Bedding The Baron (2 page)

“Of course they must,” Ian readily agreed. “Variety, as they say, is the spice of life.”

Fredrick gave a shake of his head. He was not a prude, but he had never understood his friends’ incessant need to be forever seducing women. He had enjoyed discreet affairs, of course. And he had always chosen women who possessed intelligence and charm and could offer more than just a quick tumble. But on the whole he had preferred to concentrate on building his business. Deep within, he had always known that
she
was out there. That one special woman who would alter his life forever.

Romantic drivel, Ian would call it. Fredrick, however, had never doubted her existence.

“Variety may be the spice of life, but it is also the source of any number of nasty maladies,” he muttered.

Ian gave a short laugh. “Good God, I despair of you, Fredrick, I truly do.”

Fredrick smiled, not at all offended. Ian was forever chiding him for his dull dreams and lack of stylish dash. But his teasing was always born of affection. Dear God, how different it would have been for Fredrick had he been left in the care of his foster mother and forced to attend a traditional school (always assuming the woman would have allowed him to attend school at all). His shy nature and odd fascinations would certainly have been the source of malicious mocking, if not downright brutality. Dunnington had truly saved his life when he had brought him to this small townhouse.

“Because I do not keep a harem of women at my disposal?” he asked softly.

“Because you were born to be shackled to some harridan who will run roughshod over you until you are badgered into the grave,” Ian retorted.

“No, Ian.” Raoul regarded Fredrick with a shrewd, piercing gaze. Fredrick found himself resisting the urge to squirm beneath that steady regard. Raoul had an uncanny knack of seeing far beneath the surface of a person. Almost as if he could read their very soul. It was no doubt what made him such a good actor. “Our Fredrick is destined for quite another fate.”

“And what is that?” Ian demanded.

“Fredrick happens to be one of those rare and fortunate gentlemen who are destined for true love.”

“Bah. It still includes a wife and a pack of squawking brats, poor blighter,” Ian groused.

Fredrick rose to his feet, not nearly so flippant about discussing the future as his friends. He was superstitious enough to leave fate (or whatever one wanted to call it) well enough alone.

“As fascinating as I find your profound predictions, I believe we would be better served to devote our attention to our more pressing matter,” he said firmly.

Raoul reached out to give Fredrick’s shoulder a brief squeeze, as if sympathizing with Fredrick’s reluctance to discuss his very private dreams.

“No doubt you are right, old friend, but at the moment all we are doing is speculating with no real means of knowing the actual truth. Dunnington might or might not have extorted our respective fathers to rescue us and begin this school. There is simply no way of knowing for certain.”

Ian grimaced. “Dunnington managed to take his secrets to the grave.”

Fredrick paused as he was struck by a sudden thought. “Yes, odd that.”

“What?” Ian demanded.

It was Fredrick’s turn to do a bit of pacing. “Why did he not reveal the truth when we reached our majority?” he demanded. “God knows we could each have used such a fortune at that time.”

They exchanged knowing glances as they recalled the lean years when each of them had been forced to struggle to carve a place in a world that was determined to offer them nothing.

“Holy hell,” Ian rasped. “When I think of the years I spent dodging the collectors and living in flea ridden rooms . . .”

“Oh, come, you know Dunnington,” Raoul drawled. “He would have told you that a man’s character is formed by his suffering, not by his successes. He wanted us to learn to survive by our wits. It is what he preached on a daily basis.”

Ian’s expression revealed precisely what he thought of such a philosophy, but Fredrick was more concerned with what must have been going through Dunnington’s mind.

“That is no doubt part of the reason,” he agreed. “Dunnington did possess a strange obsession with teaching a man to stand on his own two feet. Still, I think . . .”

Silence descended in the room as Fredrick struggled to put his thoughts into words.

“Well, do not leave us in suspense, Fredrick,” Ian at last prompted.

Fredrick gave a lift of his hands. “Just consider the fact that if Dunnington had given us our legacies, he would have been forced to explain how he came by them.”

“You are off the mark if you believe that Dunnington would have been too ashamed to confess the truth of his . . . unique methods of gaining the necessary capital to begin this school,” Raoul swiftly countered. “For all his fanciful notions of teaching, he was at heart a practical man who would take full responsibility for his choices.”

“Yes, I agree with you,” Fredrick said. “I was thinking more along the lines of protecting us.”

Ian frowned. “Protect us? From what?”

Fredrick moved to stare out the window. There was nothing much to see on the quiet street. A maid shivering against the frigid breeze as she polished the doorknob across the way, a coal wagon clattering over the rough cobblestone road, a young boy and his nanny taking a walk through the garden. It was all quite commonplace, something to be seen out the window of a hundred homes in London.

But this view would always be special, Fredrick acknowledged as a fresh wave of pain rolled through him. It was special because this was home.

“If Dunnington were still alive we would not rest until we had forced him to tell us the truth of what secrets he learned of our fathers.”

“Bloody right.” Ian refilled his glass with brandy. “We have the right to know what nasty sins our fathers have been committing.”

“Perhaps we have the right, but maybe not the will,” Raoul said softly. “Is that what you are implying, Fredrick?”

“Yes.”

Ian gave a loud snort. “In English, please.”

Raoul absently reached to pluck the brandy from Ian’s hand. The actor had just celebrated his thirtieth birthday, which made him a year older than Ian and two years older than Fredrick. He took his role of the elder brother quite seriously.

“Dunnington would realize that we would have instinctively demanded that he tell us the sordid secrets that he kept. Curiosity is human nature, after all. But he might have felt that the past was better left undisturbed.”

“If he felt that way, then why reveal where the money came from to begin with?” Fredrick muttered. “There was no need to reveal that our fathers were ever involved.”

Raoul heaved a deep sigh. “Because it gave us the option of deciding whether we desired the truth badly enough to go in search of it.”

“Yes.” Fredrick shoved his fingers through his hair. Gads, but he was tired. He had been in Portsmouth when he had received word of Dunnington’s death, and he had traveled without halt to arrive in time for the funeral. Since then he had been overwhelmed with one endless task after another. When this was all said and done he intended to reacquaint himself with his very large, very comfortable bed. “It is one thing to simply be told of the past, and quite another to have to go to the effort of returning to our families and seeking it.”

“Dunnington has ensured that the truth comes with a price,” Raoul whispered softly.

Ian firmly took back his glass of brandy and downed it in one swallow. “What you are saying is that he has left us holding Pandora’s Box.”

Pandora’s Box. Yes, that was a perfect description, Fredrick acknowledged.

The sensible choice would, of course, be to keep the lid firmly closed. After all, none of them had any true relationship with their fathers. And certainly whatever secrets their fathers might be harboring could have nothing to do with them.

More importantly, they had each forged lives that gave them satisfaction in their own way. Only a fool would risk such fragile peace to stir up the past.

A silence descended that was broken only by the crackle of the burning logs as the three gentlemen became lost in their own thoughts. At last Raoul gave a sharp shake of his head.

“It would appear that if we had any sense at all we would take our money, invest it wisely, and forget where it came from.”

Ian gave a short laugh. “And when have we ever been wise?”

Fredrick had to admit his friend did have a point. Raoul devoted his life to playing roles upon the stage. Ian lived by the fickle fate of Lady Luck. And even Fredrick took enormous risks with each new patent he invested in.

“I do not suppose it is possible for any of us to know that there is some secret out there and not try to get to the bottom of it,” Fredrick admitted with a resigned sigh. “It is like having a splinter stuck in your finger that you try to ignore. Eventually you have to pluck it out or it becomes infected.”

“An unpleasant, if apt description.” Raoul gave a short, bitter laugh. “
Mon Dieu,
we are idiots.”

“And it would seem that Dunnington has at last had his final revenge for all those frogs we hid in his bed,” Fredrick said wryly.

Ian held up his empty glass. “To Dunnington, damn his soul.”

Fredrick and Raoul exchanged a wry glance. “To Dunnington,” they agreed in unison.

The violent spring storm hit without warning. One moment Fredrick was tooling his handsome cabriolet through the narrow country lanes, and the next the leaden skies had unleashed a torrent of rain that had him drenched to the bone. Even more aggravating, it turned the road to a muddy bog that threatened the footing of his matching greys.

Cursing the unpredictable weather as well as his own stupidity in ever leaving the comfort of his townhouse, Fredrick slowed his brisk pace to a mere crawl.

It had been years since he had traveled through this God-forsaken countryside, but he dimly recalled a coaching inn not too far in the distance.

When he left London, he had hoped to make it as far as Winchester before settling for the night, but he was not about to risk his horses on the treacherous path. Besides which, he already felt like a drowned rat. The sooner he had any sort of roof over his head the better.

Fredrick shivered as he was hit by a gust of chilled air. Dash it all, he had known that this was a bad notion before he ever left London. Why else would he have found a dozen insignificant reasons to postpone his search for his father’s secret?

He was content with his life. He had his career, wonderful friends, and the financial security to live in elegant comfort.

Surely only a fool would deliberately dredge up painful childhood memories simply to discover some deep, dark secret in his father’s past?

Oh yes, he was an addle-brained idiot. But a part of him had known the moment he learned of his inheritance that he would have to return to the past. The strange and bizarre legacy held the one thing he could never, ever resist.

A puzzle.

For better or worse (no doubt worse), he was plagued with an obsession to discover the answer to any riddle. It did not matter if it were the inner workings of a steam powered engine or the disappearance of his favorite stick pin, he had to satisfy his insatiable curiosity.

And so here he was, soaked through and through, endangering the beautiful greys that he had purchased from Tattersall’s for an enormous sum only last week, and searching for a tiny inn that was no doubt flea-infested, all for the sake of his damnably inquisitive nature.

Perhaps curiosity truly was a sin.

Shivering and cursing his stupidity, Fredrick traveled another two miles before he at last spotted the secluded inn that sported a large sign proclaiming it the Queen’s Arms. He turned into the yard, thankful to note that the stables appeared well-tended. His horses at least would pass a comfortable night. Which was perhaps more than he could hope for himself.

Pulling to a halt, he leaped from the carriage just as a gnarled old groom limped from the back of the inn to take the horses in hand. He grimaced as the mud splattered over his highly polished boots.

Dammit, did no one understand the importance of proper drainage?

“Would ye like them stabled, sir, or are ye just passing through?” the groom demanded, his lean, leathered face set in stoic lines and his shrewd brown eyes narrowed against the rain.

“I will be staying the night if there is room.”

“Aye, there be room.” The groom gave a jerk of his head toward the distant building already shrouded by fog. “Just take yerself to the inn and be sure to ask for the buttered rum. The best in the county.”

“In a moment. First I intend to see that my pair is properly settled for the night.”

The groom scratched his chin as he regarded Fredrick with a faint smile. “One of them sort, are ye?”

Fredrick gave a choked laugh, fairly certain that he had just been insulted. “What sort would that be?”

The brown eyes twinkled as the groom turned about and began to lead the carriage toward the stables. “Come along, sir. Me bones ain’t as young as they used to be and they have an inclination to bark in the rain.”

Bark? Did bones bark? Perhaps the poor sod was a bit touched in the upper works.

Waiting until they had entered the surprisingly clean stables, Fredrick watched with a close eye as the elderly man unhitched the greys and led them toward the nearby stalls.

“Rub them down and make sure I did not manage to injure them,” he commanded.

The groom gave a low snort as he busied himself with tending the horses. Fredrick continued to keep a careful watch on his slow, methodical motions until he was certain that his horses were in competent hands. Only then did he turn his attention to his surroundings.

Ignoring the unpleasant manner in which his damp clothes were clinging to his body, Fredrick slowly strolled around the shadowed stables, impressed by the highly polished tack and neat rows of ointment that were arranged in precise order upon a shelf.

Plucking one of the ceramic pots off the shelf, Fredrick sniffed deeply of the ointment, attempting to determine the various ingredients. As usual, his thoughts instinctively turned to business. He had an acquaintance in London who had recently made a fortune by patenting a new cough syrup. Perhaps the same could be done for such an ointment as this.

Oh, it was true enough that many grooms created their own mixtures, but the past few years had taught him that it was a simple matter to convince the aristocracy that something they were forced to pay a small fortune for must be vastly superior to something they could have for a few pence.

“I believe you might have neglected to poke yer nose in the far stall. That’s where I hide me dastardly secrets.”

Fredrick turned his head to discover the elder man regarding him with his arms folded across his chest.

“You have an intriguing assortment of ointments,” he said mildly. “Do you make them yourself?”

“Aye. Me own recipes. Nothing short of miracles they are when it comes to fixing what might ail an animal,” he admitted with obvious pride. “Not a neighbor in the county who don’t come to me when they are having horse troubles. Including the nobs.”

“Do you have these recipes written down?”

The brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do I look like a turnip-top? I keep me knowledge up here.” He tapped his forehead with a gnarled finger. “Where it can’t be stolen.”

Fredrick slowly smiled. If he desired to produce the ointments then he needed to be assured that the recipes were secret.

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

“Perhaps we will have an opportunity to discuss these ointments at a later date.”

The groom gave a sharp laugh. “Ye ain’t near pretty enough to be talking me out of secrets, sir. Not even if I were as drunk as a louse.”

Drunk as a
louse
? The old man was truly an unusual old screw, but thankfully Fredrick happened to appreciate the more interesting characters that crossed his path.

“I was thinking more in terms of a business proposition.”

“Business, eh?”

“I would need to know much more of your ointments, of course, but if they are as good as you claim then I believe there might be profit in them for both of us.”

A considering expression settled on the lined countenance. “Mayhaps,” he at last conceded.

Knowing better than to pressure a cantankerous groom when he had work to do, Fredrick offered his most charming smile.

“You seem to have everything in order. I think I shall seek the warmth of the inn.”

Without warning the groom stepped forward, a queer smile upon his lips. “What’s yer name?”

“Smith. Fredrick Smith.”

The smile widened. “Well, Mr. Smith, I happen to like ye, so let me offer ye a bit of warning. Mrs. Walker runs a tidy establishment that is as clean and well run as any ye can find, but she won’t be pleased if she discovers ye rutting about as if ye are searching for fleas.”

Fredrick grimaced, relieved he would only be stuck at the inn for one night. He had no taste for bitter, shrill-tongued women.

“A bit of a tartar, is she?”

“Tartar?” The servant chuckled softly. “Nay, just a woman who knows her own business and don’t care for people interfering in it.”

“What of her husband? Does he have no influence over his wife?”

“Portia has been a widow these past five years. Any woman on her own tends to become a bit . . . bossy. Just mind yer manners and ye will be fine.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Fredrick promised dryly. “Can you see to my bags?”

“Aye. I’ll have them in afore the cat can lick its ear.”

Whatever the blazes that might mean, Fredrick acknowledged wryly, stepping out of the stables and into the rain that continued its relentless downpour.

Ignoring the mud that splattered his boots, Fredrick hurried across the yard, only absently noting the weathered stones and slate roof of the ancient inn before he was dashing through the front door and entering a long foyer. He gave his coat a shake to rid it of the worst of the clinging rain and took a step forward.

A step was all he managed before a low, yet commanding voice floated through the air.

“Halt right there.”

Fredrick gave a lift of his brows as he watched a slender woman march toward him with a determined step. At first the shadows that cloaked the vestibule made it impossible for him to make out more than the fact that the figure marching toward him was most definitely that of the female persuasion, and that she was a delicate little creature.

It was not until she was halting near the muted light that filtered through the window that Fredrick sucked in a stunned breath.

Good God, this was no aging, bitter tartar.

She was . . . what?

Beautiful, of course.

No, stunning, he absently corrected.

Her thick hair held the dark gloss of ebony and was parted in the middle to be knotted at the nape of her neck. The severe style was a perfect frame for the pure oval of her face and emphasized the smooth porcelain of her skin. Her brows echoed the darkness of her hair as did the tangled lace of lashes that encircled the most startling blue eyes he had ever encountered. Cobalt, he at last decided. A perfect, clear cobalt that could make a man fall to his knees and plead for mercy.

With an effort, he forced himself to continue with his survey, silently deciding her thin, aquiline nose and lush lips (the color of summer roses) were just as perfect as the rest of her.

Well, she would be perfect if not for the appalling brown gown that was a size too large for her slender curves and buttoned nearly to her pretty chin. Fredrick decided that whatever modiste had been responsible for the hideous gown should be drawn and quartered.

Attempting to disguise this woman’s luminous beauty was as unforgivable as defiling Michelangelo’s Mona Lisa.

It was the dangerous narrowing of those magnificent eyes that at last jerked Fredrick out of his strange fog of fascination to realize he was staring at her like a bird-wit. With an effort he gathered his composure and attempted to appear as if he had not just been rattled to the very tips of his toes.

“Forgive me, did you say something?” he asked with a smile he had discovered could charm the most fastidious of women.

Most, but not all, he swiftly learned as her gaze skimmed dismissively over his once elegant attire and the beautiful features hardened to an aloof disdain.

“Your boots, sir,” she said, her voice low and startling cultured. The sort of culture that came from an expensive governess.

Far from offended by the woman’s cold response to his arrival, Fredrick found his fascination deepening. The woman was clearly the dreaded Mrs. Portia Walker, but what the devil was she doing here? She should have been cutting a swath through London’s most elite society. She should have earls and dukes panting at her heels.

To be buried here . . . well, it was no less than a sin.

A tingle of anticipation trickled down his spine. The woman was a puzzle.

One that he was suddenly anxious to pursue.

“You object to Hessians?” he demanded mildly. “I assure you that they are quite the latest fashion among civilized society.”

Her lips thinned, revealing her obvious distaste. For him in particular, or did she dislike gentlemen in general?

Had her deceased husband been a brute?

It would explain why she had never traveled to London.

“This may be no more than a quaint, provincial inn, but we do have standards. One of them being that my guests do not track mud throughout the place.” She gave a lift of her slender hand and a young lad with bad skin and a shock of red hair dashed to her side. “You will remove them and Tolly will see that they are polished and returned to you.”

Deliberately Fredrick assumed a haughty expression that would provoke the most mild-tempered woman. Mrs. Walker was clearly a woman who ran roughshod over others. How could he possibly resist tweaking that lovely nose?

“My dear, a gentleman does not lightly allow a stranger to polish his boots,” he drawled. “This boy might very well scuff them, or worse, leave a grease spot.”

“Nay, sir,” the lad protested, his pale eyes protruding at the implication he would create such a hideous fate. “I am always right careful. I would never—”

“That is enough, Tolly,” the raven-haired beauty interrupted, her voice exuding the smooth command of a seasoned general. “If our guest does not trust his precious boots to your care then perhaps he would be happier to stay at another inn. One that does not concern itself with mud on the floor.”

“Or perhaps one that has the good sense to properly drain their yard so a gentleman need not concern himself with ruining a perfectly good pair of boots,” he pointed out with a taunting smile.

She refused to rise to the bait as she gave an indifferent shrug. “As you say. The Fox and Grape is just another ten miles down the road.”

Fredrick smothered a small chuckle. Gads, but she was magnificent as she stood there regarding him with that aloof arrogance. This was a woman who would hold her own against the devil himself.

A familiar heat spread through his body as he briefly speculated on whether she would be as commanding in his bed. Such a notion held unlimited possibilities. All of which were enough to make him hard and aching.

“It is a wonder you have any business if you are always so eager to send your guests on their way without so much a cup of your famous buttered rum,” he said, futilely commanding his body to behave.