The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (7 page)

“Yes, my lord?” Penfold said. He blinked at his master’s dishabille, but remained otherwise unperturbed.

“Where is the greatcoat I had on the other day, the dark gray one I wore from Town?”

“I’ll fetch it directly, my lord,” Penfold replied.

“Bring it to me in the library, if you will.”

“Of course, my lord.” He hurried as much as a head butler could without compromising his dignity. Clun stalked into his bookroom and flung himself into his desk chair. Unaware, his fingers stole once again to the empty watch pocket.

I’ve lost it. Hell and damnation.

Penfold brought the baron’s greatcoat to him. He snatched it up and delved into each deep, flannel lined outer pocket. Nothing. The inside chest pocket perhaps, he thought, now feeling panic congeal into a hard clot of despair. Nothing.

It’s gone.

The weight of the signet ring alone would’ve announced its presence in the waistcoat where he knew he’d tucked it or in the greatcoat where he hoped he’d moved it and forgotten. But no. It was gone. His father’s father’s father’s etc., heavy, gold signet ring had somehow slipped from the watch pocket while his betrothed distracted him with her green eyes and tight frock and God knows what else.

It could have fallen out whilst he chopped her damned wood or ate her damned stew or camped out under the damned yew to safeguard her that first night. Or perhaps it fell out when he rode to and from The Graces in a Damogan-induced mental fog. It could be anywhere. He might have realized it sooner, if he hadn’t been so busy pulling pranks on his refractory wife-to-be.

It was his rotten luck to be so easily diverted by the woman. They’d only just met and behold the consequence of simple curiosity about her. Part of his legacy, nearly an ounce of Norman gold, lay sunk in the mud somewhere in the acres between the little cottage and The Graces.
 

He held out no hope his ring would turn up miraculously if he retraced his steps; yet retrace them he must, if only to reassure himself that he’d done all he could to find it before giving up.

He called for his horse.

* * *

As soon as Elizabeth heard the hoof beats, she dodged into the cottage and peeked through a shuttered window, her heart pounding. It wasn’t the baron.
 

She was treated instead to the sight of a bareheaded Mr. Tyler galloping up to the cottage and reining in his big, gray horse. He was barely dressed in linen shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat despite the chill in the morning air. He leapt down from the saddle, but issued no dire warnings about Lord Clun. She came out of hiding to greet him.

“Good morning,” he said tersely, as if she’d angered him somehow.

“Is it, Mr. Tyler? You look thunderous.”

He stopped short and blinked. “My apologies, I’m distracted. I lost something when first I was here. Have you found anything lying about? A ring perhaps? Gold. Big.”

“You lost it here, sir?”

“I took it off to chop wood and put it in my waistcoat pocket. Perhaps not.”

“As I recall, you removed your greatcoat and coat —” At this, she blushed. She shouldn’t admit she watched him while he undressed. He blinked again then shook his head as if to clear it.
 

“I did, didn’t I?” He scanned the yard. “Where did I put them, do you recall?”

“You handed them to me and I put them on the bench. Let me look.” She knelt down to peer under the rough bench where she’d sat in a daze admiring him. He joined her, sweeping his hand through the grass between them. He stood up impatiently and walked over to the stump.
 

“And my waistcoat?”

“I don’t recall,” she felt herself blush hotter. She’d been far too engrossed to notice. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Nor was I,” he said, his tone impatient. “I stood here to chop the wood.” He looked at the ground and circled the stump slowly. “Then I put the pieces over here.” He walked to the woodpile and pulled away some firewood to look beneath. Roddy’s men had done their work and a cord of firewood lay stacked in a neat round.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth walked slowly from the woodpile through the cottage doorway and called out, “You were wearing your waistcoat and coat when you came in here.”
 

She crouched down to look at the packed dirt floor. He came in behind her just as she stood up so she bumped against him and tottered off balance. He steadied her, and they both stilled.

“Don’t fall,” he ordered unnecessarily still clasping her arms.

“Of course not, thank you, Mr. Tyler.” Once he let go, she smoothed her hair back with a nervous hand and turned to face him. He stared at her as if he’d forgotten why he’d come. And at the moment, she was having difficulty recalling his purpose as well.
 

With a start, he muttered, “The yew! Mustn’t forget the yew.”

She followed him partway to the old yew near the cottage.
 

He circled it, head bent, kicking in the grass. Looking glum, he said, “It’s gone. Lost. I am a fool.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Tyler. I’ll keep looking for it.”

“No use, that. It could be anywhere,” he said and swept a hand to encompass the entire horizon before he let it fall to his side.

“Still, it will turn up, I’m certain of it.”

“Then you are a greater fool than I, Lady Elizabeth. It’s gone.”

“Optimism doesn’t make me foolish and it won’t lessen the chances of finding your ring.”

“Nor will it improve them, but the expectation of finding it worsens one’s disappointment when it fails to turn up.”

“But,” she argued, “if it
does
turn up, it justifies one’s hope. That cannot be a bad thing.” He stared at her as if she were simple-minded. “We must do as our disparate natures dictate, sir. I shall expect to find your lost ring with luck and enough looking whereas you shall find nothing because you refuse to look for fear of greater disappointment.”

The man glowered at her as if she were talking nonsense, which she knew perfectly well she was not.

“Don’t you glare at me.” She thrust an accusatory finger at his nose. “You are the one who makes no sense.”
 

His black brows shot up and he blinked. “Well. I’ll be off then. Might as well search the meadow.”

“Would you like some help?”

“No need to waste your time, too. Good day.”
 

“I’ll find it, Mr. Tyler, I will.”

He merely bowed to her and hoisted himself into the saddle. Without another word, he rode away.

She searched the cottage yard on hands and knees, combing slowly through the tall grass. She looked inside the cottage. Outside again, she paced, head down, slowly around the stump where he chopped wood for her. She removed more firewood from the pile. Around the base of the yew where he’d looked cursorily, she made a minute examination. Nothing. She widened her search.

It had to be somewhere.
 

After hours on her hands and knees, she turned up nothing but partridge bones.
 

Chapter 5

In which other hopes are dashed.

Carreg Castle, Wales.
¹¹
 

“I’
m tempted not to pay you for failure but I want you gone back to Ludlow without a fuss,” Lady Clun said without emotion to the four rough characters standing before her in the castle’s great hall.

“Yes, y’ladyship,” the leader of the loutish foursome said. “Didn’t get a name. It’s for sure she’s no local girl. That’s a fact.”
 

“Oh? And how did you deduce this?” Lady Clun asked. The man’s face blanked so she closed her eyes, inhaled slowly to count to five and rephrased the question, “How do you know she isn’t local?”

“She don’t know anyone in the village and no one knows her. Just appeared one day not long ago. A bit out of the ordinary, you might say.” He refrained from mentioning they’d not only asked around about the girl at Lady Clun’s behest but also robbed her. It was an impetuous act inspired by the sight of a particularly fine engraved gold locket hanging around her neck and a pair of lustrous pearls dangling from her ears. Jewelry like that just didn’t come along in Clun Forest. Or Ludlow for that matter. The man added, “Her brother threatened us wi’ harm so we made ourselves scarce. Thought you should know she’s not alone and seems like to stay.”
 

“Is she pretty?”

“I’d say so. Folks say she’s queer in the head and steer clear o’ her, ma’am. They knew her brother in the village, though. Big man, he. Didn’t like us, er, snooping about her,” he fibbed.

“Strange,” the baroness hissed, eyes narrowing as she considered the likelihood of a local man with an unknown sibling. She dismissed it. Next she considered who in the vicinity would confront four men to help an unfamiliar girl. Two came to mind. One was steward of The Graces, the other had been in Bath and was expected in London the last she’d heard. She fingered the Staffordshire china dog on the table beside her. It cost three times what she would pay these ineffectual fools.

“What did this big man look like?” The baroness demanded.

“Tall, big, black hair. Didn’t look much like her, come to think of it.”

“She were tall,” murmured another thug.

“A Long Meg,” the leader agreed. “And him bigger still.”

“Did you see his eyes? Were they blue?”

“Black as Hades,” he answered without hesitation.

“Ah.” The baroness leaned back.
 

Her son happened to turn up in time to rescue some strange wench. Given his genius for frustrating her, he would probably become infatuated with the tall, daft stray and turn his nose up at a proper choice for the next Lady Clun.
 

Something odd was afoot at The Graces. Strange, unattached females, mad or not, did not secret themselves on de Sayre property. That Roddy hadn’t run her off was puzzling, too. This female was still a most unwelcome mystery.
 

Lady Clun detested puzzles and surprises when they involved her son. She liked to stay well informed about the baron’s whereabouts and activities because she was anxious, nay determined, to see him married and settled.

She would have to tread carefully to learn more. She couldn’t very well interrogate Clun. He’d resent her prying — even though she did it for the good of the barony. Perhaps she’d summon the steward for an explanation instead.

“Very well, be gone. I have no more need of you.” She turned to her Welsh seneschal, Dafydd ap Rhys and added, “Price, pay them what I owe and see they return to Ludlow without passing through the village, I’ll not have them seen anywhere nearby again. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” ap Rhys replied with a grimace. The baroness insisted on anglicizing his Welsh name, like it or not. He did not.

The men left with him.
 

What now?
 

As she fumed, the frustration bubbling within now boiled over and she flicked the pot dog off the table. It shattered into pieces with a gratifying crash.
 

She would learn what she could here before leaving for London to renew her acquaintance with Viscountess Presteigne and her daughter, Horatia.

Chapter 6
 

In which the baron is bared.

The Graces

T
he day dawned clear. It was the fifth consecutive day without rain and a minor miracle in Shropshire that autumn according to Tyler Rodwell. Clun surveyed the southern reach of his estate on foot with Roddy. The baron hadn’t walked the land in almost a decade and he wanted to see firsthand how the estate fared in his long absence. Today’s tour came as a relief. He found fields dotted with neat, black-faced sheep. Prosperous tenant farmers lived in well-maintained cottages with placid milk cows in nearby pastures.
 

Halfway through their walk, Clun turned to his half-brother and said, “Thank you, Roddy. For this.”

“My pleasure,” Roddy replied with a slight nod.
 

Tyler Rodwell was a capable steward and a man remarkably free of bitterness.

Neither Roddy nor he had an easy upbringing. Far from it. But they’d grown up allies not enemies, as might’ve been the case with a younger heir and an older bastard son. Before Clun lay abundant evidence of that fraternal bond.
 

When he’d been Master William, Clun looked up to his older brother, circumstances of their births notwithstanding; and Roddy stood by him while living at the castle.

The late baron had also done what he could to prevent discord between the half-siblings, accomplishing most of it by fiat. When he fathered his firstborn as an unmarried
bon vivant
, he acknowledged him at birth, gave him a family name — Tyler — and supported him and Agnes Rodwell comfortably in Ludlow. Two years later, Lord Clun took a proper baroness and soon after begat an heir. His legitimate son was christened William Tyler de Sayre. The name the two shared marked a connection between half-brothers the father hoped to foster.
 

When Tyler’s mother died of fever, the baron decreed that his by-blow be raised at the castle alongside his legitimate son, against Lady Clun’s express wishes; and he demanded that the boy be treated well, against Lady Clun’s natural inclination.
 

But by this time, the baron had little concern for his lady’s preferences. Their marriage, begun in the heat of impulse, had curdled like fresh milk on a hot day and left a permanently sour taste in the mouths of man and wife ever after. Unlike Lady Clun, Lord Clun never discussed his disenchantment with friends or martyred himself to the ‘Love’ he once felt.

The baron decamped to London, where he took up permanent residence with his housekeeper, Mrs. Stepney, and left his rancid marriage and his bitter, humiliated baroness stewing in Wales. He also left his heir and bastard behind for reasons never explained to either son. Thereafter, he went to The Graces rarely.

Tyler Rodwell grew up at Carreg Castle with William, though he had almost no contact with Lady Clun. She showed her husband’s bastard scant tolerance when she wasn’t ignoring him entirely.