The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“You are an unmarried man,” she said, trying to be conciliatory. “You have the reputation of a gentleman who lives life for his own pleasure, for his own gratification, and at his whim, for—”

“That is quite enough.” He plowed his fingers through his already disordered hair. He had very nice hair, she thought, even though it was standing on end. “Listen, it was my idea that you come and live here. This cottage notion of yours is ridiculous. The thief would have you at his mercy just like he did at Mulberry House. At least here at Mountvale you are somewhat more secure, the children as well. Now, all of this is nonsense. Why did you come in here? What is this miraculous information you have to impart?”

She accepted his dismissal and said, “When I was with George in Oxford some two years ago, some of his friends came into the inn where we were lunching. He introduced them to me.”

It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “How did they treat you?”

“It’s strange that you ask.” Good God, her innocence was frightening. At least he knew for certain that she had no idea of her real status.

She thought about it a moment, then continued. “They treated me well enough, I suppose, but they seemed to me to have too many high spirits, a lot of backslapping—George’s back—and jests I didn’t understand. After they left, George seemed a bit embarrassed. His face was red. He wanted to take me home, and he did. He never took me to Oxford again.”

“What were the friends’ names?”

“I remember only one name for certain and only because it struck me as odd. Theodore Micah. The other man’s name—and this is just a wild guess—was, I think, Lambert. I don’t recall his last name or whether that is his last name or not.”

“Were they as young as George?”

“No, they were older, perhaps six or seven years older. When I asked George about them, he said they were tutors. They didn’t look or act like tutors. They didn’t look like they belonged at Oxford. They looked—loud, if you will, their clothes too flamboyant. That’s why I thought I should tell you about them. I have wondered, you see, if they had anything to do with breaking into Mulberry House. They weren’t students. They weren’t gentlemen.”

Rohan didn’t want to know any of this, he really didn’t. He wanted everything to remain the same in his memory. He wanted to think about George without feeling he’d been betrayed. Who the devil had these men been? They’d certainly known the lay of the land, curse George.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice as cold as his heart had been when he was told of George’s death. “It’s unlikely that they had anything to do with the break-ins at Mulberry House or here. They were probably just a bit of low company. Most young men consort with low company at least once. But I will think about it. It’s late. Marianne will be bouncing on you at six o’clock. Go to bed.”

But he didn’t want her framed by that light again. He turned around and walked to the sideboard. He didn’t pick up the brandy decanter, though a man of his reputation should probably swizzle down brandy like it was eau-de-vie.

“Good night, my lord.”

He said nothing. He didn’t turn to look at her. He couldn’t. It would have been too painful.

He strode to the stable just after dawn. It was blessedly quiet, the birds still battened down in their nests. The air was chill, but there was only a slight breeze. He didn’t pay much attention to the gardens—or to anything else, for that matter.

Ah, the blessed silence. He saw his best mouser, Galahad, the one Tom Harker had been holding and petting, marching along the side of the drive, his tail high. He looked extremely well fed. Even the cat was quiet. Yes, silence. Until he neared the stable door. Then he heard Jamie singing in the sweetest voice he’d heard from him yet.

“There was a pert lass from Madras

Who had a remarkable ass—

Not rounded and pink,

As you probably think,

It was gray, had long ears, and ate grass.”

Then, as if on cue, he heard Gulliver neigh in pleasure. Then another horse followed with a low whinny that went on and on, and Susannah’s mare, Hera, joined in with a lilting snort.

He went into the dimly lit stable to see Jamie brushing Gulliver while three other stable lads had paused in their duties and were eyeing him with near reverence. Then they all yelled out their approval, begging for another one, but Rohan saw Jamie shake his head. “Sorry, lads, but I can’t spoil me big sweethearts ’ere, ’twould get them all atwitter, more than one tune a day.”

Then the lads noticed the baron standing in the open doorway. There was general consternation, then absolute silence.

Rohan said easily, “Jamie, we do have an ass. His name is Puck and he roams the north pasture. Do occasionally sing him that limerick.”

“The last ass I sung it to, milord, turned around to show me this face what sunk a thousand boats.”

Gulliver neighed loudly. Did the damned horse even understand Jamie’s jests? “That was quite good,” Rohan said. “Doom, saddle Gulliver for me. Quickly, the day is too fine to waste.”

Doom was a thin, slack-jawed boy of fourteen who had never smiled, as far as anyone knew, in his entire life. No horse had ever even tried to kick him or bite him. All the staff believed it was because the horses felt sorry for him. He’d been called Doom since he was a nit of five.

Jamie walked over to Rohan while he waited.