A Bride for the Baron

Vera tilted up her chin, pleased with her efforts to halt the baronet’s uncharacteristically cruel jabs at Lord Meriweather. As she turned away from the door, she realized that, except for her and the footman by the door, the entry hall was empty. Lord Meriweather must have left while her attention was on the others’ departure. His cousin had told her how it pained and mortified the baron that he could not make a decision.

She considered trying to find him, but climbed the stairs to the room she would be using until they returned to the vicarage. She had offered up prayers earlier to ask God to help her be there for her brother through the trials ahead. She also needed to pray that she would be able to do the same for Lord Meriweather.

Chapter Three

The next morning, Edmund found only Lady Meriweather seated at the table in the breakfast parlor. She put down the newspaper she had been reading.

“Good morning, Edmund,” she said with the warmth that suggested he was her son rather than her late husband’s distant cousin.

“And to you, my lady. Do not let me interrupt your reading.”

She laughed. “This newspaper was sent from London. It is nearly a week old, so waiting longer to read it is no problem.”

Helping himself to eggs and sausages, he placed his plate at the seat across from the baroness. She poured him a steaming cup of coffee from the silver pot that had been left on a ceramic tile by her right hand. He reached for a muffin from the basket that was set beside him by one of the well-trained footmen.

He buttered it as he said, “I have not had a chance to thank you for making arrangements for Mr. Fenwick and his sister to stay at Meriweather Hall.”

“It was my pleasure. Dear Vera has been a steadfast friend to my daughters, and it is not as if we don’t have the room.” Her laugh sparkled through the space. “She tells me that you have agreed to help with rebuilding the church.”

“It is my place.”

“To provide the funds, yes, but Vera suggested you were going to provide more than that.”

He poured cream into his cup and stirred it. Setting the pitcher on the table, he wondered when the two women had talked. No doubt, it had been after he had scurried away like a hurt child from Sir Nigel’s barbed comments. He snuck a glance at the lady across the table from him. Had Miss Fenwick told her about that conversation? If so, he saw no sign of pity on her face.

“You know of my work before I came to Meriweather Hall,” he said when he realized the lady expected him to answer. “I know something of building projects.”

“Quite a bit, according to my new son-in-law.” She chuckled. “Jonathan mentioned something about seeking your advice for the larger house he plans to build for him and Cat.”

“He said nothing about that to me.”

“Because he knew you would help when the time came. You, Jonathan and Charles learned to depend on each other’s skills in the army, and that will never change.” She picked up her coffee cup. “You have been given a great gift, Edmund. Such friends do not come along often.”

“I realize that.”

“Have you heard more about the tunnel that led into the church?” She must be as curious as he was to learn how and when the smugglers had gotten into the church.

“Sims brought me a report this morning. The tunnel appears to have been collapsed completely. We cannot guess where it might go.”

“Nothing aboveground suggests its direction or destination?”

He was impressed with the baroness’s question, though he should not have been. All the Meriweather women had sharp minds and cared deeply about the estate and the people of Sanctuary Bay.

With a shake of his head, he said, “The smugglers are too careful to allow that. Otherwise they would have been found out years ago.”

“I see.” After Lady Meriweather took a sip of her coffee, she changed the subject to her plans for the gardens once the weather was warm enough to plant flowers among the hedges and perennials. He listened with half an ear as he thought of what she had said. He and Northbridge and Bradby had been melded together in the crucible of war. That bond had been strengthened as they had faced the smugglers’ treachery since he had first arrived in Sanctuary Bay. He could depend on their assistance again, if necessary.

He hoped it would not be, because Bradby was on his honeymoon and Northbridge and his family were settling into his ancestral estate in the south of England. But it was good to remember that, if he needed them, they would come.

Maybe fulfilling Miss Fenwick’s request to help rebuild the church would not be impossible, after all.

* * *

When Foggin came to announce a guest later that morning, Edmund assumed either the vicar or Miss Fenwick wished to discuss the plans for rebuilding the church. Instead, a dark-haired man with an air of arrogance strode into the room as if he were lord of the estate and Edmund his least minion. Edmund suspected women would find Lord Ashland handsome, but his sharp features and hollow cheeks reminded Edmund of how disdainful the viscount had been when Edmund went to his estate in hopes of obtaining help in halting the smugglers.

“Ashland!” Edmund pushed himself to his feet. “I had not expected you to call.”

“This is no social visit.” He drew off his gloves and tossed them in the direction of Foggin.

The footman scrambled to catch them both along with the greatcoat the viscount shrugged off. The poor footman looked so dismayed that Edmund wanted to assure him that Ashland treated everyone with the same contempt.

“I heard,” Ashland went on, as if he had not taken note of the footman, “about the fire at the Sanctuary Bay church, and I thought I should come and discover how bad it was.”

“It was very bad.” He hid his surprise. The viscount had never shown the least bit of interest about anything in the village. A hint of suspicion bubbled through him. If the viscount were the man the smugglers called his qualityship, he would be curious if anything pointing to the smugglers had been discovered in the ruins. “The building is completely destroyed.”

“I am sorry to hear that confirmed. Rumors reach one’s ears all the time, but I prefer to discover the truth for myself. If you have no objections, I would like to ride into the village and see what remains.”

“There is not much to see.”

“Even so, I would like to see it with my own two eyes.”

“Certainly.” He paused, then said, “As you have removed your outer coat, I assume there is more you wish to discuss with me before we leave for the village.” He gestured toward a chair near the hearth. “We may as well be comfortable by the fire before we venture out into the cold.”

“Quite so.” Ashland selected a chair as if he were doing Edmund a great favor.

How did one come to possess such hauteur? Ashland’s bearing suggested that his place was at the center in the universe and that everyone should acknowledge it. Did that mien come from being raised as a peer from birth? Could it be learned later in life? Not that he wanted to act as self-important as Ashland, but he could use the confidence such comportment inspired.

Another item to put on his list for his next conversation with Northbridge. He could ask his friend and former military commander such questions without the ridicule he would face if he addressed those questions to Ashland. That lesson he had learned all too well when he had asked Lady Eloisa about life among the ton. She had answered him, but later made a jest about it at his expense. The Beau Monde could be scathing to outsiders too eager to join the elite of the elite. They labeled those people encroaching mushrooms, but he had not expected, as a new baron, to be described in such terms.

Not until he had overheard Lady Eloisa use that exact term along with his name.

Edmund sat after offering to ring for a cup of something warm for the viscount. When Ashland said that was unnecessary, Edmund asked, “What did you want to discuss?”

“Rumors.”

“You will need to be more specific. Sanctuary Bay is always rife with rumors.” He allowed himself a cool smile. “Some are true. The trick, as I learned during my time in the army, was to determine which are true and which are simple conjecture fueled by repetition.”

Ashland’s eyes narrowed, and Edmund knew that the viscount had not anticipated such a retort from him. If Ashland thought him nothing but a harebrained newcomer to the Polite World, reminding the viscount that Edmund had seen battle on the Continent was not a bad thing.

“That is true,” Ashland said, continuing to appraise Edmund. Was he surprised by what he saw? No hint of his thoughts were revealed on his carefully schooled face.

“Are there particular rumors that you wish to discuss?”

“Rumors about the smugglers who work out of Sanctuary Bay.”

Edmund kept his fingers from digging into the upholstery and his shoulders from stiffening. The viscount’s words disclosed more than his face did, and Edmund suspected his cool composure was a pose. Two could play that game, so he sank back in his chair, crossing one foot over the opposite knee.

“Again,” he said, “I need you to be more specific. Smugglers and their exploits are a major source of rumors throughout Britain.”