A Most Sinful Proposal (The Husband Hunters Club 2)

Before the final confrontation.

Chapter 28

The landlord of the Fox and Hounds was obliging enough, especially when Valentine offered to pay extra for the carrying up of water for the hot baths. He made sure that Marissa was bustled upstairs first, a kindly maid fussing over her. Valentine and George settled down in the parlor with some brandy and a warm fire, awaiting the arrival of the local doctor.

“Well, he isn’t really a doctor, but he makes do as one,” the landlord said cryptically as he closed the door.

George grimaced at his brother. “I hope it’s not some old warlock with a jar of leeches.”

Valentine grunted, taking a gulp of his brandy, and watching his boots steam as he stretched them out before the fire. After a moment he said, “I’m going to get him, George.”

George didn’t ask who he meant. “Did he really say that?” he said quietly. “Perhaps you misheard.”

“I didn’t mishear,” Valentine growled, glaring at him. “He said it deliberately, watching my reaction. It was me he wanted to hurt, not Marissa, but he’s willing to use her.”

“There’s something deep here, Valentine. Who is Baron Von Hautt, really? What of his family, his past? We don’t know much and I have a feeling we need to delve into who he is if we want to solve the mystery.”

Valentine stared thoughtfully into the flames. “He’s been around as long as me, he’s about my age, and his family is Prussian. His father was a soldier, I think, but I can’t swear to it. Someone told me once that his background was murky, and it doesn’t surprise me. That’s all I know for certain. I promise you I haven’t done anything to make him swear revenge on me.”

“S

o you haven’t seduced his sister or stolen his family inheritance,” George said thoughtfully. “It can’t be anything obvious then, Valentine, but there is something. Perhaps it’s time we found out just what his problem is.” George looked up. “Oh by the way, was your rose in the garden at Beauchamp Place?”

Valentine shook his head. “Roses were few and far between.”

“That’s it then.” George tried to sound cheerful but his sideways glance was wary.

Valentine said nothing. He didn’t want to talk about his failure to find the rose. There were too many unknowns, too many decisions to be made, and he didn’t want to face any of them just now. He’d deal with the problem of Von Hautt and then he’d decide what came next.

“I don’t think Marissa should stay at Abbey Thorne,” he said at last. “I want her to return to London with her grandmother, where she’s safe.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Good luck with that, brother.”

Valentine gave him a baleful look. “You think she’ll refuse?”

“I’d wager on it.”

“Can’t you persuade her?”

George looked pensive. “I’m beginning to realize I was mistaken in her character. She always seemed a fun sort of girl, undemanding, not complaining if a chap happened to be late or forgot to mention a boxing match he was going to. But now…I don’t think we’d suit after all. I have a feeling the banns would hardly be called and she’d be nagging me to do something I didn’t want to do.”

Valentine was staring him. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he said at last, and turned back to the fire.

Typical of George to decide Marissa wasn’t the woman he thought her, in the middle of a crisis. Still, it was one less worry for Valentine. Now he knew George wouldn’t accuse him of stealing his ladylove; he might even be grateful to his brother for taking her off his hands.

Valentine tried to smile, but couldn’t.

The memory of the baron’s expression, the gleam in his eyes, was enough to set his anger bubbling and boiling all over again. Trying to steal the rose was one thing but threatening darling Marissa…well, that was quite another.

By the time Marissa had soaked in a hot bath and dried herself before a fire, her underclothing was also dry enough to be worn. Her outer garments were still too wet, so she had no choice but to don a woolen dress that had once belonged to the landlord’s mother. It was a little big but not overly, and the style was very old-fashioned, with the waist several inches above Marissa’s actual waistline, and the skirt lacking the yards of cloth now so much in vogue. Still, it was better than nothing, and she felt able to enter the parlor feeling more like herself rather than that tearful creature of the rainstorm at Beauchamp Place.

The parlor was stuffy and warm, with a not unpleasant odor of drying cloth. George looked up at her with a wry smile. He was standing by Valentine’s chair, while a stranger bent over him and examined his head. If this was the doctor, Marissa thought, he was old and grizzled and well into his retirement.

“Aye, you’ve had a nice bump on the head there, m’lord,” the fellow said, straightening up. He turned his lined face toward Marissa, and smiled a kindly smile, his eyes crinkling up.

“This is Miss Rotherhild,” George introduced them. “Marissa, this is Doctor Arnold.” He widened his eyes slightly.

“Doctor is a courtesy title,” the man said, not losing his good humor. “I am an animal doctor, Miss Rotherhild, but the folk of Bentley Green call upon me for most of their ills.”