Bedding The Baron (17 page)

Still, there was no amount of money or connections that could completely remove the stigma of his birth.

“And yet I shall never be able to move among respectable society,” he muttered.

“Is that what Mrs. Walker desires? To be a member of the
ton
?”

“It is where she was born to be.” The image of Portia swathed in silk dancing through an elegant ballroom flared through his mind. Good Lord, she would bring society to its knees. “It is where she
should
be.”

“That does not answer my question.”

Fredrick shrugged. “She claims that she has no interest in London society.”

“And what of you?”

“Me?”

“Does she have an interest in you?”

A small smile touched his lips. “I believe there is a measure of interest.”

“Then you have nothing to fret over.”

Portia refused to pout as Fredrick collected his horse from the stables two hours later and rode off without so much as a good-bye.

She could not expect that he would always be reasonable. He was a man, after all. And his encounter with the hateful noblemen had obviously rattled his usual good sense. Perhaps it would be for the best that he had time in Winchester with his friend.

And if there was a deep, aching fear that he truly might not return to the Queen’s Arms, Portia firmly refused to dwell upon it. Or at least she refused to dwell upon it after she had snuck into his rooms and assured herself that he had left behind the greatest share of his belongings.

She was just slipping from his rooms when she noticed Quinn working at the end of the hallway. Curious, she strolled down to stand at his side, a rueful smile touching her lips as she realized that he had replaced the pulley that was attached to the small lift the servants used to haul water and dinner trays from the kitchen below with a much more complicated design. One of Fredrick’s designs.

“There we are,” Quinn at last muttered, stepping back to give Portia room to study his handiwork. “Give it a go and see if it works.”

“Really, Quinn . . .”

“Give it a go, luv,” he insisted.

Knowing she was only wasting her breath in chastising the older man for having once again made alterations without her permission, Portia reached out her hand and gave a tug on the thick rope that was attached to the wooden shelf. Her eyes widened in shock as the light touch sent the shelf flying upward without the slightest hitch.

“Good heavens.”

“Easier to pull, is it not?” Quinn demanded smugly.

“Much easier.” She gave a wondering shake of her head. She did not understand the various wheels and pulleys, but she did know that it was a vast improvement to the old system. “Molly will be delighted.”

“Aye, she will. That Mr. Smith is rather a clever chap.” Quinn flashed a knowing grin. “Just like a magpie, always fussing and fixing at his nest.”

“Actually it happens to be my nest he continues to fuss and fix,” she pointed out dryly.

“A sight better, eh?”

Well, of course it was a sight better, she wryly acknowledged. Mr. Fredrick Smith possessed an uncanny genius for seeing beyond the mundane to the magical.

A visionary, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. A dream-maker.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“As are ye.”

She turned to regard her old friend with a lift of her brows. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have never seen ye smile so much as ye have the past few days.” He gently patted her shoulder. “Perhaps Mr. Smith has a talent for fixing more than gadgets.”

Her heart flopped in her chest as she gave an instinctive shake of her head. Fredrick had brought a brief, unexpected joy to her life that she would never forget. But she was not foolish enough to believe it was anything but a passing interlude.

She had endured too many disappointments to set herself up for another.

“Quinn . . .”

“Mrs. Walker.”

The sound of Molly’s voice floated from the bottom of the stairs and with a faint grimace at the disturbance, Portia moved to peer down at the young maid.

“Yes, Molly, what is it?”

“Ye have a gent wanting to speak with you.”

“Very well. Take him to the back salon. I will be down in just a moment.”

Absently smoothing her hands down her plain grey skirt, Portia was on the point of heading down the stairs when Quinn reached out to grasp her arm.

“Wait until I can clean meself up a bit. I will be going with you.”

She regarded Quinn in puzzlement until she at last realized the cause for his odd behavior.

Obviously he feared the gentleman wanting to speak with her had some connection to the elegant buffoons who had created a disturbance earlier in the day.

She resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. “That is not necessary.”

His expression settled into lines that revealed he intended to be utterly unreasonable.

“I did not say it was necessary, I merely said that I was going with ye,” he growled in warning. “If ye do not wish to wait then I will go in all me dirt.”

“Why is everyone suddenly so certain that I am incapable of caring for my own inn?”

“Ye are perfectly capable, as ye well know, but if there is to be trouble I will not have ye facing it alone.” A sly smile touched his lips. “Mr. Smith would have me head on a platter.”

“This is absurd, Quinn—”

“I will be no more than the shake of a peacock tail,” the older man interrupted as he stomped down the stairs.

“In the shake of a what?” Following in his trail, Portia gave a lift of her hands, wondering what the devil had happened to her unshakable authority. “Dammit. Mr. Fredrick Smith has a great deal to answer for.”

Pacing the downstairs hall, Portia discovered that the shake of a peacock tail took approximately a quarter of an hour. That, at least, was the length of time it took for Quinn to return with his face washed and his hair combed. Offering him a sour glance, Portia thrust open the door to the back salon and stepped over the threshold.

Pausing to study the slender male form that was standing near the window, Portia instinctively pinned a smile to her lips. She possessed an experienced enough eye to recognize the expensive cut of the mulberry jacket and champagne gloss of his boots.

A gentleman of means. A great deal of means.

Stepping forward with a brisk professionalism, Portia was barely aware of Quinn halting at the door as her guest slowly turned to face her. Her breath tangled in her throat, her feet coming to an unconscious halt as she caught sight of the delicate features.

Good Lord. The man looked exactly like Fredrick.

Thankfully unaware of her shock, the gentleman moved toward the center of the room and regarded her with a quizzical expression.

“Mrs. Walker?”

“Yes.” Portia struggled to gather her rattled composure. “Yes, I am Mrs. Walker. May I be of assistance?”

“I am Lord Graystone.”

“Graystone. Fredrick’s father . . .” she muttered before she could halt the words.

“Yes.” A small, wistful smile touched his lips. “Your maid said that he had left for the day?”

“He went to Winchester, although I do expect him back.”

“Ah.”

“Is there a message that I can give to him?”

Lord Graystone turned away, but not before Portia managed to catch sight of the pain that flared in his pale eyes. A pain that wrenched at Portia’s heart.

Good God, it was so deep, so terribly profound. As if it came from his very soul.

“I heard there was . . . trouble here this morning,” he muttered, his slender body stiff with suppressed emotions.

Portia’s smothered a rueful smile. She had learned never to be surprised by how swiftly gossip could travel through the neighborhood.

Of course, it was rather startling that Lord Graystone would have scurried to the inn after learning that Fredrick had been accosted. After all, the boorish aristocrats had deliberately sought out Fredrick because they were friends with Lord Graystone’s legitimate son, Simon.

“There was a minor skirmish,” she admitted cautiously.

“Fredrick was not hurt, was he?”

There was no mistaking the edge of anxiety in his voice. “No,” Portia reassured him. “I can safely assure you that he is in excellent health. Not so much as a blackened eye.”

“Thank God,” he breathed, the tension slowly easing from his stiff shoulders. “When I learned that Griffith and his friends had come in search of Fredrick I feared the worst.”

“To be honest, my lord, your son and his friend managed to make mincemeat of the three gentlemen and I was forced to have them carried away by their servants.”

The older gentleman gave a soft, almost bitter laugh. “I suppose I should have guessed that Fredrick could take care of himself. It is obvious that he has become quite skilled in overcoming any difficulty.”

“No doubt because he has been forced to do so his entire life,” Portia retorted, unaware she had said her thoughts out loud until the nobleman turned to regard her with that raw, haunting pain. Her annoyance faded beneath a surge of pity. Lord Graystone might possess one of the finest estates in the county, but he was a deeply unhappy man. “Forgive me,” she said softly.

He gave a slow shake of his head. “No, you are quite right. Fredrick has not been given anything he did not have to earn himself. And the blame for that lies squarely upon my shoulders.”

“He is a fine man, me lord,” Quinn abruptly said from the doorway, causing Portia to turn and regard him with a startled glance. “One that any father can take pride in.”

“Yes, yes he is. Perhaps a finer man without my interference,” Lord Graystone said softly, that heart-rending smile tugging at his lips. “When he returns, will you tell him that I called for him, and that . . .”

“Yes?” Portia gently prompted.

“And that I would be pleased if he could join me for dinner on any night that is convenient for him.”

“I will tell him.”

“Thank you.”

With a dip of his head, the nobleman walked stiffly out of the room, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and a lingering air of aching loneliness.

The narrow, brick structure with its white shutters, ruthlessly polished windows, and brass knocker possessed the depressing air of an aging matron who battled age and encroaching poverty with more pride than success.

Dismounting, Fredrick looped the reins of his horse around the hitch post and regarded the place with an unexpected flare of curiosity. If asked he would describe himself as a gentleman of the future. A man who not only believed in change, but actively sought to bring it about. But he could not deny an interest in Dunnington’s past.

Had the tutor always been such a quiet, sober man or had he been a young rapscallion who had enjoyed the sort of high spirits he had encouraged in his students? Had he ever dreamed of finding a wife and having children or had he been content with his life of a bachelor? Had he been happy?

“This is the boarding house,” he murmured as Ian dismounted to stand at his side.

“Dunnington lived here?” his friend demanded.

“For a time at least.”

“Good God.” Ian grimaced as he regarded the sagging roof and crumbling chimney. “I hope that it was in better condition when he was a resident.”

“Most likely not. From what I could discover he was only a lowly assistant at the local college on a limited income,” Fredrick retorted. “I doubt that he would have had much to pay for room and board.”

Ian flashed him a bored glance. “And how does knowing where Dunnington lived assist in discovering the truth of your father?”

“Their paths must have crossed somewhere in Winchester.” Fredrick gave a lift of his shoulder. “I hope that by following Dunnington’s trail I will stumble across that of my father.”

“Ah. A brilliant plan.”

Fredrick smiled ruefully at his friend’s obvious lack of confidence. “I am well aware that I am grasping at straws, Ian, but for the moment I am without the least notion of how to uncover my father’s past.”

Ian reached out to smack him on the back. “Then we shall grasp at straws together, Freddie boy.”

Fredrick led the way through the gate and up the flagstone path, not missing the twitch of the white lace curtains as someone from within watched their approach. Giving the brass knocker a sharp rap, they waited in silence until the door was pulled open to reveal a large, middle-aged woman with thick features and fading brown hair pulled into a painful bun.

“Yes, may I be of assistance?”

Fredrick conjured a pleasant smile. “This is the Greaves Boarding House?”

The woman lowered her brows (unfortunately emphasizing her resemblance to a hound) as she openly surveyed Fredrick and then Ian, paying particular notice to the obvious expense of their attire.

“It is, but we only have one room open and it’s in the attics. I doubt it would suit either one of you,” she warned.

“Are you the proprietress, Mrs. Greaves?” Fredrick gamely pressed on.

“I am Miss Greaves. My mother still owns the house, but she is far too old to be taking care of the daily chores. What is it that you’re wanting?”

“Forgive me, Miss Greaves, I am being unaccountably rude.” Fredrick attempted another smile. “First allow me to introduce my companion, Mr. Breckford, and myself, Mr. Smith. We are both from London.”

Realizing that Fredrick had yet to accomplish anything more than a deepening suspicion, Ian took matters into his own hands. Quite literally.

With a smile that had felled legions of women, Ian took the woman’s thick hand and lifted the stubby fingers to his lips.

“A pleasure, my dear,” he murmured. “A very great pleasure.”

“Oh.” Miss Greaves fluttered (a rather frightening sight) beneath the force of Ian’s charm. “Thank you.”

Fredrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he hurriedly took advantage of the woman’s distraction.

“We are in Winchester searching for the family of an old friend of ours, a Mr. Dunnington, who we believe lived at this boarding house some twenty or thirty years ago.”

Miss Greaves reluctantly returned her attention in his direction. “Dunnington?”

“He worked at the local college.”

“Yes . . . it does seem as if we had someone of that name here. My mother would remember better, of course.”

Fredrick was careful to keep his expression composed. The woman could barely have been more than ten or so years old when Dunnington lived at the house. Hardly old enough to recall much of a temporary lodger.

“If it is not too much trouble, could we speak with her?”

“Actually, I am not at all certain that she should be bothered.” The woman glanced over her shoulder, discreetly lowering her voice. “Her health, you know, is rather delicate and to be honest, her memory is not what it once was. It might only upset her to be pestered with your questions.”

Fredrick attempted to appear properly sympathetic. “I assure you that I shall take great care not to upset her.”

“Well, I do not know . . .”

Once again it was Ian who expertly diverted the woman from her natural caution.

“Perhaps, Miss Greaves, while my friend is visiting with your mother, you will take a turn with me in the garden?” Dazzling the poor woman with a practiced smile, Ian took her hand to lay it firmly upon his arm. “I will be staying some days in Winchester and I suspect that I shall need the advice of a woman such as yourself if I am to find rooms that are not flea-infested and the best pubs to discover a decent dinner.”

Miss Greaves blinked, her expression one of dazed joy. A common enough expression when Ian was near a woman.

“You are staying in Winchester?”

“How could I resist when the scenery is so very charming?” Ian husked.

“Oh.”

Fredrick delicately cleared his throat. “Your mother, Miss Greaves?”

“Yes . . . I . . .” Never allowing her gaze to stray from the man at her side, the spinster motioned toward a maid who hovered at the bottom of the stairs. “Janet, please show Mr. . . .”

“Smith.”

“Please show Mr. Smith to my mother’s sitting room.”

“Yes, mum.” The young girl with a spotted face stepped forward, her blue eyes bulging with wonderment at the sight of her dull, petulant mistress fluttering like a common tart. “This way, sir.”

Tossing Ian a grateful smile, Fredrick allowed himself to be led up the narrow stairs to a cramped drawing room that was stuffed with mismatched chairs, sofas, and tables that were nearly hidden beneath an appalling collection of china figurines.

“A Mr. Smith to see you, Ma’am,” the maid croaked.

The woman with a puff of silver hair and a narrow countenance lined with age, glanced up to regard Fredrick with a startlingly perceptive gaze.

Unlike her unfortunate daughter, Mrs. Greaves had once claimed a measure of beauty. She was also far more eager to welcome Fredrick into her home.

“Bring us tea, Janet,” she murmured, setting aside her needlework.

“Aye.” With a bob the servant backed toward the door, knocking into a table and potted plant before at last scurrying away.

The elder woman heaved a resigned sigh. “Really, it is so difficult to find competent servants these days.”

“I hope that I am not disturbing you?” Fredrick said gently.

“I suppose my daughter warned you that my health is delicate and I am not to have the least amount of enjoyment whatsoever?”

Fredrick gave a startled chuckle. “She did mention that you are not to be bothered.”

“Such a dull, overbearing creature, poor thing. Always has been. It is no wonder she has never managed to marry. A gentleman prefers to hold the reins on occasion, am I right?”

“Perhaps upon occasion,” Fredrick agreed, although he was not entirely averse to one particular overbearing woman.

“Well, you might as well have a seat.” She motioned for Fredrick to take a seat on a chair near the window.

“Thank you.”

Watching as Fredrick perched on the edge of the cushion, the elder woman gave a vague shake of her head.

“You look very familiar. Have we been introduced before?”

“I fear I have not had the pleasure, although I do hope you might know an old acquaintance of mine. A Homer Dunnington? I believe he rented rooms from you years ago.”

A silence descended as the woman struggled to search through her various memories, her gnarled fingers tapping upon the arm of her chair. At last the pale eyes glittered with satisfaction.

“Ah . . . of course. He was a teacher.”

Fredrick felt a surge of satisfaction. He was not entirely on the wrong path.

“Yes.”

“He was one of my first borders,” Mrs. Greaves murmured, her eyes misty as she dredged up the long ago days. “I had to begin taking in guests after my husband died. Quite a handsome young gentleman. And always so polite. I was very sorry when he decided to leave Winchester.”

“So he did have rooms here?” he pressed.

“Oh yes. He stayed . . . oh . . . two years, perhaps a bit more.” She gave a tinkling laugh, her hand rising to unconsciously pat her silver curls. “I will admit that I hoped he might have a bit of affection for a poor widow, but he was always so dedicated to his studies. I suppose he married in later years?”

Fredrick was careful to hide his amusement. Had Dunnington deliberately ignored the lures thrown out by a young widow, or had he truly been enwrapped in his studies?

Certainly when Fredrick had known the scholar he had preferred books to females.

“No, he remained a bachelor,” he informed the curious woman.

A hopeful glint entered the blue eyes. “Did he now? Hmmm . . . still a bachelor.”

Realizing the direction of her thoughts, Fredrick gave an awkward cough. Good Lord.

“Unfortunately he passed a few months ago.”

“Ah. A pity.” The blue eyes dimmed. “Of course, at my age one becomes accustomed to learning that friends and acquaintances have turned up their toes.” Mrs. Greaves gave a small, philosophical shrug. “What is it you wanted?”

Bemused by the woman’s tendency to flutter from one subject to another without warning, Fredrick gave a brief shake of his head.

“I have been searching for any family Mr. Dunnington might have possessed.”

“Family, eh. Well, I can’t say as I recall him mentioning any family. Certainly none of them lived in Winchester.” Her gaze shifted toward the window. “Now that I think upon it, it could be that he said he had come from Surrey or maybe it was Essex . . . in any event, I do not believe he originally lived in this area.”

“I see.”

The blue eyes turned back to stab him with a curious gaze. “Is there a particular reason you are seeking his family?”

“I did not know who to contact after his death.” Fredrick gave a lift of his hands. “And of course, he did leave behind a few personal effects that I wished to give to his loved ones.”

“And you have traveled all this way? He must have meant a great deal to you.”

“He did.” Fredrick struggled to breathe as the familiar pain clenched his body. The loss of Dunnington would be an ache he would carry the rest of his life. “He was a teacher and a mentor to me, as well as several other young lads who had no one else.”

“That does sound like the Mr. Dunnington I knew.” A reminiscent smile touched her lips. “Always rattling on about the urchins who littered the streets. He claimed that it was only education that separated the lower orders from the aristocrats. Something of a radical.”

“Yes, that he was.”

“I recall that he was always arguing with the other gentleman who had taken rooms here. Now what was his name . . . ?” Her words broke off as her eyes widened. “Good heavens, that’s it.”

“What is it?”

She leaned forward, pointing a finger in his direction. “Now I know why you appear so familiar. You are the spitting image of that gentleman lodger.”

Fredrick struggled to keep his expression composed, not wanting to terrify the poor old woman by leaping from his chair and shouting his relief.

“Do I? Who . . .”

“Here we are, Ma’am.” The maid entered the room, knocking over a silver candelabrum and two statuettes on her way to the sofa.

“Good God, girl, set down the tray and leave the room before you manage to destroy what few belongings I have left,” the older woman groused, waiting until the girl had managed to turn and flee before returning her attention to the impatient Fredrick. “Now, Mr. Smith, how do you take your tea?”

He bit his lip and managed a tight smile. “Two spoons of sugar, thank you.”

“A sweet tooth, eh?”

“Yes, I fear so.” He leaned forward to accept the delicate china cup. “You said that I remind you of a lodger?”

“Mmmm. It is rather uncanny, really,” she muttered in distracted tones, filling a small plate with thin slices of seed cake. “Ham or cucumber sandwich?”

“Ham,” Fredrick muttered, silently damning the entire tea tray to the netherworld. “Do you recall his name?”

“His name?”

“The name of your lodger.” Fredrick gritted his teeth.

She handed Fredrick the plate that he promptly set aside. Ham and seed cake was the last thing he desired at the moment.

“Oh yes . . . now what was it?” Settling back in the cushions, the older woman knit her brows in concentration. “My dratted memory. It is not at all what it once used to be. Mr. . . . Clayton . . . Coleman . . . Colstone. Yes, that was it. A Mr. Colstone.”

“Fredrick Colstone?” he demanded.

“Yes, such a handsome young man,” the woman twittered. “Just like you.”

Fredrick smiled, inwardly dwelling upon his amazing stroke of fortune. To actually have stumbled across the place his father had resided while he was in Winchester . . . it was almost uncanny.

“Thank you.”

“No need to blush, my boy.” Mrs. Greaves wagged her finger in Fredrick’s direction, mistaking his high color for that of embarrassment. “I may be old, but I am not blind. I know quality when I see it. And Mr. Colstone was most certainly quality. Related to some nobleman not far from here.”

“Lord Graystone.”

“Was that the family?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” She nibbled on the edge of a sandwich. “He never spoke much about them. I always suspected there must have been some rift with his family.”

“Yes, I believe there was.” Fredrick attempted to sort through the hundreds of questions that clamored through his mind.