To Love the Brooding Baron

THREE

THREE

Henry judged it best to visit his solicitor while his aunt was at her charity committee meeting with Lady Bixbee. He and his aunt had been at odds over the care of his younger sister for years. Though they both wished for discretion in the matter, his aunt wanted no contact with Sarah while Henry could no longer hold himself apart from his sister’s treatment.

Wanting to know what to expect should your secret be found out?the voice inside his head whispered.

Henry pressed his back hard against his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, giving no visible reaction to the subject being discussed inside and outside his head.

“Your sister’s transfer from Guy’s Hospital to the new Bedlam on Lambeth has been secured for the first of next month,” Mr. Tompkin read from one of his many papers before pausing to look at Henry.

Henry responded with a nod, though every muscle in his gut tightened. He didn’t know what the right path was when it came to caring for Sarah. What did a man do when his mother had been an institutionalized murderer, his sister declared of a similar mind, and the victims of his mother’s transgression were his now-widowed aunt and murdered uncle?

Not to mention the fact that you yourself are mad, the voice taunted.

Henry’s jaw clenched.

For the past ten years, he’d been suffering alone and in silence, choosing to focus all his efforts on the care of his aunt and seeing that his uncle was remembered for the good he’d done and not his horrific demise.

But after the war with Napoleon ended, too many soldiers came home needing the specialized care found at what was then an old and crumbling Bedlam, forcing Parliament to begin its work with lunacy reform and construct a new Bedlam, and his family’s past was ripe for the gossips once again.

As Mr. Tompkin outlined the discreet manner in which Sarah would be transported, Henry’s memory went back to the first—and only—time he’d set foot inside the old Bedlam to visit his sister.

The 140-year-old building had shown its age with its coal dust-darkened stones and discolored patchwork along the roof. A haunting statue of two men sat above the front door. The man who lay across the left side appeared languid and calm, while the man on the right appeared to be raving and held down by chains. Perhaps the sculptor had thought it poetic for those crossing the threshold, but as someone who had a family member inside, Henry could barely stomach the sight of it.

Once he was inside, the warped floorboards bent unevenly beneath his boots; Parliament had learned the structure had been built on the marshlike Moorfields without a proper foundation. Visible cracks stretched along the corridor walls, the jagged lines often leading to flaking plaster, which created a buckling at the base of the wall. But what had ultimately turned his stomach wasn’t the continuous signs of physical dilapidation nor the overpowering stench of urine. It was what he saw inside the common room. A single row of chairs ran down the center of the otherwise empty room. The chairs were spaced evenly apart, and each one held a patient strapped down by the wrists. The patients wore gray nightgowns; many had long hair that had become a tangled, matted mess. Several of them distractedly hummed, mumbled, or rocked, while others sat lifeless, staring blankly into nothing.

It was then that Henry fully understood why the new Court of Governors had ordered as many of the old Bedlam’s patients removed to other hospitals until Parliament could collect the funds to purchase new land and construct a new Bedlam hospital. No ounce of humanity resided inside that place that was supposed to care for the afflicted. And his sister, sitting eerily still near the center of the room, had been one of the unlucky souls who remained, unable to be placed in one of London’s other hospitals.

Henry hadn’t been able to rest since that visit. The memories of the old Bedlam, and the thought that his sister would have remained there had he not gone to see her, haunted him whenever he closed his eyes.

Securing Sarah’s transfer from the old Bedlam to Guy’s Hospital had cost him his family’s long-time solicitor, who’d worked for both his grandfather and his uncle. Henry had been forced to let the ancient man go when he refused to “dabble anymore with the devil.” If only the old man had known that the moment Henry had taken up the barony, he’d been dabbling with a devil all along.

Henry’s new solicitor cleared his throat, raising his brow slightly.

Henry shook off his dark musings and nodded, signaling for Mr. Tompkin to continue.

“I received a letter this morning from Dr. Stafford,” he began in a cautious tone, sliding a piece of paper toward Henry. “He asks once more to meet with you.”

The knot in Henry’s gut grew tentacles.

Dr. Stafford was one of the newly appointed doctors trusted to oversee the treatment of the patients at the new Bedlam. He’d spent the entire Season requesting to meet with Henry, perhaps believing he’d found himself an ally in Parliament after discovering the sister of a baron was one of his patients. Henry had hoped the doctor would give up his pursuit the moment Parliament had ended.

He’d been mistaken.

What Dr. Stafford refused to understand was that, despite Henry’s firm stance on the need for reform, he had purposefully taken a lesser role in that legislation. With the rumors still circulating about his family, his aunt thought it best for him to focus his efforts on the Corn Laws to avoid drawing any more unwanted attention. Little good it’d done in the end. The gossip remained, and his party had failed to stop the new Corn Laws.

A war-taxed England, in order to make its people more dependent upon its own economy and not on cheaper imports, was about to face a severe rise in the price of grain. The new law put the power in the hands of the landowners and not the people who needed help putting food on their tables.

“No,” Henry said, not bothering to read the letter.

Mr. Tompkin, who’d proven to be a quick study, asked no further questions. “I’ve one last item of business.” Pulling open one of his desk drawers, he retrieved a stack of papers darkened by age. “I finished reviewing what was given to me from your previous solicitor, and I’ve found a stipulation in your uncle’s will that does not appear to be in effect.”

Dread filled Henry as he stared down at the papers. His old solicitor must have stowed the old will away after realizing Henry had no intention of enforcing one particular item.

“According to the will, there’s a separate household and income set aside for your aunt upon your uncle’s death.”

“I am aware,” Henry replied, hoping his clear disinterest would dissuade Mr. Tompkin from asking the next obvious question.

Mr. Tompkin stared at him, confused. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but if you knew, then why does your aunt remain inside your home?”

Henry moved his hands to grip the armrests. “My aunt has expressed that she would be more at ease living in the home she once shared with my uncle.”

Henry could still hear his aunt’s anguished cries the day their old solicitor read aloud his uncle’s will. His aunt hadn’t been ready for the change then, nor was she ready now. She was aware of the income and the home, and when she was ready, she would come to him. He dared not risk upsetting her by pressing the point.

“I see.” His solicitor nodded, though Henry doubted he did. “Then might I recommend either reducing the staff or letting it out to try to balance some of the costs for keeping it in constant readiness?”

“Leave it be,” Henry replied. It was ridiculous to pay for more than a skeleton staff in an unoccupied home, but after the return of Napoleon and the second war that ensued, coin and decent-paying jobs were scarce. If he could help some of those poor souls struggling, he would. The Northcott holdings had more than enough money.

“As you wish,” Mr. Tompkin said, the hesitancy in his tone making his disagreement clear. “I believe that concludes our business then.”

Henry nodded, ready for a reprieve.

Placing his hat atop his head, Henry readied himself for the ever-present summer rain. His carriage waited for him on the near-abandoned street, though a few people trapped by the rain stood underneath the shops’ doorways.

His coachman opened the carriage door, and, before ducking his head to step in, Henry gave an address that fell easily from his lips. He knew he should return home. He’d already visited the Latham home twice that week. But the pull for a moment of distraction with Arabella was enough to make him ignore his better judgment.

Are you sure about that?The voice whispered. She is rather beautiful and spirited.

Henry’s senses came alive at the thought of her. The smell of primroses filled his nose, and the most melodious laughter echoed in his ears. Arabella was everything he wasn’t and everything he could never have.

He didn’t trust himself when he felt so unrestrained. Control was needed to keep his and his family’s secrets from hurting anyone else. Which was why he had a plan. He would die childless, thus, leaving no one to inherit, and the title would revert to the crown. His aunt, whose entire purpose was upholding her husband’s title, would remain ignorant of his plan. A Northcott had been in possession of the barony since before the Magna Carta was signed. But Henry’s blood was tainted, and for that reason, the curse and his family’s secret would die with him.

His carriage slowed to a stop, dipping to one side before he heard his coachman’s boots splash in a puddle. Henry had a matter of seconds to change his mind and ask to be taken home, but he didn’t. His weakness for a pair of large, sparkling eyes and teasing lips had got the better of him.

Henry stepped from the carriage, walked quickly through the pouring rain to the front door, and knocked.

The shock on the butler’s face reaffirmed Henry’s suspicions. He shouldn’t have come. This visit was going to draw attention.

The old man quickly recovered and stepped aside, taking Henry’s rain-splattered hat and gloves. “Something amiss, my lord?” he asked.

“Nothing amiss, Smith,” Henry replied. “Just a visit.”

“Good. Good,” Smith said before directing Henry down the familiar corridor. The Lathams, and even their servants, stood on little ceremony with him, as if he were one of the family. He was trying to get used to such treatment; his aunt ran their home very differently.

“Lord Northcott to see you, ma’am,” the butler announced as they stepped into the parlor.

A low-lit fire crackled in the hearth, warming the small, intimate room. Mrs. Latham stood, her smile surprised but inviting. Her husband’s death had taken a toll on her appearance, but he was relieved to see the dark circles under her eyes were beginning to fade with time. Fate had delivered her a painful blow, and yet she still cared for her children as any rational-thinking mother would. How different she was from his own mother after his father’s sudden death.

“Lord Northcott, this is a most welcome surprise,” Mrs. Latham said, holding out her hands to him as she always did.

Feeling awkward, as he always did, Henry approached and touched her upturned hands with his fingertips. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, pulling back his hands and looking about the room.

Where was Arabella?

“No intrusion at all. You know you are always welcome.” She gestured for him to take a seat on the sofa opposite her. “This week has actually been quite full of surprises.”

The hairs on Henry’s neck stood on end. Surprises and Arabella weren’t often a good combination.

“Do not trouble yourself,” Mrs. Latham said, amused.

Had he given a visible reaction?

She instructed Smith to have tea sent up before turning her attention back to Henry. “For once, I believe her ambitions are of a more moderate nature.”

This time Henry allowed himself a raised brow. Arabella was capable of moderation, but the definition of it wasn’t something she and her mother often agreed upon. Arabella’s curiosity, he’d quickly learned, was boundless, and if not properly channeled could become a headache for everyone around her.

“As you know,” Mrs. Latham continued, “Lady Bixbee and your aunt have been involving Arabella and me in their charity work for the Foundling Hospital.”

Henry nodded.

“Well, for the past two days, Arabella has been focused on tailoring some of my late husband’s clothing to fit some of the orphaned older boys.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, relieved that Arabella’s latest fascination appeared to be harmless and yet disheartened that he might not see her during his visit.

“So was I. It has done wonders for her restlessness. Allow me to have her come down and you can see for yourself.” She rose to ring the bellpull, and Henry’s heart traitorously quickened.

When the parlor door opened, his heart jumped to his throat only to plummet to his stomach when a maid walked in with a tea service. As Mrs. Latham rose and prepared them both a cup, Henry couldn’t help but keep glancing at the door. He took his cup from Mrs. Latham, and, like a fool, swallowed a distracted sip.

The scorching liquid burned his tongue and throat, but he held the pain in.

A few moments later, Arabella burst into the room in a mesmerizing rush of soft blue skirts that pressed perfectly to her willowy frame. “My apologies. I am afraid I found myself quite literally stitched to a pair of men’s breeches.”

Henry sputtered and choked on another poorly timed sip of tea as his traitorous mind flashed with an image of Arabella in a formfitting pair of breeches.

Arabella and her mother watched him with concern as he set the cup on the table next to him and rose to his feet to greet Miss Latham properly.

Call her what you like, but we both know you are halfway in love with her, the voice whispered.

Clenching his jaw, he stiffened his spine before offering a formal bow. “Miss Latham.”

The voice laughed.

Arabella smiled and offered him a polite curtsy. “Lord Northcott.”

“I was just telling Lord Northcott about what you have been doing for his aunt’s charity,” Mrs. Latham said.

Arabella hesitated, her eyes darting from her mother’s sofa to the open seat next to him, as if uncertain where to sit. “Yes, I am hoping to have the clothes finished in the next few days.”

Henry nodded. A part of him wanted her to choose the seat next to him, as she had done often during his last few visits. He wanted her to playfully tease him for being so quiet and tempt him into playing her little Shakespeare game.

He’d first become aware of her game when he’d arrived with Emerson and Bradbury at her family home in Berkshire. She’d been the one to greet them with a soft smile at the door and the words, “Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.”

Henry had been taken off guard, not understanding why she would choose to say something so spirited when her brother had been called home because of their father’s poor health. But then Emerson had responded with “Perciles, Prince of Tyre” before wrapping his sister in a long, tight embrace. Henry had recognized the title of Shakespeare’s play and put together that it must’ve been some sort of game the siblings played.

And then there was the single tear that had rolled down Arabella’s cheek.

She was attempting to put on a brave face for her brother, and Henry had become entranced.

He had read more Shakespeare those few days of his visit than he had over the entire course of his life. He wanted to know such spirit, such connection. Things his family never had.

“Have a seat, dear,” Mrs. Latham said, pulling Henry from his memories and rising from her seat. “I shall pour you a cup of tea while you entertain our guest.”

The decision seemingly made for her, Arabella sat on the sofa next to him.

“Three visits in a week?” Arabella asked him, her tone playful though her eyes studied him. “Is something amiss?”

“No,” Henry replied, careful to keep his tone indifferent. “I was nearby on business—”

Liar, the voice whispered.

“—and thought it best to look in.” He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat the longer she stared at him. Did she see through his lie? “Given all the rain,” he blurted out and resisted the urge to groan at his foolishness.

Her eyes lit with mischief, and his heart thudded hard inside his chest. “Oh, the rain, it raineth every day,” she said as if it wasn’t concerning that England was experiencing an unseasonably heavy amount of rain.

He purposefully held back his answer—it could be either King Lear or Twelfth Night; she was most likely trying to make the game easier for him to tease him into playing it with her.

Her mother approached, stopping any further play. She handed Arabella her tea, then returned to her seat opposite them.

“I think Lord Northcott suspects I am being a burden on you, mama,” Arabella said, her teacup halfway to her tantalizing, rose-colored lips. Her eyes flashed at him over the rim. “Because of all the rain.”

Henry was a dead man. The way she continued to look at him, teasing him by using his own words, while she took a tiny sip from her cup nearly stopped his heart. Heaven help him for once; he couldn’t look away from this woman.

“Not entirely,” Mrs. Latham said, snapping Henry’s attention.

Arabella gasped much like a performer in a play. “Mama? Have I not been a paragon of a daughter with a heart of gold these past few days?”

Henry V, he thought.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye, as if waiting to see if he would play.

He said nothing, resisting the urge to smile.

She was a paragon. No one could tempt him to want to smile more than she did—which was saying something because he was friends with Emerson and Bradbury, whose idea of fun was sneaking a pig dressed in a waistcoat into White’s gentlemen’s club.

Henry and Arabella continued to watch each other discreetly, neither speaking, while Mrs. Latham took up the topic of the rain.

Arabella innocently sipped at her tea, while Henry nodded to Mrs. Latham when it was appropriate to do so.

The situation grew more unnerving when Arabella leveled her attention at him directly, something that was completely against social standards. She truly was the most tempting and infuriating mixture of determination and spirit.

A small smile slipped past his hold as he wondered how long she would hold his gaze.

“I knew it!” she cried out in triumph, startling him and Mrs. Latham. She practically jumped out of her seat before settling back on the cushion and playfully slapping him on the arm.

Unwanted heat rose up Henry’s neck.

“I knew you had to be playing inside your head. Go on, say it, name the play,” she demanded with one of her breathtaking smiles.

Henry cleared his throat, suddenly finding it difficult to meet her eyes. He subtly looked between Arabella and Mrs. Latham, embarrassed to have had a reaction to such a simple touch.

He was simply not used to that sort of outward affection, that was all.

Keep telling yourself that, the voice whispered.

It wasn’t because he enjoyed such contact. His family had simply never been that way with one another. And besides, a woman with Arabella’s spirit would never truly look twice at a man like him.

Not that he wanted any woman to look twice at him.

He was meant to be alone.