to help. I require very little. If you’ll accompany me — for moral support — I can sort out a misunderstanding with a few men in the tavern.” She took a step back and to the side to regard him from that angle. “You’re an immense man, aren’t you? You needn’t say a thing to help me. In fact, I must insist you don’t.”

“I’m not—” he began.

“Off we go, then,” she said. She hooked her hand through the crook of his thick arm and, when she tried to give it a reassuring squeeze, could not help her little “Ooh!” She chose to ignore his chuckle as she spun him on his feet and remarked, “Magnificent mount.”

* * *

During her inquisition, Clun held the reins of his favorite horse, a large gray with sculpted head and well-muscled chest.
²Clun draped the reins over a stall board knowing Algernon would remain there until he returned. He had ridden at a leisurely pace this last leg of his journey. Still, he wanted his horse tended, fed and watered.

“Where is the ostler, Miss—?”

“No time for that now, good sir, come along. Just inside the tavern, if you please.” She pulled him, to the degree she could exert influence on his great mass without his whole-hearted cooperation. “Must you
dawdle
? Come along.”

They entered The Sundew, a coaching inn where Clun hoped to have a pint of ale and a hot meal on his way to The Graces, his residence of choice among the de Sayre estates in the Welsh Marches. He ducked through the tavern door behind the harridan and allowed himself to be tugged to a table where four unkempt ruffians sat laughing and drinking.

“Gentlemen,” she began, “Return my money and jewelry this instant.”

“Don’t know what you’re jawin’ ‘bout woman.” The weasel-faced spokesman for the group dismissed her until he saw Clun loom up behind her. The baron enjoyed the man’s nervous laughter. They all cast anxious sidelong looks at him.

Well they should.

“I refer to my money, my gold locket and a pair of pearl earrings,” she said succinctly. One of those earrings apparently dangled from the closest man’s earlobe. She snatched it from his ear with a swift yank.

The hapless thief screeched and clapped a hand to the side of his head.

“That’s one. Where’s the other? My brother,” she flicked a nonchalant hand over her shoulder at Clun, “is not a patient man. Return what’s mine, if you please.” She thrust out a hand and held it palm up in front of the man with the bleeding earlobe. He glanced at Clun again and reluctantly pulled the matching earring from his greasy waistcoat pocket. This she tweaked from his dirty fingers.

“Now, miss,” Weasel Face wheedled, his eyes shifting as if to calculate their odds, “Your big brother won’t relish a tussle wi’ alla us over a few fripperies.”

Oh no?

Clun cleared his throat and crossed his muscular arms over a chest half again as wide as any of the seated thugs. Other patrons left nearby tables to gawk from a safe distance.

The thieves weren’t local, Clun concluded. Neither they nor the Valkyrie realized what the scampering patrons and nervous innkeeper did: the lord of the manor, the very devil himself, Lord Clun stood before them larger than life — or rather, every bit as large as life.

Despite Clun’s long absence, everyone in the neighborhood of The Graces recognized him immediately. Moreover, they had long celebrated him as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Newspaper reports of the cavalrymen’s deadly battlefield exploits had penetrated Clun Forest, according to letters he received overseas from his steward, Tyler Rodwell. As a consequence, local men boasted of him as one of their own and mothers threatened naughty children with punishment by his hand when he returned from war. In short, the baron was firmly established in neighborhood lore.

Suddenly appearing as if in a puff of brimstone to intimidate brigands on a lady’s behalf would only burnish his fearsome reputation once witnesses dispersed to share the news of his homecoming.

Everyone in the tavern fell silent and awaited the mayhem.

“My locket, if you please,” the Amazon demanded with her hand beneath Weasel Face’s crooked nose. In a moment of inspiration, she extemporized, “For years, my brother has put Frenchmen to the sword, so I wouldn’t give him an excuse to practice his skills on you lot.”

Clun admired the female’s commitment to her fictions. Not that she was much mistaken. Shocked patrons whispered to one another the baron had no sister that they knew of, only the one, bastard brother. Clun turned his head slowly. His incendiary glance hushed all discussion.

Meanwhile, the locket and chain appeared and was dropped into the hellion’s outstretched hand.

“My purse and money. Now!” She barked and slapped the table, making the thieves jump in their seats. Each pulled coins from his pockets and Weasel Face produced her empty reticule and deposited his cut. She held it out to collect the rest. After weighing it in her hand, she nodded, never taking her gem-hard green eyes off the men. From the diminutive purse she withdrew a few pence and threw them onto the table.

“Have a round with our compliments, gentlemen,” she said and added pertly, “but remain seated until we’re on our way. Or you’ll regret it. My brother will hunt you down and pull your arms from their sockets one by one.”

With that, she turned and stalked out of the room. Clun remained a moment longer, staring as if to commit them to memory. He fixed Weasel Face with his special to-the-depths-of-Hades glare. Then he strode after her. Once outside, his stomach growled.

Just my damned luck
.

Clun had been looking forward to eating there all day. The hoyden capered at his side as they walked to the stable. The baron was hungry, tired and in no mood for her dancing jubilations.

She patted his back and tugged on his sleeve to claim his attention. “You were magnificent, sir. How may I thank you?”

“Who are you? Who were they? And what in blazes was that— ” he stomped to a stop and flung out a hand toward the inn, “that farce about?”

She dismissed his question with a shrug and said, “It’s a long story. Very tiresome.”

“Well, I will know the whole of it,” Clun roared at her.

She stilled and frowned at him.

“You are altogether too curious to be a proper henchman,” she sniffed.