To Love the Brooding Baron

ONE

ONE

London, EnglandJuly, 1815

Standing in his family’s gallery, Henry Thomas Northcott, the perpetually accursed thirteenth Baron Northcott, stared at one of the paintings. Only it was not the current portrait on the wall he was seeing, it was the portrait of his family that had hung there before and had long since been taken down. How easily the past could be removed and rendered forgotten.

If only that could be said for the gossips of the ton.

“There you are, Henry,” his aunt said, stepping purposefully toward him. The dark maroon color of her gown combined with the evening light filtering through the windows turned her graying auburn hair a shade of plum. “Why did you not come to the parlor? I was waiting to have tea with you.”

There was neither anger nor worry in her tone. His aunt always held herself with the utmost comportment and control. Traits he himself tried to reflect.

“My apologies, Aunt,” he said, turning away from the portrait. “I intended to be but a moment.”

He shouldn’t have come into this room.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows drawing together as she stopped before him. “Did something happen in the House of Lords?” She reached up and adjusted the ermine collar of his red ceremonial robe.

“Nothing that was not expected,” he replied, ignoring the sudden urge to rid himself of the anvil-like weight upon his shoulders. The barony mantle had never felt like it belonged to him, no matter how many times he donned the robes.

The Prince Regent had come to Westminster with all the pomp and circumstance he was known for. His extravagant crimson-and-gold carriage had been escorted by an entire host of cavalry, and he was welcomed with a cannon salute. Prorogation was then performed, closing out that session of Parliament and sending most of the aristocracy and gentry to their country estates.

It had been what Henry had overheard as he walked out of Westminster that led him to the gallery.

“That’s him ... the Brooding Baron.”

“The heir whose predecessor was murdered?”

“The very one.”

“I heard the previous baron was killed by his brother’s widow.”

“I heard the same, and that she was spared the noose in order to avoid a public trial and then sent to Bedlam.”

“It’s no wonder the baron broods, to have such a mother.”

Henry had swiftly passed by the two new lords, not wanting to hear any more of the gossip. The many rumors about his family’s past haunted him everywhere he went.

His aunt’s eyes drifted to the portrait behind him. Her countenance faltered as her eyes lit with emotion, but there was no warmth to them. There was pain, there was heartache, and then there was anger. She stepped around him, moving closer to the painting. “His hair had just begun to silver at the sides and temples,” she said in a distant tone, as if she were back in the library the day the portrait was commissioned.

Henry nodded, remembering all too well. He’d been a boy of fifteen, standing with his aunt and Uncle Thomas, the twelfth Baron Northcott. Henry’s mother, four months widowed, had stood in the library doorway, her eyes like daggers pricking his soul. It had felt like a betrayal, standing for a portrait without his mother and sister, but he was the heir now that his father was dead, and his aunt had been insistent.

“Should we retire to the parlor?” Henry asked, wanting to move the conversation away from the past.

His aunt hesitated, her eyes still on the portrait until she delicately cleared her throat and stepped away. “Of course.”

Henry held out his arm, and she placed her hand upon it.

She remained silent as they made their way to the parlor. Guilt consumed him for ending her moment to remember her husband, but it would’ve been wrong to let her believe he’d been there to do the same. Especially when he’d been recollecting the last portrait of his family, the one that held the visage of the person who’d killed her husband—his mother.

Entering the parlor, his aunt released his arm and went to the bellpull, summoning a footman.

“Have his lordship’s valet come to collect his robes and have a tea service brought up,” she said.

The footman bowed and quickly departed to see to his tasks.

Henry’s aunt moved to the sofa and took a seat, leaving him to wonder if she intended for him to join her or wait for his valet.

“You had two letters come,” his aunt said, retrieving them from the side table next to her.

Henry took them from her, noticing both wax seals had been broken. It wasn’t uncommon for his aunt to read his missives. When he’d suddenly inherited the title of baron at fifteen, she’d been all he had to guide him, and he didn’t have the heart to tell his aunt that her assistance was no longer necessary. Not after all she’d been through and all she had done for him.

“Your friend, Mr. Latham, writes that he must once again delay his return from Bath for another month,” his aunt said.

Henry opened the letter, briefly scanning its contents. He had sent an express message to Emerson, warning him that Mr. Wilde—Emerson’s brute of a father-in-law—had departed London after recovering from an injury sustained during a confrontation with Emerson as he, Henry, and their friend Bradbury helped to spirit away Emerson’s new bride and mother-in-law to Bath. It appeared Mr. Wilde had indeed tracked them to Bath, and while there had been no encounters so far, Emerson, not trusting his father-in-law, decided to delay his return by another month to make certain his mother-in-law would be safe in her new living arrangement with Emerson’s aunts.

Which meant Henry had another month of watching over Emerson’s mother.

And his sister, Arabella.

He shook his head, not allowing himself to be distracted by thoughts of the dark-haired vixen who’d barely managed to keep herself and her curious mind out of trouble throughout the remainder of the Season.

Forcing himself to focus on the last half of the letter, Henry froze on one word that stood out from the rest.

Billiards.

Emerson was asking him to see to the delivery of a new billiards table that would be delivered in the coming week.

Why did it have to be billiards?

Swallowing down the lump forming in his throat, he glanced at his aunt. She was watching him as if she expected him to react.

He pushed back the awful memories. He wasn’t his father. A billiards table had no hold over him.

Refolding the letter, he was forced to wait to open the second by the arrival of his valet, followed by a maid with a tea service. His valet saw to the removal of his ceremonial robe and helped him with his black jacket while his aunt saw to pouring them both a cup of tea.

Alone with his aunt once again, Henry sat in one of the cushioned armchairs adjacent to the sofa. His aunt watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye as she took a delicate sip.

He unfolded the second letter, which was from his solicitor. He was hoping to arrange a time to discuss the pressing details of Henry’s sister’s hospital transfer. Unease pooled in his stomach, and a sharp chill scraped across his spine.

“Do you still believe this to be wise?” his aunt asked before he could finish reading the missive.

Collecting his cup, he took a drink as if the tea could warm him. “It’s necessary if I am to see her properly cared for.”

Something he’d—to his growing regret—neglected to do until this last year.

“If the ton should somehow hear of it, or see you even entering where your sister will be held, it would undo all we have overcome these past ten years,” his aunt said, a deep frown marring her lips.

His aunt spoke as if the ton had forgotten the harrowing series of events surrounding his family that were more fit for gothic novels than history. Today proved otherwise.

Every horrific thing the gossips ever said about his family was true. But what they didn’t know—and what his aunt could never discover—was that, just like his mother and sister, he, the Brooding Baron, was mad.