Bedding The Baron (23 page)

Perhaps he could not blame Portia for her wariness.

If he were not yet certain of his desires regarding his father, how could he be certain of his desires regarding her?

His words alone could not convince her that his love for her was indisputable, without question. And that it was for all eternity.

He would have to deal with his father and then return to Portia and persuade her to share his life.

Whatever that life might bring.

Giving a faint shake of his head, Fredrick reached the bottom of the staircase and was nearly knocked from his feet as his father rushed from the foyer and grasped his hands in a tight grip.

“Fredrick.” The older gentleman swallowed heavily as he regarded his son with an oddly frantic gaze. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I feared—”

“I think it would be best if we spoke in private,” he interrupted, although his tone was kinder than he had intended. Whatever his feelings toward his father, he was not impervious to the sight of the lined, weary expression upon his countenance. Clearly, Fredrick was not the only one to have spent a sleepless night. Annoyed at his weakness, Fredrick lifted an impatient hand toward the lad who was sweeping the dirt on the flagstones with more enthusiasm than skill. “Tolly, would you request Mrs. Cornell to send a breakfast tray to the back parlor?”

The boy dropped the broom and gave a hasty bow. “Aye, sir. At once, sir.”

Tossing Tolly a small coin, Fredrick returned his attention to his father.

“This way.”

With an obvious effort Lord Graystone held his tongue as the two of them made their way to the back of the inn and Fredrick motioned him into the private parlor.

It was not until the door had been closed and Fredrick moved to stare blindly out the damp window that he at last cleared his throat and broke the tense silence.

“Forgive me for intruding at such an early hour, Fredrick, but I feared you might leave the neighborhood before I could speak with you.”

Fredrick smiled wryly. His father was not wrong to fear that he might bolt. More than once during the long night he had battled the instinctive urge to return to London. Or even to travel to Winchester and join Ian in his drunken revelry.

It was only his fierce need to remain close to Portia that had kept him at the Queen’s Arms.

“Is there something in particular you wish to say to me?” he demanded.

“Actually, there is something I wish to give to you.”

Reaching beneath his caped driving coat, Lord Graystone pulled out a leather packet and pressed it into Fredrick’s reluctant fingers.

“What is this?” Fredrick pulled open the packet to reveal a stack of documents that had been sealed with his father’s insignia.

“They are papers . . .” Lord Graystone halted, his expression vulnerable and uncertain beneath Fredrick’s steady gaze. “Legal documents that begin the process of publicly acknowledging you as my heir.”

Fredrick sucked in a sharp breath, stunned by his father’s audacity. “Where the devil did they come from?”

“I called upon my lawyer last eve.” The slender fingers trembled as Lord Graystone tugged off his hat and tossed it aside. “Needless to say, he was shocked by my confession. But once I had thoroughly explained the situation, he was quite willing to assist me.”

“Why would you do this?” Fredrick waved the papers in an angry motion. “I have not yet decided whether or not I want to become your heir. I will not be forced—”

“No, Fredrick,” his father harshly interrupted. “I spoke with Charles in the strictest confidence, I assure you. He will say nothing unless I give him leave to do so.” He reached out his hand, but as Fredrick instinctively flinched from his touch he allowed it to drop with a sad sigh. “I just wanted you to know that my desire to return you to your proper birthright is genuine. I will do whatever you need me to do to make matters right.”

That uninvited surge of pity threatened to stir deep in Fredrick’s heart as he studied the pale, near fragile features of his father’s face.

Damn it all.

Why should he have sympathy for this man? Why should he care that he suddenly appeared far older than his years? Or that he seemed to be suffering untold pain as he tried to make amends for his past?

“And what if my decision is to deny my inheritance and never see you again?” Fredrick forced himself to ask, not willing to acknowledge that his words might be some long festering need to punish the man who had hurt him over and over during the long years of his childhood. “Will you let me go?”

There was a long pause before his father gave a slow, grudging nod of his head.

“If that is your wish, Fredrick, then yes, I will allow you to walk away without a fight.”

“You will tell no one that I am your legitimate son or try and make me heir to Oak Manor?”

“If that is your wish.” The nobleman pressed his hand to his chest, as if to ease a painful tightness. “But Fredrick, I will not allow you to leave here without knowing that I love you. I have always loved you. Even when I was distant and cold to you . . .” He gave a shake of his head, his regret nearly palpable in the air. “I loved you so much that it made me ache.”

“Father . . .”

Fredrick was not at all certain what he intended to say. Whether he intended to offer the forgiveness that Lord Graystone ached to receive, or whether he intended to turn away the man who had so nearly ruined his life.

In the end, it did not matter as a loud, slurred voice echoed through the inn.

“I know that bastard is here. Tell him to show himself or be branded a coward.”

“Good God.” With an unsteady movement, Lord Graystone moved to pull open the door to the parlor. “What the devil is he doing here?”

“Who?”

His father rubbed his neck in a gesture of utter weariness. “It is Simon.”

Fredrick lifted his brows in surprise. “Simon? I thought he was in London?”

“He was.” His father shrugged. “Do not fret, I will send him on his way.”

Fredrick took a step forward and laid a restraining hand on his father’s arm. “No.”

“Fredrick?”

“He came to visit me. I think perhaps it is time that the two of us at last meet.”

“Not now, Fredrick,” his father urged. “I know Simon well enough to recognize that he is cast to the wind.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes.”

“Is he often bosky before breakfast?”

“Too often as of late. His friends . . .” The ashen features tightened with disappointment. “No, I cannot blame others for his weakness. I had hoped that he would eventually mature and put aside his childish behavior, but I begin to fear that he shall forever be a ridiculous fop with no consideration beyond the cut of his coat and his own selfish pleasures.”

Fredrick wavered as he met his father’s troubled gaze. Maybe it would be best to postpone any meeting with his half-brother until his brain was not fogged with spirits. It was bound to be fraught with difficulties without the addition of the younger man being foxed.

But then the sound of his shrill voice once again reverberated through the halls.

“Smith! Where the bloody hell are you?”

Fredrick firmly stepped past his father and headed down the short hall. He was no longer concerned with his father or half-brother.

All that mattered in this moment was ridding Portia of a drunken oaf who was disturbing her inn.

Simon was glaring at the empty staircase when Fredrick stepped beside him. For a moment, he silently studied the brother he had never known. Perhaps he was prejudiced, he silently acknowledged, but to his mind there was no mistaking the obvious signs of dissipation.

At the age of three and twenty Simon’s body was already soft with a growing paunch that not even his girdle could disguise. There was also an unhealthy cast to his round face that spoke of endless nights devoted to too much food and too much wine.

Fredrick had known too many gentlemen who were overly fond of the bottle not to recognize the weakness that was etched into Simon’s petulant features.

With a shake of his head he moved to stand directly before the swaying gentleman.

“There is no need to screech like a fishmonger, dear brother,” he drawled softly. “I am here.”

“You.” Stiffening in outrage, Simon held up a threatening fist. Or at least a fist that might have been threatening if it were not plump and nearly hidden beneath gem-crusted rings. “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?” Fredrick demanded. “A fishmonger or my brother?”

“Do you dare to mock me?”

Fredrick might have felt a measure of sympathy for the ridiculous dandy if he had not noticed the ugly hatred that twisted his features.

This weak, foolish boy had been given everything. A secure childhood, the love of his parents, the respect of his peers and yet he dared to hate his only brother?

For what?

For having the audacity to simply be born?

Dark, seething anger rushed through Fredrick. By God, he was not about to endure any further insults. Especially not when they came from a pasty-faced drunk who wasted every opportunity that he had been given.

With a deliberate gesture, Fredrick allowed his gaze to roam over Simon’s lace-trimmed jacket with a scornful smile.

“I would mock anyone doltish enough to wear a coat in that particular shade of yellow.”

A flush stained the heavy cheeks before Simon was thrusting out his weak chin.

“And what would a bastard know of fashion?”

Fredrick’s lips twisted. He did not doubt that his own London tailor was far more expensive, not to mention more exclusive, than any Simon could claim.

“I have no need to be a fashion connoisseur to realize you look like a wilted buttercup rather than a dashing gentleman.”

“You will regret speaking to me in that manner.”

“Will I?”

The short, pudgy gentleman quivered with rage, but wisely he restrained his response to a frustrated glare.

“You are fortunate that I do not intend to teach you a lesson in how to treat your betters with the respect that they deserve,” he bluffed.

Fredrick gave a short laugh, suddenly realizing that the three buffoons must have rushed to London to warn Simon that his half-brother was lurking about the neighborhood.

Idiots.

“The same lesson your friends attempted to teach me before they were lying senseless upon the floor?” he demanded.

A small amount of spittle gathered at the corners of Simon’s mouth as he struggled to contain his fury.

“Oh yes, they told me of how you attacked them with a gang of ruffians.”

“A gang of ruffians?” Fredrick tilted back his head as he laughed with genuine amusement. Clearly the dandies were so embarrassed by their thumping they had to invent wild tales to explain their ignominious defeat. “I could have dealt with those namby-pamby idiots with a gang of schoolgirls. And if you truly desire to share their sad fate, then by all means, let us have a proper mill.”

Fredrick made a movement to shed his jacket, not at all surprised when Simon nearly tumbled on his backside as he hastily backed away. He might be all sorts of a fool, but he at least realized that he was bound to lose in any physical battle with Fredrick.

“Why are you here?” he charged, his thick features twisted into a scowl.

“At the Queen’s Arms?”

“In this neighborhood.”

Fredrick gave a lift of his brows. “That is really none of your concern.”

The round countenance hardened with determination. “It is if you think to try and bamboozle money from the old man with some hard-luck story.”

“You think I came here for money?”

“Why else would you be here?” Simon scoffed, clearly unaware of the fortune Fredrick had managed to amass. “I will hand you over to the local magistrate if I discover you have been given so much as a quid.”

Fredrick gave a slow shake of his head. “You would begrudge your own brother a mere quid?”

“Oak Manor would be a pile of rubbish if not for my mother’s dowry, and now that the place is finally making a profit I will not have you sniffing around in the hopes of picking at the crumbs.” His eyes glittered with a frustrated greed. “’Tis bad enough that my inheritance is forever being wasted upon those ignorant tenants my father dotes upon. Things will be a good deal different once I am Lord Graystone.”

Fredrick’s stomach twisted at the utter indifference his brother displayed in speaking of their father’s eventual death, and even worse, his lack of concern for those vulnerable tenants who depended upon his goodwill.

“I suppose you intend to use the profits from Oak Manor for your own amusement?”

“Well, I most certainly do not intend to bury myself in this God-forsaken place and play the role of gentleman farmer.”

“And yet, someday that is precisely what you will be . . . a gentleman farmer.”

Simon offered a mocking laugh at the mere thought. “Not bloody likely.”

Fredrick gave a shake of his head. Gads, it was little wonder Lord Graystone was so desperate to coax him into becoming his heir. No doubt he was beginning to realize that the village idiot would be preferable to Simon, he ruefully acknowledged. And Fredrick had to agree.

If this weak-willed, stunningly selfish twit gained command of Oak Manor, it would take only a few months before the coffers were bled dry and the tenants once again suffering.

“Do you know, dear brother, I am beginning to suspect that you are absolutely correct.” The words were leaving his lips before Fredrick had even thought them through. “There is no need for you to ever concern yourself with becoming the next baron.”

Simon narrowed his beady eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you have convinced me that Oak Manor will never survive if it is so unfortunate as to fall into your hands.”

There was a choked sound from behind him, and Fredrick slowly turned to meet his father’s desperate gaze.

“Fredrick, are you saying . . .”

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Fredrick gave a nod of his head.

“Yes, Father, I will accept the inheritance that is mine,” he said, his voice astonishingly steady considering he was about to alter his life completely and irrevocably. “I will allow you to name me as your legal heir.”