To Love the Brooding Baron

THIRTY

THIRTY

Walking into his study, Henry slammed the door behind him, and he didn’t stop until he reached the sideboard. He pressed both hands on top of the wood until his fingertips turned white. An array of amber-colored liquids in intricate crystal decanters stared back at him, offering the seductive power of oblivion.

I’d pick the brandy, the voice whispered. It matches the color of Arabella’s eyes.

With a wordless roar, Henry swept his arms across the sideboard and sent everything in his path crashing to the floor.

He sucked in heavy, deep breaths and dug his fingers into his hips to distract himself from the pain of wanting her. Needing her.

It had only been one day.

Stepping over the broken glass, Henry moved to the wall of portraits where every Baron Northcott hung. One by one, he pulled them down and dropped them to the floor, not caring if their frames broke or cracked. With his aunt and the last of her things—watchdog butler included—removed to the house his uncle had left her, Henry no longer had to live with their judgmental stares.

A rapid tapping filled the room.

Turning toward the window, he scowled at Bradbury, who was standing in the bushes outside his study.

Henry marched over and pulled the window open. “Go away.” He slammed the window shut, but not before he heard Bradbury curse.

Bradbury pounded on the glass, but Henry ignored him and moved to his desk, which was out of sight of any windows. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Miserable, Henry sat with his head in his hands.

The pounding soon stopped, replaced by the sound of shattering glass.

Henry’s head jerked up. A large stone from the garden lay on the floor. Bradbury’s arm came through the window next, wrapped in his jacket, knocking away the jagged shards of glass from the window frame.

“What the devil are you doing?” Henry yelled, storming to the window.

Bradbury stuck his head through the opening and glared up at him. “Breaking and entering.” Unwrapping his jacket from his arm, he tossed it through the window, followed by his hat.

“Burglary is a hanging offense,” Henry said, gritting his teeth.

“Lucky for me, I plan on taking nothing,” Bradbury grunted as he climbed through the window.

Henry did nothing to help him.

Straightening, Bradbury brushed the dirt from his breeches and then scanned the room. “What the deuce happened here?”

“I’m redecorating,” Henry said in a wry tone. “Now leave.”

Bradbury frowned. “Not until you tell me why no one is even answering your door.” Stepping over the shattered crystal decanters and pools of liquor, Bradbury marched to the study’s door, opened it, and stuck his head into the corridor. “It’s like a graveyard in here.”

He wasn’t far from the truth. Henry had sent every servant from his home to work at his aunt’s, while the servants previously working there were coming to work for him. The only servants left were two groomsmen seeing to the horses.

Bradbury walked back toward Henry. “You know, when Mama Latham’s note asked me to come and check on you, I thought perhaps you and your lady love had quarreled, but ... looking around ...” His eyes paused on the pile of frames and broken decanters. “What is going on, Goosey?”

Why couldn’t he be left to his misery?

“Stop calling me that,” Henry snapped, sharp and harsh because he could be nothing else. “Look around you; I am no mother goose—I am a beast!” His voice practically shook the house, and his shoulders heaved up and down with every ragged breath.

Instead of cowering, Bradbury studied him with a look far too searching for comfort.

Needing to shield himself, to create the same distance that’d seen him through his childhood and beyond, Henry folded his arms across his chest and rid his face of any expression.

“Did you ever wonder why I called you Beasty?” Bradbury asked.

Henry scoffed. “Because I am the Brooding Baron, the beast the ton cannot stop whispering about.”

“No,” Bradbury answered, shaking his head. “Because you were acting like what those gossips made you out to be.”

His words hit Henry hard in the gut, and he wanted to deny them.

“I called you Beasty,” Bradbury continued, “because I thought as your friend, you would feel comfortable enough to tell me to shut my mouth.” A faint, teasing smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “And that you would believe you were not what they were making you out to be, but the good and loyal Mother Goose whom Emerson and I have come to know.”

All the anger inside Henry melted away, leaving him almost spent. His arms hung limp at his sides, the fight gone out of him, as he stared at his friend. It was hard to believe Bradbury was capable of something so ... thoughtful.

A lump quickly formed in Henry’s throat, and he tried to clear it. “Bradbury, I—”

Bradbury held up a hand. “I am going to stop you right there, Goosey. Whatever you were about to say, I did not say what I did so you could get all—” He waved his hand about uncomfortably. “I said it because it needed to be said. That is all.”

Henry stared at his friend, taken aback by this hidden side of him.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence.

“You broke my window,” Henry eventually blurted.

“You shut the window in my face,” Bradbury countered with a challenging brow.

Another uncomfortable silence followed.

“Are you going to tell me why you shut the window in my face?” Bradbury asked.

Henry opened his mouth, but his instinctive refusal died upon his lips. He was tired of holding it all in.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Bradbury nodded, looking almost relieved. “Good. But let’s go to another room. I am not a fan of your redecorating.”

An unbidden chuckle rumbled deep in Henry’s chest, and Bradbury did a poor job of suppressing his own laugh.

They moved to a sitting room near the front of the house, and Henry told Bradbury everything—about his parents, his uncle’s death, his mother’s admittance to Bedlam. About his sister’s existence and how she was currently a patient in the new Bedlam. About what he’d recently discovered about his aunt, and about his painful conversation with Arabella and Dr. Stafford.

Saying it all out loud for the first time made everything more real, and his stomach twisted into a painful knot as he waited for Bradbury’s reaction.

Bradbury blinked a few times. “Heaven help me, Goosey.” He ran a hand through his hair, making the red strands look like a rooster’s comb. “What does one even say to that?”

Henry shrugged, having no answer himself. He was only relieved Bradbury hadn’t gone running from the room.

“Actually, I know one thing I want to say.” Bradbury met Henry’s eyes. “Do not let that old harpy win.”

“Harpy?”

“Your aunt. You pushing Miss Latham away only gives your aunt what she wants—you miserable and alone.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Henry argued.

“Hang complicated. You only get one life. Why let the actions of others determine how you live it? Trust me, once you start living for yourself, you will be much happier. And who is to say that is not exactly what you need?”

Arabella was what he needed. He just wished he knew he could keep her safe.

A heavy knock sounded at the front door.

“Do you want to answer that?” Bradbury asked.

Henry shook his head, not wanting to deal with any visitors. Dr. Stafford, in particular, had been adamant that they talk, but Henry was still too angry about how he’d used Arabella to get to him.

The knocking soon changed to pounding.

“That sounds urgent. I think I had better go check,” Bradbury said, jumping up and going for the door.

“You are getting far too comfortable in my house,” Henry called out.

“You like having me here, Goosey,” Bradbury yelled over his shoulder before disappearing into the corridor.

One day Henry probably should tell his friends that he did.

Bradbury soon returned, his footsteps swift. “A coachman from the Lathams,” he said, holding out a letter to Henry. “He said you needed to read this.”

Henry grabbed the letter from Bradbury, immediately recognizing Arabella’s feminine handwriting.

His heart pounded.

Tearing open the seal, he read the letter, trying to ignore the growing pit in his stomach.

I know you said you would not risk me getting hurt, but I can make no such promise. I am willing to risk all, because I know you and your sister are worth saving. I have gone to Bedlam with the hope that you will choose to face this. Please do not bar yourself away. Choose to save me, your sister, and, most importantly, yourself.

I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

The reality of what Arabella had done slammed against Henry’s chest to the point he could barely breathe.

“Northcott, what is it?” Bradbury asked. “You are white as a ghost.”

Henry shoved the letter into Bradbury’s hands, an invisible vise tight around his throat.

Bradbury scanned the letter and let out a curse, handing it back to Henry. “What do we do?”

“I have to go after her,” Henry replied, heading for the door.

“I’m coming,” Bradbury said, following him.

Henry stopped and turned toward his friend. “No, the fewer people there, the less suspicion. We do not want to risk ruining her reputation if she is found out. You go to Mrs. Latham, tell her what has happened, and stay with her until I have returned with Arabella.”

Bradbury hesitated for only a moment. “Right. Be careful.”

Henry nodded and ran for his stables. If he was going to get Arabella out unseen, he was going to need his carriage and, more importantly, the help of Dr. Stafford.