The Heroic Baron Read online

  The Dowager’s Wager

  For Rowan, who is seven and thinks Percy Blakeney and Robin Hood are the greatest heroes ever. Ro, you are a true classic. May you always love to read. Books are fabulous adventures. The hero in this story, Alain, is for you. He swims, he thinks, and he is a responsible man who looks out for the people he loves just like you.

  For Great Auntie Frances in Kansas who still walks to the library twice a week to stock up on romances and has never stopped believing in the power of love.

  Fate had made Alain Hartsfield, the Baron Wickham for all of five days, her whipping boy. That dreadful muse had conspired with the mud-rutted roads and overworked axel of the carriage carrying his parents and fiancee, Alicia, home from London. Two miles from The Refuge, the strained axel broke, sending the carriage plummeting over the sharp embankment and its occupants to their deaths.

  Now, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Alain Hartsfield’s life back together again-an awful truth brought home to him in the stillness pervading the empty foyer. After five days of funereal obligations, he was finally and utterly alone. The quiet was eerie in the wake of the last departing guest, his sister Isabella and her husband Anacreon St. John the Marquis of Westbrooke.

  His two friends from childhood, Chatham Somerset and Giles Moncrief, had offered to stay on but Alain had declined the offer. He had to face facts sooner or later. He could not continue to put it off. Along with settling a haunting tragedy squarely on his broad shoulders, Fate also managed to endow him with a large burden of guilt. He should have been there.

  Alain strode down the hall to the room that served as a library. He hadn’t tried facing his failure with a strong glass of smuggled brandy yet. Perhaps that would work. He poured amber liquid from the cut-crystal decanter on the library sideboard into a tumbler and folded his long form into a worn, comfortable leather chair. He let the guilt come; he should have gone to London in his father’s place as he usually did. He should have ridden out to meet them as he’d planned and not let the rain deter him. He should have ridden faster when word had come of the accident. The doctor who’d fortuitously been traveling the same road said Alicia had lived an hour or so after they’d pulled her from the wreckage. She had called for him. He had missed her by mere minutes.

  If he’d been with them he would have noticed the axel before it was too late. If he had ridden out to meet them, he could have cried a warning in time to slow the coach. If he’d ridden faster, ignoring the danger to himself and his horse on those same muddy roads, he could have reached Alicia. If he’d been there, he could have saved her. Should haves and could haves tumbled in a misbegotten litany of grief through his mind until he fell into an awkward doze, the brandy at his elbow untouched.

  Light streamed through the library window, causing Alain to groan and shield his eyes. Deuce take it all, it was bright. Some numbskull had drawn back the curtains. He opened his eyes to a squint and moaned when he realized where he was. He was the numbskull who had not bothered to shut the drapes. Last night it had been rainy and dark. There’d been no need to shut the drapes, and he certainly hadn’t been planning on falling asleep in such a clumsy position. He shifted in the chair, grunting. No, he’d better rephrase that, such a painful position. His back ached and his neck had at least two cricks in it. Prior to this morning, he believed a person could only have one crick at a time in certain body parts. Last night proved him wrong. Alain glanced at the glass of brandy on the little table beside the chair. He was glad he hadn’t drunk himself into oblivion. Waking up this morning was bad enough without a headache to contend with as well.

  Alain stood and stretched his long body, reaching over his head with his arms. Besides, oblivion was only temporary. He still had to face the realities of his life. The servants at The Refuge would look to him for leadership. His grand vision to build a seaside resort in Hythe for vacationing middle-class families would falter without his direction. Whether he liked it or not, whether they should or not, people were counting on him. He’d failed three people in his life. He would not fail the others.

  His valet, Cranston, scratched on the library door. “Come.” Futilely, Alain straightened his rumpled clothing, knowing the meticulous Cranston would have an apoplexy upon sight.

  To his credit, Cranston refrained from scolding, much to Alain’s eternal gratitude. The loyal but stiff necked valet merely cocked an examining eyebrow at his charge-Alain knew Cranston would always look at him thusly. Cranston styled himself as an artist, not as an employee. “My lord, I have laid out fresh clothes and your shaving things in your room. I will have your dishabille resolved in no time.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.

  “Thank you, Cranston. When we’re finished, please tell Harker I will take breakfast in the estate office. Send word to Daniel Mullins that I want to visit the project site after I eat. We have decisions to make regarding the `grand vision’ if we want to stay on schedule.” It felt good to give orders. It imbued the day with an ordinary quality, as if his life hadn’t been disrupted by tragedy. He felt almost normal. Perhaps, if he could carry on with business as usual, he wouldn’t have to feel at all.

  “Alain! I didn’t expect to see you out today!”

  Alain turned in his saddle to greet Daniel Mullins, friend and the architectural brains behind his vision. “We have deadlines to meet. People are counting on us to go ahead with the project.” And he needed to stay busy so he wouldn’t start hurting again. The “grand vision” was a soothing balm. The outlines of the buildings were already visible from his post up on the cliffs overlooking Hythe. Wooden pickets and white string marked the layout of his dreams. He had bricklayers and masons waiting to start laying the foundations of the three buildings.

  “The weather is conspiring against us” Daniel edged his horse closer to Alain’s big bay, cupping his hand to his mouth to be heard against the wind. “I’m not sure we’ll meet any deadlines in the rain. We can’t lay the brick foundations in mud.”

  Alain gave a frustrated shrugged. “The ground was too frozen in the winter to dig, and now the ground is too muddy.”

  Daniel reached over to clap Alain on the back. “Spring will be here soon enough. It’s March. The bad weather won’t last much longer. Besides, there’s no hurry as long as the war with Napoleon is still on. War time isn’t conducive to travel. Your backers won’t be visiting until August after the Season lets out in London. By then, we’ll have made an impressive amount of progress”

  Alain nodded reluctantly. He was impatient. He wanted to move forward with the “grand vision.” He wanted to see something tangible, to know that his efforts weren’t in vain, that he was doing something useful with his life. The need to be useful was especially foremost in his mind this past week. Facing the mortality of others inevitably led to facing one’s own mortality. He was going to die. What would he leave behind? To what purpose was his existence?

  He had conceived of the idea two years ago, driven by a relentless case of ennui after his sister’s wedding to Westbrooke. He’d watched his sister start her life as the marchioness of a wealthy peer shortly after his best friend, Tristan Moreland, departed to join the English Peninsular Campaign against Napoleon. The two people he was closest to had moved on from their childhood romps into adulthood, leaving him behind. To assuage his feelings of loneliness and abandonment, he’d paid a visit to Hythe, home of The Refuge, one of two Wickham family baronial estates.

  The Hythe of his childhood was a quiet village. Historically, Hythe had been quiet for centuries since the thirteen hundreds. The war with Napoleon had upset the lazy balance in Hythe and the strangled war time economy had wrecked havoc with the people’s abilities to provide for themselves honestly. As the heir
to The Refuge, Alain felt responsible for their plight. They were his people. He’d known what he wanted to do so he called upon an old friend from Eton, Daniel Mullins, who was now a young, rising architect under the Prince’s Regency. Then he’d gathered together backers who’d help financially sponsor the project.

  “The wind is picking up,” Daniel said beside him. “Let’s ride down to the buildings. I want to check the stakes and make sure they hold”

  Alain’s spirits lifted as he dismounted a few minutes later after navigating the winding trail down to the village. It did him good to see the string outlines of his project. Even with this small amount of detail, he could fill his head with imaginings of Hythe as a bustling resort town. Not on par with Brighton, of course, a little further down the coast. It was not meant to compete with Brighton. His town was for middle-class families looking for an affordable vacation, an inexpensive escape from the oppressive heat of a London summer.

  Satisfied that the stakes were secure against a storm blowing off the channel, Daniel suggested a mug of grog. “Everyone in town will be at The Sail and Oar except the most intrepid of ferrymen” Daniel stomped his feet and blew on his hands against the cold stirred up by the wind.

  Alain laughed. “You try so hard to be a sailor, my friend. I am afraid you’re a landlubber at heart”

  “I am an architect after all.” Daniel took the ribbing good-naturedly. “We can leave the horses up here at the livery and walk down.”

  The Sail and Oar was located on the currently quiet wharf. Gray whitecapped waves banged against the pilings, crafts bobbed defiantly at their strong moorings against the Channel’s onslaught. Despite the cold outside, The Sail and Oar emanated the warmth of rich laughter and the camaraderie of men holed up for the duration. Indeed, many of these men had been holed up since the December storms made plying their sea-going trades impossible until spring brought calmer waters.

  Upon seeing him, the men broke into cheers, forming a gauntlet of sorts to thump him on the back. Someone thrust a mug of ale in his hand. Someone else steered him to an empty seat at a bench amid them. Someone else, who he recognized as Matthew Hinton, the town blacksmith, raised a frothing mug in a toast. “To the baron!” The phrase chorused around him amid a cacophony of clanking tankards.

  Alain dug in his purse for coins for a round of drinks. Matthew Hinton’s beefy paw stopped him. “Your coppers are no good here today, are they men?” Hinton looked around at the crowded public room, eyeing everyone for approval. Everyone nodded in agreement. Alain took the kind gesture graciously. It was their way of mourning with him. In a small, warm way, the village mourning with him eased the foreboding sense of loss that had permeated his life over the last week. His family had been part of the community fabric for three generations. His loss was their loss. He was not alone in his grief. His quiet, stalwart father who worked dili gently behind the scenes as well as his generous, more vivacious emigre mother would be missed by them all. His spirits improving, Alain raised his tankard for a second toast. “To Hythe and its good people!”

  Suddenly the door whipped open bringing with it a rush of wind and spray and Matthew Hinton’s eightyear-old son. He was soaked and panting. “Da, there’s a boat! Ma sent me to tell you that it’s breaking up. There are people on it! Da, you’ve got to help it.”

  Alain was on his feet next to Matthew. “Show us the boat, Tommy”

  The scow was two hundred feet from shore and foundering. With the weather conditions as they were, it might as well have been a mile. Alain rapidly scanned the shore, his sharp eyes lighting on a sturdy row boat. He pointed to it, firing off orders. “Matthew, you and I will take the row boat out. Malcolm, take what men you need and get your boat underway” Alain scanned the gray waters one more time before jumping in the row boat with Matthew. “We’ve got to hurry; someone is already in the water!”

  Alain’s shirt was plastered against his skin by the time he and Matthew managed to maneuver their row boat close to the foundering little dinghy. With each stroke, the winds threatened to blow them off course, if not worse. Alain recognized his strength alone would not have gotten the row boat to its destination.

  On board the sinking craft, a woman was shouting hysterically and pointing to the man in the water, while a small child clung to her wet skirts screaming. An older boy had the presence of mind to alternate his ef forts between bailing water and attempting to reach the drowning man with a long pole. Both efforts were valiant but futile. The bailing bucket was no match for the wrath of the English Channel and the pole was too short, even if he could have kept the boat on course.

  Acting quickly, Alain reached for the cordon of rope lying at his feet. He tossed it to the man in the water, who grabbed it desperately. Matthew steadied the boat with his massive blacksmith’s strength while Alain tugged the rope, hand over hand. The man couldn’t hold on. By Alain’s estimation, he’d been in the water for ten minutes. It was miraculous the stormy waves hadn’t already claimed him, but the cold was deadly. His hands were too frozen to grasp the rope. Alain sighted Malcolm’s boat. It would reach them within minutes. “Get the woman and children into our boat and then transfer to Malcolm’s,” Alain instructed. “I’m going in after the man.” With that, Alain secured himself to the boat with a makeshift harness and plunged into the icy waters.

  At the best of times, the Channel was a cold place to swim. This time of year, it was positively frigid. Twenty glacial feet later, Alain reached the man’s side. The man was barely conscious, the cold having sapped the last of his strength. At least that meant the man wouldn’t fight him and drown his rescuer in the process. Alain gripped the man under the armpits and tugged on the rope, signaling Matthew to pull him back in.

  Matthew pulled him aboard and Alain collapsed, shivering, alongside his rescued bundle in the bottom of the boat. Matthew threw a blanket around Alain.

  “Take some rope and lash the boats together,” Alain said between chattering teeth. “I won’t be able to help you row back.”

  Matthew nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Everyone is safe. Nothing left of the boat, though”

  Alain squinted through the spray to where the injured boat had been. It was gone. It had sunk rapidly after his mad jump into the Channel. He put a hand on the chest of the man he’d rescued. The man’s skin was chilly, his heartbeat slow but steady. Alain covered him with the spare blanket and began chafing his hands while Matthew arranged to get them safely to shore.

  Back on land, Daniel waited anxiously to help unload the boats. Alain was glad to see his friend had arranged for blankets and a wagon to meet them. The family from the boat was in no shape to walk even the fifty feet to The Sail and Oar. Alain discovered he wasn’t either. He would have fallen if Daniel hadn’t waded to his aid after Matthew hauled the man ashore.

  “Whatever possessed you to jump in the Channel? You could have drowned, strong swimmer or not.” Daniel scolded, taking Alain’s weight and dragging him to the wagon where he unceremoniously dumped him on the tailgate.

  Alain took the dry blanket Daniel held out to him and huddled down into it, soaking up what small amount of warmth it provided. “I wonder, Daniel, whatever possesses a man to sail his family across the Channel in such weather”

  “You are not going to stay and find out. We’ll get you dry, and then you’re going straight back to The Refuge. Cranston can look after you properly,” Daniel ordered.

  Alain protested. “I can’t just leave them. These people are my responsibility.” He looked down at his ruined boots. “Besides, Cranston will flay me for what I’ve done to his hard work on these Hessians.”

  Daniel sighed. “I’ll be your eyes and ears. Let me get you settled, and I’ll come back down to learn what I can”

  Three hours later, Alain was significantly warmer but no less curious as he lounged by the blazing inferno Harker had insisted be built up in the library. Perhaps too hot, although it wasn’t as hot as Cranston’s temper after the valet had seen his bo
ots. Of course, Alain knew Cranston’s outrage over the boots was a cleverly disguised ruse to hide his chagrin over Alain’s stunt in the Channel. Alain tossed off the lap throw draped across his legs. It made him feel like an invalid. Where was Daniel?

  As if on cue, Harker entered the room and announced Daniel’s arrival. “You’re soaking wet!” Alain exclaimed over his friend’s appearance. “Come by the fire and dry out. In a moment you’ll be more sweaty than wet” He waited as long as he could before pestering Daniel for information.

  “So, are you going to tell me what possesses a man to risk his family in such a manner?” Alain said when he could stand it no longer.

  Daniel glanced at the mantel clock. “Five minutes. That’s nearly a record for you. I was wondering how long you’d last”

  “That’s three hours and five minutes. Dash it, Daniel; I’ve been cooped up here for hours waiting on tenterhooks for you to return” Alain strode to the sideboard and poured his friend a drink. Coffee and sandwiches were on the way if he knew Harker, but brandy would be a good warmer in the interim. He handed it to his friend. “Teasing aside, thank you for going.”

  “Teasing aside, you are welcome.” Daniel sipped from the glass before speaking again. “Here’s what I know. I only got sense out of the boy. The mother was too distraught and the father, well, you know what shape he’s in. Their name is Panchette. They’re from France. They used to own a bakery, but circumstances being what they are in Paris, the family could no longer make a living. According to the boy, Gascon, they couldn’t afford to make bread for themselves, let alone a neighborhood. Faced with starvation and eviction and nowhere to go, they decided to chance the waters and bet on a better life in England.”

  “What can they hope to do here?”

  “Gascon says his parents hope to find jobs in service.” Daniel shrugged, mimicking Alain’s gesture of disbelief.

  “In service? Hythe is hardly the place to do that, and they have no resources to afford a trip to London, which is their best chance at finding that kind of work. This venture of theirs seems poorly planned.” Alain groused. He was silent, letting Harker settle the coffee service on the table near the fireplace.