The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (12 page)

“L
ord Cadgwith, didn’t expect I’d see you here.”

Hugh grimaced, hesitating for a moment before stepping into the murky greenish waters of the bath. “Mr. Sanburne,” he said cordially, nodding.

The estate agent waded toward him, ignoring Hugh’s reserved greeting. “Been coming here for years myself. Bad leg from my days aboard His Majesty’s finest. You take one bit of shrapnel to the knee, and damned if it doesn’t hurt like the dickens every time it rains for the rest of your life.” He grinned slyly. “Bit of a problem in jolly ole England, eh?”

Offering a shallow nod, Hugh lowered himself into the steaming waters. It wasn’t the most encouraging thing in the world to have someone complain of his decades-old injury still bothering him. Why must these injures linger so, making life miserable in the process?

Sighing, he moved his arms back and forth slowly, savoring the warmth of the water. The fabric of his shirt billowed with each pass like a translucent white jellyfish in a changing tide. This place would be just about perfect if he could visit alone and shed the annoying clothes altogether. He wished now he would have stuck to his normal hours, instead of coming earlier. After another good night of sleep, he had actually felt invigorated and ready to start the day soon after the sun came up.

Sanburne walked slowly back and forth, presumably working his knee. “But I wouldn’t live anywhere else, God’s truth. I’ve seen some beautiful places in this world, but none of them is home quite like this little island. Know what I mean?”

Clearly the man had no intention of leaving him be. He wasn’t bad company—just unwanted. Hugh allowed himself to sink deeper, until only his head remained above the water in the cool morning air. “I do. I’ve not traveled extensively—the army is generally closer to home than the navy—but it was enough.”

Sanburne nodded but kept his peace this time, silently continuing his little circuit. Allowing himself to relax, Hugh closed his eyes and breathed in the sulfur scent of the water. He’d hated it when he’d first arrived—who liked the smell of rotten eggs?—but with the healing came acceptance, and now an odd comfort.

“So, this is why you chose to visit Bath, eh?”

Hugh’s eyes popped open and he glanced to his uninvited companion. The man’s eyes were good-natured but shrewd as he slowly paced by. Hugh didn’t answer. It seemed to be the question on everyone’s lips, but his reasons for being here were no one’s business but his own.

Sanburne wasn’t discouraged. “I was wondering, what with the way you spoke of your neighbor’s musical talents. Anyone that vehemently opposed to the sound of music surely isn’t here for the festival.”

Was he expecting Hugh to divulge the nature of his medical need just to satiate his curiosity? He’d be disappointed, if that were the case. Hugh ignored the unspoken question and settled onto the submerged stone ledge along the water’s edge before leaning against the wall. With a shrug, he said, “It was made clear to me that the Baths were not to be missed.”

It was a completely true statement, not that he owed anyone even that much. Sanburne paused, considering him for a moment before coming to sit beside him. “They say the waters get their healing properties from the necromantic powers of the fabled Prince Bladud. Poppycock, of course,” he said, stroking his damp white beard. “There have been theories of angel’s tears, underground volcanoes, or water from the center of the earth.

“I, however,” he said, extending his leg and rubbing at his knee, “think it is probably more simple than that. People needed a place to go to give them hope, and God gave them one.”

Lifting his brow, Hugh gave the old man a sideways glance, trying to gauge what he was really saying. As lighthearted as his conversation tended to be, he seemed to hold serious stock in his words. “Is that so?”

“Not sure if it needs to be, if that’s what it is in execution.” Winking, he came to his feet and waded toward the edge. “These springs may run more or less consistently, but it is hope that springs eternal.”

Hugh watched the older man as he climbed from the water and accepted a towel from a servant. After patting down his dripping clothes, Sanburne draped the linen over his neck and half-smiled to Hugh.

“You know, the ole sawbones on board wanted to take my leg. He said I’d never walk again, anyway. It took a few years, but I’m happy to prove him wrong every day.” Without another word, he turned, retrieved his walking stick from the waiting servant, and headed inside.

Hugh stared back at him, not sure what to make of the man. What a singularly odd exchange. There was more to the man than Hugh would have imagined, but he wasn’t entirely sure Sanburne was operating with a full deck. Whatever his meaning or purpose behind his theory of the Baths had little bearing on Hugh. All Hugh needed to know was that he was sleeping better than he had in years, and if soaking in foul water and drinking gallons of the stuff were responsible, he intended to continue until he no longer remembered what an attack even felt like.

He closed his eyes again and relaxed, ignoring the occasional splashes and odd conversation of the other bathers as they came and went. What would he do when he could live like a normal person again? Ah, to ride again. Not just pleasant walks in the park, but full-speed tears across the countryside. He’d been a cavalryman, for God’s sake. He had learned to ride before he could even walk. Feeling the wind through his hair and exhilaration in his heart again would be incredible.

He’d ride, and sit through dreadful musicales, and be talked into attending the fireworks display that they organized every spring to kick off the flower festival in Cadgwith.

God, he sounded like a bloody poet. A dreamer, which he most assuredly was not. He was a realist. He understood limitation, expectations, and disappointments.

Still, as his body relaxed in the weightlessness of the warm water, his heart seemed to buoy as well. Sanburne’s slight limp may seem a pity to others, but after what he had told Hugh, it looked a hell of a lot like inspiration to him.

*   *   *

“I have the most delicious gossip.” Sophie grinned as she flipped open the case for her oboe, her eyes full of mischief.

May looked up from her sheet music, her brows raised in expectation. “Oh? Although, as new to town as I am, it may very well be lost on me.”

“Oh, you know the subject of this gossip very well.” Sophie looked pointedly to Charity.

Sophie had lasted all of three minutes—longer than Charity would have expected. Not that she would spread gossip to others, but this was May, and Charity had already planned on sharing all the embarrassing details. “I was going to tell her,” she insisted, even as she felt the inevitable spread of heat in her cheeks.

May’s eyes widened with interest. “My word, this promises to be very good indeed. I can only assume this has to do with the dinner on Saturday night. What have you done, little Miss Rule Follower?”

“Rule follower?” Charity laughed. “Is that a bad thing?” She hoped not, because with the minor exception of composing against her mother’s wishes, the description fit quite well. Actually . . . come to think of it, the description
used
to fit quite well. But rule followers didn’t converse with a man under the cover of darkness, or confront him alone in a study.

She was becoming quite the rule breaker, it would seem. Never a description she would have applied to herself in London during her previous two Seasons. Here, she was Charity the rebel.

May gave her a wink. “It is if you want to have any fun in life. Now, do tell what has those delightfully freckled cheeks of yours turning all pink.”

Sitting down on her pianoforte bench, Charity gave an innocent shrug. “I may or may not have decided to give Lord Cadgwith a piece of my mind.”

“What?” May said, pulling a chair up to sit beside her. “What did he do? And where were you? Ugh—why couldn’t my aunt have trusted me enough to allow me to attend?”

Sophie curled on the nearby settee, tucking her feet beneath her white skirts. “I wish you would have been there as well. You would not believe the way Lord Cad looked at her when she arrived at Lord Derington’s party. I nearly swooned—and I wasn’t even the recipient!”

“All right, now I’m confused.” The smooth skin of May’s forehead puckered as she scrunched her brow. “What, exactly, was this look?”

Charity bit her lip as fresh heat tinged her cheeks. “It was . . . intense. We locked eyes, and for a fleeting moment, there was something exciting and quite unexpected between us. I don’t even know how to describe it, other than to say in that moment, I doubted either of us could have told you a thing about what else was going on in the room.”

“So, you gave him a piece of your mind to chastise him?” Confusion still clouded May’s blue eyes.

“No. I chastised him for showing such interest one moment, and then practically giving us the cut direct the next.” Charity shook her head, the frustration still as keen as it was two nights ago. “I just wanted to know where I stand with him. One minute he hates me; the next he’s offering me his carriage. It’s infuriating that I can’t get a handle on it.”

She recounted the entire story, leaving out only the shocking feel of the baron’s hands against her arms. When she was finished, May’s expression was smugly knowing. “What?” Charity asked cautiously.

“Oh, it is exceedingly clear that the man is interested in you.”

“Interested? Yes, half the time. The rest of the time he’s driving me mad. Don’t forget, we’re
just neighbors
,” she said, quoting his stony words.

May shook her head, looking very worldly all of the sudden. “I would bet a thousand guineas that he is interested, even though he may not wish to be. I think it is plain from Lord Derington’s words that there is something more to the baron’s presence than meets the eye. So,” she said, flashing a wide grin, “we must figure it out.”

Charity pursed her lips, considering her friend’s words. She had come to the same conclusion, but was at a loss for how she was to go about doing such a thing. “Easier said than done, I think.”

“You are a woman,” May said, her voice firm. “Use your wiles.”

“My
wiles
?” Charity squeaked, then couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, May, if only I had such a thing. I am far too shy to ever possess any wiles.”

Sophie snorted. “Says the woman who cornered a baron in a closed room with more than two dozen potential witnesses in the next room.”

Charity grinned. Shy rebels existed, didn’t they?

“Then it’s settled,” May said, clapping her hands. “You shall work on the baron, and we shall look forward to your next report with great interest.”

“I don’t know why I even care to go through the trouble. It’s not as though I have any true interest in the man. He just vexes me so very much.”

“Mmhmm,” May murmured, coming to her feet and dragging the chair back to her guzheng. “Men do tend to excel at that. Think of it as a summer project so that your poor, sequestered friend Mei-li can have something through which to live vicariously.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Charity responded, offering a wag of her brows before spinning around on her bench to face her pianoforte. She surreptitiously glanced to the shared wall, wondering if he was on the other side. On the days that they rehearsed in her home, she made certain it was midafternoon, so as not to cause any undue bother. Hopefully he wouldn’t be sleeping, but what if he was listening? Would he ever stop hating her music so much?

She let her fingers work over the keys in a few mindless scales, wondering how one went about using one’s wiles. All of her confidence tended to rest in her music ability, so she wasn’t sure how to proceed without it.

The evening on the balcony came to mind, and she considered the encounter. He must be a nighthawk, since clearly mornings were not his favorite. That’s when she should meet him next. How would she draw him out, though? She focused on the familiar black and white keys, considering her fingers as they tapped away.

Music, of course. What better way to ensure a reaction than by playing for him? Grandmama slept like the dead, and the servants knew better than to interrupt her when she was playing.

She licked her lips, reveling in the thrill of anticipation that snaked through her belly. They were to spend the evening in tonight, so by ten or so her grandmother would retire. Charity would give her time to be well and truly settled before slipping into the music room to play.

Still doing her warm-up, she glanced to the clock perched above the mantel. Midnight should be perfect. She breathed in a deep breath, surprised by the flutter of nerves that assailed her.

It was time to find out what the baron was all about.

S
hedding his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat, Hugh stretched his arms high above him. Damn, it felt good to be able to do that. His shoulder was much looser than it had been in years, and he felt little in the way of discomfort.

Another relatively pain-free day. The only concession he made was to leave the house when the trio showed up next door. He was feeling better and better, and for once was actually well rested, but still. Between Charity’s preference for high notes and that squeaky woodwind one of the other girls played, it was best not to tempt fate.

Instead he spent the afternoon walking. First the streets around the house, then farther, past the Baths, over the bridge, and finally along the River Avon. What he’d failed to notice since his arrival was that the city was actually quite attractive, with a proliferation of handsome cream-colored limestone used in nearly every building. The cobblestone streets were well maintained, and sturdy black metal railings added pleasant contrast. There were a surprising amount of flowers in the city itself—in the grassy areas, in window boxes, and even in hanging planters lining the walkways.

He had ended up taking a long walk at the waterfront. It was pleasant and he enjoyed himself, but the soft sound of rushing water was nothing when compared to the low, ever-present roar of waves crashing off the beaches lining the side of his estate. It was one of the only noises that actually seemed to soothe him.

The village of Cadgwith lived and breathed thanks to the ocean. Fishing boats bobbed on the horizon year round as the fisherman trolled for their daily catches. He missed the smell of salt water, the roughness of the wind, and the taste of freshly caught seafood.

He missed home.

Sighing, he dropped his hands to his sides and walked to the window, peering up to the night sky. No moon tonight, not with the heavy layer of clouds that had gathered shortly after he returned for supper and had stayed ever since.

As he sat on the edge of the nearest chair to pull his boots off, a sound from next door had him cocking his head. Surely that wasn’t . . . no. She was playing?
Now?
It was close to midnight, for God’s sake.

Sure enough, the unmistakable sound of the pianoforte drifted through the wall. It was softer than usual, probably in deference to her own sleeping household, but it was still upbeat in tempo. He grimaced as the notes climbed the scale, tinkling like his mother’s old wind chimes that seemed to never quiet as they whipped in the sea air when he was growing up.

He shook his head in disbelief. Was she
trying
to make a nuisance of herself?

Leaving his boots on, he stalked to the balcony door and yanked it open. Warm night air flooded past him as he stepped outside and leaned forward over the railing until the glowing interior of her music room came into view. The music was actually quieter out here. Of course it would be his luck that the walls would be thinner than the bloody windowpanes. He crossed his arms over his chest and stewed, debating what to do next.

He could leave her be, but Lord knew that was a hell of a precedent to set. He’d rather nip it in the bud now, when he was only mildly annoyed, as opposed to if he were in the grips of one of his attacks. Or, worse, if she should wake him from sleep after one of his attacks.

He looked around for something with which he could get her attention, but the balcony was empty of any pebbles or the like. He slipped back inside, retrieved a few loose coins, then returned to the darkness of the night. Throwing coins at her window wasn’t exactly the most dignified thing in the world, but it was a step up from pounding the wall.

He chose a halfpenny, aimed, and tossed it. It pinged off the sash and fell to the stone floor. He tried another, but even though it hit the glass this time, it had a similarly unimpressive noise—certainly nothing that would be heard over her playing. Fishing around for a heavier piece, he chose a half sovereign, lined it up, and let it fly. This time, it connected with a loud, cringe-inducing clunk. The music stopped almost at once. Success! He counted to three before the sheers were pulled aside and Charity tugged open the door.

She squinted as she peered into the inky black night, her hands akimbo at her hips. Her eyes came to rest on him, then dropped to the stone floor beneath the window. “If you wish to make a request,” she said drily, retrieving the half sovereign from the ground, “I assure you there is no need to pay for the privilege.”

“Consider it payment for your silence,” he returned, crossing his arms again and leaning back against the railing.

Instead of the anger or outrage that he might have expected from such a comment, she simply bent to retrieve the other two coins, slipped the lot of them into some hidden fold of her skirts, and nodded. “As you wish.”

He almost laughed. “Truly? Is that all it takes?” He pushed away from the railing and approached the divider in between their respective sides. “Here, then,” he said, holding out the remaining money, palm up. “Consider this payment in advance for the next few nights.”

She stepped forward, and the light of the room behind her would have obscured her smile completely if it wasn’t for the flash of her white teeth. “Is it really as bad as all that to you? Music is supposed to be a balm to the soul, you know.”

She was close enough now that he could see her features more clearly. Her eyes, usually a light bluish gray, were dark pools set against her pale face. Even in this light, he could see the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Her gown, which had been a pale yellow in the candlelight, was now a ghostly white.

He lifted an eyebrow and gave the palmful of coins a rattle. “Silence is golden. And I am quite willing to purchase it with sterling.”

“You, sir, are
très
unsophisticated. Lucky for you, I am not above bribery.”

With an arch look, she plucked the coins from his palm one by one. Her fingers were surprisingly chilly for the warm night, and he had the fleeting desire to close his hand over hers to warm them. Instead, he dropped his arm the moment his palm was empty. “Thank goodness for small favors.”

She held up the sixpence, turning it back and forth. “Have you always disliked music?” The question was casual, almost offhand. She couldn’t have known how personal it truly was.

It wasn’t wise to stand out here and converse with her, but, for some reason, he was reluctant to return to the emptiness of his chambers. It had been a good day, and, to be completely honest, he wasn’t sorry for her company.

He should be, but he wasn’t.

“A sixpence for your thoughts,” she said, holding the coin out to him. Her tone was light and teasing, inviting him to relax a bit. “It’s only fair that if you can buy my silence, I should be able to purchase your answers.”

A small grin curled the corners of his lips, and he reached out and tugged the coin from her grasp. She didn’t recoil when his fingers brushed hers, and he had to make himself break the contact. Clearing his throat softly, he said, “I’ve never been a music lover, if that is what you mean. But, no, I don’t suppose I’ve always hated it.” He recrossed his arms and backed up until his hip was perched against the cool metal of the railing. There—a proper distance. Perhaps now his brain would work right.

A light wind picked up the loose wisps of hair around her face, and she tucked one side behind her ear. The scent of lavender reached his nose, and he found himself inhaling the soothing fragrance. He wouldn’t have thought it would be a match to her personality, but somehow it fit.

So much for his attempt to recapture his right mind.

“What changed, then?” She seemed genuinely curious, as though unable to fathom such a thing. Actually, he doubted she
could
fathom such a thing.

This was the point in a conversation when he would usually change the subject or walk away, but he didn’t want to leave just yet. There was something . . . less judgmental about conversations in the dark like this. There seemed less scrutiny, less prying. He couldn’t see the pity in another’s gaze, and they wouldn’t see the pain in his. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “A lot of things change when men go to war. That just happened to be one of them for me.”

“You were in the war?” The words were softly spoken, but he could hear the surprise in her voice. Did she understand how truly horrific war could be? He certainly hoped not. But he did detect a certain amount of respect in her tone, which was reassuring.

“Three years. Captain Hugh Danby at your service.
Former
Captain, I should say.” It’d been years since he’d claimed that title. His commission was sold shortly after he was injured, since it was abundantly clear that he could never serve in any true capacity again. It had been a very, very dark time.

“I can’t believe I didn’t know that about you. A war hero, right next door.”

“I’m no hero,” he said gruffly, the old pang of regret thumping him in the ribs. If he were a true hero, half of the men beneath his command wouldn’t have died on the battlefield. Ten of them, to be precise. Each of their names were seared in his brain, reminders of how he had failed them. Yes, he’d been given a bloody medal and hailed a hero, but that meant damned little when his men were left behind to be buried on the field that day.

She pressed her lips together before giving a small nod. “I’m sorry. I presume too much.” She’d taken it as a reprimand.

“No, I’m just being rude again.” He struggled to smile, to pull himself away from the yawning pit that such thoughts threatened to topple him into. “I only mention the war since that is the last time I remember dancing. The music in Belgium was quite pleasing at the time, if memory serves.”

*   *   *

Charity grasped the change of direction like a lifeline. “Really? I’ve heard a few traveling orchestras, but none with the skill of the one that played at the Assembly Rooms last week. I’d love to travel someday, to visit the major cities of Europe and soak in their distinct musical offerings.”

It wasn’t that she wasn’t ravenously curious to know more about the war and how it changed his life. On the contrary, she was nearly drowning in her curiosity. But she’d sensed the hesitation in him, an odd darkness that dulled his voice and tightened his shoulders. Even though his pose was one of relaxation, he’d become as tense as an overtightened harp string. Yes, she did want to travel, but the point of her answer had been to soothe him. To offer him a safe subject about which they could freely converse.

“I think that is a noble and attainable goal,” he said, nodding slightly. A gust of wind tugged at his overlong hair, whipping it in front of his eyes. He raked a hand through it, tugging it straight back. Her eyes were drawn momentarily to the white slash through his eyebrow, the only one of his scars visible in this light. The same wind that tugged at his hair pressed the fabric of his shirt against his chest, turning it to second skin.

Charity’s heart kicked up, running at double speed. He was lean, with long limbs, naturally broad shoulders and a slim waist that tapered into his narrow hips. It was a pleasing figure, to say the least.

With a purposeful straightening of her spine, Charity dragged her attention back to the conversation. “I’ll just bet you do. I know your true motive, my lord.” She had meant the words to be teasing, but they came out slightly breathless.

He paused, watching her in the darkness. “Oh?”

“Yes. You’re saying that only because it would result in me being as far from you as possible.” She grinned, grateful for the lack of light. Her tendency to blush was the bane of her existence, and she’d rather him not know the direction of her thoughts only moments ago.

“Ah, how little you know me, Miss Effington.” He sighed, the first sign of weariness she had seen all night. “It isn’t that I’d wish you anywhere else; it’s that I’d wish myself back in Cadgwith.”

The burn of curiosity sprang to life within her all over again. This was what she had wanted to discover in the first place. Why was he here? He clearly wished himself elsewhere, so why stay? “What keeps you here?” she asked softly, unable to keep the question in.

He tilted his head to the side, watching her. Was he judging her? Questioning whether she was worthy of his trust? After a moment, he pushed away from the railing and came to his full height. “We all have duties. I’m doing my best to fulfill mine. Now, then,” he said, clearly shutting the door to that particular topic. “I do believe you have your sixpence worth. Good night, Miss Effington.”

Disappointment weighed on her heart. She wasn’t ready to lose this—they had actually had a real, honest conversation. She liked that, liked knowing she was beginning to unlock a bit of the mystery that surrounded him. But it was clear there was to be no more between them tonight.

Her smile wasn’t entirely sincere, but she doubted he could tell in the darkness. “Indeed. But you have paid for several nights of silence. I wonder,” she said, gathering her courage to ask the next question. “What will I do with myself tomorrow night?”

The baron held himself very still for a moment, and Charity found herself holding her breath. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he finally replied, and, despite herself, she let out the air from her lungs on a whoosh.

She had put herself out there boldly, and he had rejected her.

Instead of retreating as she expected him to do, he lingered, looking out over the dark shapes in the garden below. At last his eyes flicked back to her, meeting her questioning gaze straight on. “However,” he said slowly, as if coming to a decision, “the next night, I find myself with a free evening. The night air truly is pleasant, is it not?”

Her smile was one of pure satisfaction. “Indeed.”

*   *   *

Hugh turned the coin over in his hand, studying the stamped design in the dreary gray afternoon light. Fat raindrops pounded the windowpanes even as wind rattled their casing. It was a miserable day to go calling, but the moment he’d received the note that morning that Thomas was in town, he hadn’t even hesitated. Now, damp but in good spirits, he waited patiently in the Potters’ overly ostentatious drawing room.