The Babe and the Baron

THE BABE AND THE BARON

Carola Dunn

Prologue

“Halloo, Laura!”

Freddie? Startled, Laura pricked her finger with the needle and quickly put it in her mouth before the welling drop of blood stained Lady Denham's shawl. Despite her husband's unusually long absence from home, she had not really expected to see him till next month—he would not miss the first Newmarket race meeting of the year.

Through the window, open on this unusually balmy March afternoon, came the sound of several pairs of boots on the flagged path.

Sally burst into the tiny, shabby parlour. “ ‘Tis the master, madam, wi' three more gentlemen. I were upstairs dusting and I seen 'em in the lane.” Pink-cheeked with excitement, the youthful maid swung round as the front door slammed open, shaking the cottage.

Freddie appeared in the parlour doorway, fair hair ruffled, a casual Belcher handkerchief knotted at his neck. At thirty he was still a good-looking man. If the blue eyes were a trifle bloodshot, the regular features blurring, the lithe figure somewhat thickened, Laura still recognized the handsome, dashing buck who had once captivated her.

Sally bobbed a curtsy and giggled as he set his dusty beaver atop her mob cap and thrust gloves and whip into her hands.

He turned to Laura, grinning. “Well, old girl, I've something for you.” Reaching into the pocket of his multi-caped greatcoat, he pulled out a heavy leather sack, plunged his hand in, and dropped a handful of gold guineas in her lap.

“Oh, Freddie, just a minute.” The familiar feeling of mingled fondness and exasperation crept over her. “Lady Denham's shawl—”

“To the devil with Lady Denham's shawl.” He plucked the offending garment from her hands and tossed it on the floor. “You'll have no need to take in embroidery for a while, m'dear. I've had a run of luck.”

“Picked three nags in a row that didn't fall over their own feet,” confirmed the plump, dandified young man who had followed him into the room. “How d'ye do, ma'am?” He bowed.

“Hello, Sir John.” She had no time for more as Freddie upended the sack and deluged her with a clinking shower of gold. With a gasp she tried to contain it in her skirts, hoping the worn grey calico would not split. A few coins escaped to glint on the canvas-work rug at her feet.

“Not bad, eh?” Freddie beamed at her astonishment. “Buy yourself a new dress. Grey don't suit you. Tell you what, you can come with us into Newmarket tomorrow. We're going to tour the stables, check the form.”

Cambridge had better shops, but Newmarket was cheaper. Laura expressed proper gratitude, then asked, “Shall you stay home for a while, Freddie?”

“Damned if I know. You're not going to start nagging, are you?”

“Oh no, but I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

She blushed. “It's private.”

“Cut line, old girl,” he said, impatient. “Jack's an old friend and the others don't mind.”

“Won't breathe a word,” vowed Sir John Pointer. Squeezed in behind him and Freddie, the two unknown gentlemen nodded with solemn faces.

Arguing with Freddie was utterly fruitless, and now his curiosity was aroused, he would badger her until she told him. Since he insisted, let him have it plain, without roundaboutation or polite euphemisms. “I'm pregnant,” she said bluntly.

He stared at her for a moment, then, with a whoop, he seized her hands and pulled her up out of her chair. Gold coins rang on the brick floor, rolled under furniture and into corners as he swung her round, knocking over a small table.

Jack picked it up. “I say, congratulations, old fellow.”

The strangers murmured agreement, looking uneasy.

“At last!” Freddie exclaimed. “This calls for a toast. Bring us a bottle, Sally.”

“Please, sir, there's nary a drop in the house.”

“You have been gone three months, Freddie,” Laura reminded him. “Since December. You were on your way to a Christmas hunting party with—”

“Never mind that. We'll have to go down to the Bull and Bush to celebrate, fellows. I'll need a spot of the ready rhino.” He stooped, collected half a dozen guineas, and dropped them in his pocket. “See you later, Laura.” Patting her cheek, he herded his friends out of the parlour. A moment later they tramped back down the path to the lane.

“Now you just sit you down, madam,” said Sally. “It won't do you no good crawling on the floor in your condition.” She plumped down on her knees and started gathering guineas.

Laura pushed the loosened pins back into her dark hair, and straightened her cap. She sank into her chair, then reached over the arm to retrieve the shawl. Smoothing it between restless fingers, she wondered why she had imagined her news might induce Freddie to change his way of life.

Not that she wanted him at home all the time. The cottage was too small to contain his energy. He was always bored to irritability in Swaffham Bulbeck within a week, even with Newmarket nearby.

She had built a contented life for herself in the little hamlet in the years since she insisted on buying the cottage with the proceeds of an earlier run of luck. Her neighbours, both villagers and gentry, were friendly and helpful. Lady Denham not only paid well for Laura's exquisite embroidery, she brought commissions from her acquaintances. Sally, a farmer's daughter, was honest and hardworking, glad of the chance to learn. One day the girl would seek a better position at Baldwin Manor or Swaffham Prior House; in the meantime she was cheerful company.

Freddie's infrequent visits sometimes brought welcome funds, but they disrupted the even tenor of Laura's days. However unsatisfactory his presence, when he departed he left a gaping hole that took time to paper over. Once again she would have to bear the commiserating glances, the whispers behind her back, the scarcely concealed pitying scorn of women whose husbands seldom strayed far from home.

How different things might have been if he had found her attractive! Folding her hands on her barely swelling abdomen, Laura blinked away the tears that rose to her eyes. Freddie had married her out of careless kindness and had never come to her bed sober. Small wonder it had taken five years of marriage to conceive a child.

“That's all I can find, madam. Two hundred yellow boys, near as makes no odds.” The maid sat back on her heels, regarding the gleaming heap with satisfaction.

“Thank you, Sally. Take your wages for last quarter and the next, and put the rest back in the bag. Then we had best start preparing dinner in case Mr. Chamberlain brings his friends home. How fortunate that the squire brought a rabbit this morning.”

Laura was not in the least surprised when Freddie failed to return to dine, with or without his friends. Nor did she wait up when ten o'clock came and he still had not put in an appearance. She had just donned her white cambric nightgown, unpinned her hair, and picked up her hairbrush when she heard a commotion in the lane.

A rush of footsteps on the path. The doorknocker's clangour beneath her window. A group of dark figures at the gate, silent now. Laura opened the casement and leaned out, holding her candle.

“What is it?”

Jack's round face turned up to her. He doffed his hat and clasped it to his chest. “Mrs. Chamberlain, there's been an accident,” he panted, his words slightly slurred.

She froze. “Freddie?”

“He was dancing on the table, you see, celebrating, merry as a grig, and he took a notion to swing from the lantern hook on the ceiling. Stands to reason it wouldn't hold a grown man. Broke his neck.”

* * * *

When everyone had gone, Laura bowed her head in her hands and wept, not for the past, or the present, or the future, but for what might have been.

Chapter 1

“Damme if you shouldn't be banned from the Marriage Mart as a heartless flirt.” Captain the Honourable Rupert Wyckham stretched his long legs across the width of the carriage, careful not to brush against his brother's impeccable white stockings.

“Hardly likely, when half the Ton has rushed off to Paris, leaving London thin of company.” Gareth laughed, his teeth gleaming by the light of the gas lamps in the street. “Besides, the lady patronesses will never turn away a wealthy peer with an unblemished reputation, as long as he turns up in knee-breeches.”

“And arrives at Almack's by eleven o'clock. But why the devil do you go, Gareth? A more insipid evening cannot be imagined. Nothing to drink stronger than ratafia; whist at sixpence a point; and the patronesses always dragging one off to stand up with some fubsy-faced chit scarce out of the schoolroom.”

“Why do you accompany me?”

“There's always the chance of meeting a dashing widow.” Rupert preened his blond mustache and flourishing side-whiskers. “Your mistresses are always Birds of Paradise, and you're not looking for a bride.”

“It's amusing to keep Society wondering where I'll toss my handkerchief,” said Gareth lazily, “even if I've no intention of getting leg-shackled.”

“Aunt Sybil was asking me the other day when you mean to do your duty and provide an heir. I pointed out that you're only eight-and-twenty. Plenty of time to put your head in parson's mousetrap.”

“My thanks for your defence, Rupert, but I see no need of yet another heir when I have you and Cornelius and Lance and Perry all perfectly able to succeed me. I shouldn't wonder if you each produce several sons. They seem to run in the family.” He paused, and his next words were not the
non sequitur
they doubtless seemed to the captain. “Do you remember Mama?”

“Of course. I was eight when she died. I remember—well, not very much.” The stalwart young Guardsman ploughed on, embarrassed but game. “Mostly just how kind and gentle she was, and loving her, and Father being jolly and playing cricket with us. He never did after she died.”

“No, never. Ah, here we are.” Gareth picked up his chapeau-bras as the carriage turned into King Street.

Heads turned when the Wyckham brothers entered the assembly rooms. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark blue eyes and thick, wavy fair hair, they both had the resolute Wyckham chin to save their aristocratic good looks from mere handsomeness. Rupert boasted an inch or two over his noble brother, and the scarlet and gold of his uniform coat drew every maiden eye. Gareth, elegant in sober black, was the choice of the more discerning matrons, and their husbands.

Inevitably, wealth and title counted for the greater part of that preference, but by no means for all. The baron was known as a kind-hearted gentleman who did not have to be pressed into duty to dance with unhappy wallflowers. He had a dry sense of humour lacking in the gallant captain, four years his junior. More important, he had already sown his wild oats, settled down to tend his Shropshire acres and take his seat in Parliament, with a particular interest in foreign affairs.

He must surely be ready to choose a well-bred, conformable wife to fill his nursery. Each fond mama knew with absolute certainty that her own dear daughter was the perfect bride for Gareth, Lord Wyckham of Llys.

Gareth enjoyed dancing. He raised the spirits of two shy and three homely young ladies, and the hopes of five matrons, before retiring to the supper room in search of sustenance.

Ruefully acknowledging Rupert's accurate description of the refreshments, he surveyed the buffet table. He filled a plate with thin-sliced bread and butter—the cakes were invariably stale—and stood there pondering the respective demerits of lemonade, lukewarm tea, and sickly-sweet ratafia.

“Wyckham!”

The booming voice was unmistakable. “Aunt Sybil.” Sighing, he turned to greet his late father's only sister.

She sat with a crony at a small table, sipping tea and undoubtedly gossiping. Lady Frobisher prided herself on knowing everything there was to know about the Ton. A large, elderly lady with the Wyckham jaw, she was an impressive sight swathed in violet gros de Naples, the Frobisher amethysts gleaming on her ample bosom.

“Join us, Wyckham,” she ordered.

“Mrs. Payne.” Gareth bowed to her friend and seated himself, abandoning his bread and butter with little regret.

“We have been talking about your Cousin Frederick,” said the Honourable Mrs. Payne in a thin, high voice. “Most regrettable...”

“Freddie Chamberlain? What has he done now?” he asked, not greatly interested in his second cousin's latest disgraceful exploit.

“He's dead,” said Lady Frobisher, never one to mince words. “Swinging from a lamppost, I gather.”

“Good gad, he hanged himself?”

“No, no.”

“Hanged by outraged citizens,
à la lanterne, à la française
?”

“Merely foxed and up to his usual high jinks. Bound to come to grief sooner or later.”

Gareth noted Mrs. Payne's gleeful expression and wished he had not voiced his unwarranted surmises. Within twenty-four hours, every tattlemonger in Town would be convinced that the ne'er-do-well Freddie had either done away with himself or been done in by revolutionaries.

“Happened a month or two ago,” his aunt continued.