The Diabolical Baron Read online

  “Oh, Caro, I do wish you enjoyed the parties more. They can be quite fun—I enjoyed my own come-out tremendously.”

  “Confess, Aunt: you haven’t a shy bone in your body. And beautiful as you are, half the men in London must have been languishing for a single look from your glorious green eyes.”

  Jessica chuckled engagingly. “It wasn’t quite like that. While I attracted some attention—including, my girl, sixteen sonnets and no fewer than three odes—I was considered too headstrong by the high sticklers. And indeed, they were right. I wouldn’t want you to follow my social example too closely. Although,” she said parenthetically, “I do believe I would have attracted less censure had I not had red hair. It was very hard to pass unnoticed! You are much better at rendering yourself invisible than I. But it would be nice if you could see the Season as something other than torture.”

  “But it is torture! I feel paralyzed by shyness whenever I meet someone new. And when one of the dragons looks me over and so clearly finds me wanting . . . ! Almack’s is the worst of all. The patronesses are positively panting to find something wrong with us trembling mortals. I shrink to think of it.”

  “Still, it is a young woman’s best opportunity to meet a future husband. Much of aristocratic Britain gathers in London to mingle. It gives you the opportunity to meet people you would never discover buried on your father’s estate in Wiltshire.”

  Caroline sighed. “Since the purpose of it all is to catch a husband, I still cannot become enthusiastic. I don’t want to marry; I want to move in here with you. Apart from Signore Ferrante’s house, this is the only place I have ever been comfortable. And while he has been the best and kindest of music masters, I can’t imagine that he would want me to live with him.”

  Jessica’s gaze softened as she looked at her niece. “You know I would love to have you. But you are too young to bury yourself with a widowed aunt and her daughter in an unfashionable neighborhood. Marriage is what you make of it—you can see it as a trap or as a girl’s main chance to change her life. If you didn’t like the way you were raised, attach a man in a different mold from your father. It’s something of a gamble, of course, but it makes life more interesting.”

  Caroline giggled mischievously. “Jessica, you’re incorrigible. You look and sound exactly the way you did when you were breaking all those hearts at seventeen. I was only eight then, but I remember clearly. It’s all very well for you to say ‘attach a man’ as if it were just a matter of making your choice. That may have been true for you, but I have no such magical power over the opposite sex. And I wouldn’t want such power! I can truly think of no happier life than to move in here with you and Linda and your admirable pianoforte.”

  Jessica sighed and applied herself to her sewing for a few moments. While complimentary gentlemen were fond of saying that she looked no more than a girl, she felt the weight of her experiences if not her years. The life of an officer’s wife had been exciting, but also full of fears and constant change. She was thirty years old, had borne a child and buried a husband, and would never be truly young again.

  “Things change, love. It may seem like the ideal life for you now, but nothing remains the same. Linda will grow up and marry, you might start longing for a nursery of your own. I might even marry myself. One can’t choose a way of life and say, ‘It will stay like this.’’”

  “You think you might marry again? This is the first time I’ve ever heard you mention the possibility.”

  “While I have accepted the idea of remarriage in principle, it may never happen in practice. My income is not great, but it is adequate, and I do enjoy my freedom. It would take someone very special to make me wish to marry again, and that is unlikely to happen a third time.”

  “A third time? Was there someone besides John?” Caroline looked up in surprise from the now-tuned lute.

  “Oh, just one of those calf-love affairs.” Her aunt shrugged dismissively. “I ruined it through my foolish temper, though I’m sure it was doomed anyway because we were both so young. Still, it was very ... intense. One doesn’t meet too many kindred spirits in a lifetime.”

  Caroline’s curiosity was aroused, but since her aunt had closed the subject, she struck a chord on the lute and said, “Shall we return once more to the dread topic of Almack’s? Tell me what I should wear, then I shall play you some of the new Elizabethan dances I have learned.” She underlined her last words with several toe-tapping measures.

  “Minx! I know perfectly well you have been dressing as unbecomingly as possible to repel potential suitors.” She smiled wryly. “Though it’s unkind of me to admit it, all that has been required is wearing what your stepmother bids you. Her taste is adequate for herself and her high-colored daughters, but does nothing for you, as well you know. When you meet a man you fancy, you’ll start wearing clothes that do you justice. So choose whatever gown least becomes you, and let us hear your new dances.”

  * * * *

  The law firm of Chelmsford and Marlin, Solicitors, resembled any other such office in the City of London. Bland and impenetrable, it sat on its secrets. Inside, the young man climbing the stairs to Josiah Chelmsford, senior partner, moved with a hesitation beyond the physical limp of his right leg. His face was worn with an accumulation of fatigue and pain—a familiar look on soldiers who had fought for England and were no longer needed in the aftermath of Waterloo.

  The man known as Richard Dalton was glad to have closed the book on that chapter of his life. Waterloo lay ten months in the past, and much of that interval had been spent learning to walk again. He approached what the doctors thought an impossible task with the silent determination that was one of his chief characteristics.

  That same iron will had kept his command nearly intact while fighting across four countries, and inspired his troops with a loyalty and respect bordering on reverence. Yet though he still wore his faded uniform, in his heart he was a captain no longer.

  Like most people, he regarded lawyers warily, but a chance glimpse of a small advertisement had brought him here today.

  ANYONE KNOWING THE WHEREABOUTS OF JULIUS DAVENPORT OR ANY OF HIS HEIRS IS ASKED TO CONTACT CHELMSFORD AND MARL1N, HOLBORN, TO LEARN SOMETHING OF BENEFIT TO SAID JULIUS DAVENPORT AND HEIRS.

  The advertisement had been running in the Gazette for months, though Richard had been in no position to see it. When it did catch his eye, he very nearly did not respond. But curiosity outweighed lethargy, and now he was being announced by the surly law clerk. “Captain Richard Dalton to see you.”

  “Come in, come in!” Josiah Chelmsford’s brusque voice carried easily across the cluttered office. The rotund lawyer glanced up impatiently from his paper-covered desk, then paused with an arrested expression on his face.

  Surveying his visitor carefully, he saw a young man of medium height and wiry build, with a gaunt face that would have been handsome were it less tired. Needs fattening up, the lawyer thought. The thick brown hair was fashionably casual, but through nature, not artifice. Changeable hazel eyes with a crinkle of laughter lines looked from a face browned by years in a harsher sun than England’s.

  The lawyer stood up slowly, extending his hand over the desk. “Don’t tell me you are anyone other than Julius Davenport’s son, because I won’t believe you.”

  The smile that lit Richard’s face as he shook Chelmsford’s hand made him look younger than his twenty-eight years. “You knew my father, sir? I am said to resemble him greatly.”

  “You do indeed. The features show some of your mother, but the build and coloring and overall impression are Julius to the life. Where is your father now?”

  “Dead these last three years.”

  Chelmsford sighed and shook his head as he settled back into his chair. “Have a seat, boy. It is what I feared. I’d heard from him now and again over the years—not much, just an occasional note. But it has been too long since last he wrote. What happened, if you’ll pardon my asking?”

  “He and my mother were sailing
a small boat in the Greek Isles. A sudden squall came up—they had no chance.” Richard’s voice was tight; he paused a moment, then continued. “It was what they would have wanted, to go together. Few people get the chance to die doing what they love, with the one they love most.”

  He stopped abruptly, having said more than he intended. He had spoken to no one of the tragedy since the village priest’s letter reporting the accident had reached him in Spain. First he couldn’t talk about it, and then there had been no one who had known his family. Living in a world where the friend one breakfasted with might be dead by nightfall, it had seemed wrong to burden another with his private grief. Speaking of his parents now brought a sense of release, a loosening of the knot of tension he had carried for years.

  Deliberately lightening his tone, Richard said, “What is this talk of ‘benefit’ in your advertisement? My father was heir to a chest of diamonds, perhaps?”

  “Not precisely,” the lawyer said seriously. “Tell me, how much do you know of your parents’ background?”

  “Almost nothing, really,” Richard replied. “I know they left England abruptly at the time of their marriage, and they never talked of earlier times. I do know my father’s real name was Davenport, but we always used the name Dalton.”

  “And you never knew the reason why?” Chelmsford persisted.

  “One doesn’t spend too much time speculating about a parent’s unlawful conduct,” Richard said dryly. “I suspect my father killed someone in a duel— a matter concerning my mother, perhaps. He was lethal with both sword and pistol, and would not have hesitated to use them if necessary.

  “As a child I just accepted the name change—only later did I wonder. I think my parents wanted to forget the past. They lived very much in the present, wasting no time on regrets or worries about the future.”

  “Your guess is correct. There was indeed a duel.” The lawyer gave a short bark of laughter. “It was no great loss to the world. Lord Barford was a filthy old roué, and had been living on borrowed time for years. He was betrothed to your mother against her will. She and your father were childhood playmates and sweethearts, but both sets of parents objected to the match since neither of them had a fortune. Julius fought and killed Barford. His father disowned him over the scandal—they’d never got on well. After that, it was not surprising your parents preferred the Continent. Do you have any idea who your paternal grandfather was?”

  “Some gentleman named Davenport, I assume.”

  “Not ‘some gentleman.’ Your grandfather was the fifth Earl of Wargrave. And with your father dead, you are the sixth earl.”

  A heavy silence hung in the dusty office. A nearby church bell could be heard striking the noon hour. Richard felt a chaotic whirl of emotions, but the predominant one was anger. His eyes narrowed and his voice was clipped as he said, “I want no part of it. That damned old man rejected my mother and father, and I want nothing of his. Nothing!”

  He stood and stalked to the window, tension in every line of his body. As he looked across the sweep of London, his irritation ebbed, leaving amusement in its wake. It was a strange reaction to what most people would consider a honeyfall. Anger aimed at an unknown grandfather was a waste. Being cut off from their families hadn’t ruined his parents’ lives; on the contrary, he had never known two happier people.

  When he was relaxed again, he turned back to Josiah and said steadily, “Quite apart from how my father was treated, I have no wish to be an earl. Great wealth is a great burden. I want nothing more from life now than my freedom.”

  “Since when has responsibility been a question of choice?” the solicitor asked. “Your grandfather was an evil-tempered old tyrant who did little for the land or the people he controlled. The heir after you is an extravagant rake who will complete the destruction of Wargrave. Do you have any idea how many families depend on the estates you now own?”

  “No, nor do I care. It is nothing to me. I lived the first half of my life out of England. I was schooled here, but spent the next seven years fighting this country’s battles under conditions that would cause convicts to riot. Do not speak to me of responsibility. I have paid any debt I owe England a dozen times over.”

  The hazel eyes were unflinching, and Chelmsford was forcibly reminded of Julius Davenport thirty years before, declaring family and fortune of no importance when weighed against the woman he loved.

  “I have no desire to force you into anything. I was far too fond of your father to coerce his son. But I think he hoped you would come back here someday.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he sent notarized copies of his wedding lines and your birth certificate as those events occurred. He was the youngest son but life is uncertain. There was always a chance you would inherit, and he must have wanted to make it easy for you to prove your identity. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself and him to look at what you are throwing away? You may find a feeling for your heritage that goes beyond the burdens involved. Or is there some other part of the world that calls you?”

  “No, there is nowhere else I wish to go,” Richard said slowly. His anger had passed, leaving weariness in its wake. With his parents dead he no longer had a home. The handful of military friends who had survived the wars were closer than brothers, but they were scattered to their own lives now. There was no place or person he owed any special loyalty. And only a fool would cast aside even an unwanted fortune without investigating it first. “What is this legacy you are so anxious to foist on me?”

  Content to have captured the captain’s attention, Josiah Chelmsford started to explain what it meant to be the Earl of Wargrave.

  Chapter 2

  Caroline Hanscombe carefully checked her appearance in the mirror. Success! She definitely looked a dowd. Not only that, a short, easily overlooked dowd—certainly so insignificant that no gentleman at Almack’s would look across the crowded room and decide his life would be incomplete if he did not meet her.

  The white muslin dress, so suitable for a young miss in her first Season, made Caroline look pale and wispy. Its shapeless cut did a good job of concealing her slender figure, and the neckline was too high for fashion. She abjured the maidenly trick of pinching her cheeks for heightened color, and her dark blond curls drooped around her face to obscure her features.

  “Are you ready yet, Caro? Do I look all right? Do you suppose that Mr. Fallsworthy will be there? I do so hope he likes my dress.” The buxom maiden who bounced into the room clearly did not share her half-sister’s desire for concealment.

  Her rose-pink gown did not show her ruddy coloring to complete advantage, but it was a pretty and distinctive shade, and cut as low as she dared without being utterly beyond the line for a girl in her first Season. Her elaborate garnet necklace drew attention to her abundant charms, should someone have missed them.

  Caroline smiled affectionately at Gina. They managed to be friends in spite of different tastes and temperaments, and Lady Hanscombe’s unconcealed preference for her first-born daughter over the under-size child she had acquired with her marriage to Sir Alfred.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, Gina. You look quite delightful, and of course Gideon Fallsworthy will be there. He has never missed an occasion when he knew you would be present, and I don’t believe he will start tonight. I certainly wish I could share your enthusiasm for this evening’s treats.”

  “I will never get over enjoying Almack’s. I still can’t believe that Mama managed to procure vouchers for the most exclusive gatherings in the fashionable world. I expect it was because your mother was related to two of the patronesses, and they had to take me along with you,” Gina said shrewdly.

  Caroline nodded agreement; the first Lady Hanscombe was much better connected than the second. Louisa Hicks was thought to have made a good catch when she persuaded Sir Alfred Hanscombe to let her soothe his broken heart after his first wife’s death. Critics said he had let himself be soothed with indecent speed.

  Th
e two young ladies left Caroline’s room and headed down the stairs where Lady Hanscombe waited. Her ladyship nodded in approval of their appearances; quite right that her own daughter outshone her half-sister.

  Louisa Hanscombe was not actively hostile to Caroline and would have indignantly rejected any suggestion that she had not done her duty by her stepdaughter. Still, there was her own hopeful brood of three daughters and two sons to be provided for, and she wanted Caroline taken care of in a way that would not reduce her own children’s prospects.

  “Come along now, we don’t want to keep the horses waiting,” she boomed in a voice ill-suited to a drawing room.

  A tall, heavyset woman with iron-gray curls, Lady Hanscombe possessed of a limited understanding that kept her from any appreciation of her stepdaughter’s talents or sensitivities. Their relationship was based on duty; without love it didn’t prosper. Caroline’s dreamy absentmindedness drove Louisa to distraction, while the older woman’s abrasive voice and criticisms reduced the girl to silence or fearful stammering.

  Gina could cheerfully ignore her mother’s dogmatic opinions, or bellow back if needful; Caroline coped by disappearing until the storms subsided. Unfortunately it was harder to hide in London. With the younger children home in Wiltshire, Lady Hanscombe was free to concentrate on making sure the girls didn’t waste their social opportunities.

  The Hanscombes’ rental town house was on Adam Street—not the first stare of fashion, but a respectable-enough address, and only a short ride to King Street.

  The small party entered Almack’s at the perfect time—not so early as to appear anxious, nor so late as to appear blasé. The vast entry hall was clearly designed to impress on the fainthearted that the pinnacle of Polite Society had been attained. Since most guests were sensible of the honor of receiving vouchers to the subscription balls, the patronesses felt it unnecessary to waste money on high-quality refreshments or musicians. The stale cakes and insipid drinks were notorious, and the orchestra occasionally made Caroline shudder—one of the violinists seemed incapable of keeping his instruments in tune.