The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“Thank you for coming,” Rohan began. “You all know by now that a man broke into the house last night. He tried to search Mrs. Carrington’s bedchamber, but Toby chased him off. How he managed to get in, how he knew which bedchamber belonged to Mrs. Carrington, I don’t know. Ben found a piece of wool on a tree branch near the stables this morning.” Rohan motioned for the men to pass it around. “I want you to keep your eyes open. If you see any stranger, anyone wearing clothing of this blue, immediately inform Mr. Fitz.”

He offered a reward, which was well received, then offered all the men Mrs. Horsely’s famous cider, but only a single glass. More than one glass and the drinker would take off his clothes and dance while singing a bawdy song.

To no one’s surprise, the men cheered the cider louder than they did the reward.

Later, Rohan handed Fitz the sealed letter. “Post it, please, Fitz. It’s very important.”

“London, I see, my lord.”

“Yes, to a gentleman I can trust. Phillip Mercerault, Viscount Derencourt.”

“We have not had this much excitement since your dear mama fell from that pear tree into Raymond’s arms, not that this is the kind of excitement that leads to a serene and settled state of mind. You remember the footman, Raymond, don’t you, my lord? A very nice young man, of good character and pleasant humor. I will never forget how fortunate it was that he was standing at that particular moment beneath the pear tree.”

Was Fitz indulging in irony? It seemed more than likely.

“No, this is far more exciting. You didn’t see Marianne sitting on the edge of the balcony. Actually, I long for some boredom. This could be dangerous, Fitz.”

“I understand this same man broke into Mrs. Carrington’s house three times?”

How had he known that? Rohan blinked away the question and just raised a brow. Fitz knew everything.

“It appears to be the same man. And that is why I have written to a gentleman I trust in London. Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes, my lord. Miss Marianne is in the nursery with Betty. Master Toby is in the village acquainting himself with the vicar, as you suggested he do.”

“Yes. Mr. Byam gives lessons, as you know. I wish Toby to determine if he would like to tutor with him. I trust Mrs. Carrington isn’t yet occupied training her racing kitten.”

“No, my lord. The racing kitten doesn’t arrive until next week. Mr. Harker doesn’t like to hurry these things. He believes it’s bad for the feline’s mental works. Mrs. Carrington awaits you in the breakfast parlor.”

She chewed on the slice of ham, the slice so thin she could nearly see through it. It was the most delicious ham she’d eaten in her life.

“I have written both to my mother to tell her of her grandmotherhood and to my aunt Miranda, who, if she’s still walking on terra firma rather than lying in it, can come to live here.”

She stopped chewing. She had changed her gown. This one was muslin, a green faded from too many washings, that was banded with a dark strip of green beneath her breasts. The sleeves were short and puffed, the neck high with lace trimming. Her shining brown hair was tied back with a black ribbon and hung halfway down her back.

“You are going to a lot of trouble, my lord. Are you certain that you wish to—”

“Yes. Also, you have very nice hair,” he said, realizing in the same instant that he wanted to slide that thick hair through his fingers, something he hadn’t realized just the day before. He pulled his thoughts up short and helped himself to scrambled eggs. He wanted to pull a curtain of her hair to his face and smell her scent and feel her hair on his cheek. He had to get a hold on himself. This wasn’t at all like him. He cleared his throat, but what came out of his mouth as a prelude wasn’t what he planned. “Your eyes are a nice shade of gray blue. However, your gowns—at least the ones I’ve seen—aren’t worthy enough. They look like you’ve worn them for a decade. They are on the edge. I have decided to have a dressmaker from Eastbourne come to see to things.”

Her fork clattered to her plate. Her face was no longer serene. It was suddenly splotched with color. “My lord, you will not. All you have to do is give me George’s money. I will see to myself, Marianne, and Toby. Truly, you are very kind, but I do not wish you to spend your own money on me, and I do not wish to be indebted to you.”

“I can’t give you the twenty thousand pounds.”

Baldly said, but there it was.

“But you told me—”

“I told you that you had to live as one of the Carringtons, which you are. You are also to be the responsibility of the head of the family, in this particular case, it is I. Aunt Mariam’s will specifies that.”

“But then where does the twenty thousand pounds come in? If I continue to live here, can I not have it?”

“Oh, no, you’re to have an allowance. The inheritance is paid out in small increments each quarter, until you’re a very old lady.”

“That is a very strange bequest. Also, I am a widow, George’s widow. Surely she can’t have meant to foist a widow off on the Carrington family? Surely a widow shouldn’t have to deal with an allowance?”

He shrugged, slowly chewed another bite of bacon—crispy, as he liked it. The ground seemed a bit shaky beneath his feet, but he persevered. “Sorry,” he said. “There’s no way around it. You’re a Carrington. The will states that you are my responsibility. However, you don’t have to live here. If you would prefer to live with Tibolt at the vicarage, it’s about twenty miles east of here in Edgeton-on-Hough. But it is very small. I doubt Toby would fit in. Besides, Tibolt will have to marry in the near future. Surely you wouldn’t want to intrude on newly married persons?”

“You are saying you are the only Carrington?”