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Category:
Romance
Type: Fiction
Pages: 276
Copyright: Feb 1, 2013
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Just when she agrees to settle for an arranged marriage, Geni falls in love– with a man who thinks she’s somebody else…
Geni Bayles has made some pretty poor choices when it comes to men. So she finally agrees to meet the suitor her mother has chosen, a painfully shy baronet from the country. When she encounters Sir Richard Latimer, however, she finds him witty, considerate and charming—but only because he thinks she’s a maid. She decides to continue the deception just long enough to learn his true personality.
Richard knows he has a duty to marry a rich woman to restore the estates on which so many people depend. But he would give anything to marry a fun, clever girl like the maid he’s just met. And just kissed.
He’s fallen for the right girl for the wrong reason. She’s made the wrong move for the right reason. They just might be perfect together—if it weren’t for the complete lack of trust.
Excerpt
“No, now you mention it, I haven’t seen Geoffrey since dinner.”
Until that moment, Geni Bayles had ignored all the inane conversation in the drawing room and instead attempted to read the dusty music on the piano. But Mr. Wright’s inquiries about his son Geoffrey drew her attention immediately.
“He is missing again?” She turned away from the piano with a jerk, scattering a sheaf of music behind her. If Mr. Wright could not find his son, then he was probably in trouble. And that trouble would soon encompass them all.
An embarrassed smile flooded Mr. Wright’s thin face. “I’ll have a word with his man, Nicholas, then. I am sure he must know his whereabouts.”
“Perhaps he is caught out in the storm with Sir Richard,” her mother suggested.
“I would term this more of a mild disturbance than a storm,” Geoffrey’s sister Helen looked up from the cordial glasses she had been arranging on a tray. “And we do not know for certain that Sir Richard is caught out in it. He may still be at Garrison Tor.”
Geni was impressed that Helen knew the name of the man’s estate when even she did not remember it. And she would be living there someday. Probably. More than likely.
She realized she was biting her fingernails and made herself stop even before her mother could say anything.
“Sir Richard’s letter stated that he expected to arrive early in the day on the fourth of October. And that is today.” Mrs. Bayles turned to Geni with a smile of parental satisfaction. “Sir Richard is known for his reliability.”
“But Geoffrey is not,” Helen pointed out. “I would suggest you send someone to look for him.”
“Oh, I have, my dear,” Mr. Wright smiled reassuringly. Or rather, his smile might have been reassuring to anyone unfamiliar with his missing son. Geoffrey was known to take it into his head that he wanted to engage in a particular occupation and nothing would dissuade him. The fact that he was missing after dark had particularly bad connotations. This week he might have decided to become a gravedigger. Or a highwayman. Or he might have fancied himself a Revenue Man and gone out to patrol the dark lane for smugglers.
Over the years, Geni had spent enough time in the company of her friend Lucia Wright’s family to fully comprehend the danger of a missing Geoffrey.
But it would do no good to dwell on the negative possibilities. “Perhaps,” Geni suggested hopefully, “he has decided he wished to be a coachman again and has taken the carriage out.” That would be relatively simple and would involve no weapons.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Wright agreed. But he seemed unconvinced. “He did say this morning that he had come upon the perfect occupation that would just suit our quiet old house.”
“Except that it’s not very quiet now, Papa George, with so many guests,” Helen pointed out. “With Sophie next to my chamber and Geni next to her and their mother and father at the end of the hallway by Geoffrey, that only leaves me one available chamber to conduct experiments on mold spores.”
Geni felt her nose wrinkle. That did explain the smell in the hallway.
“Helen,” Mr. Wright admonished sternly, “I told you to move your experiments because the room was wanted for Sir Richard.”
“And I have moved them. Almost all of them. But I need three samples exposed to morning sunlight and—”
“Move all of them, please,” Mr. Wright insisted. “We will not ask our guest to sleep in a mold farm.”
“But at least let me have one more morning,” Helen pleaded. “If Sir Richard has not arrived by this time, he has likely had to stop at an inn somewhere for the night.”
“Oh very well.” Mr. Wright turned to Geni. “Your suggestion about the carriage has given me an idea. I may know where to find the lad after all.” He bowed. “I will bid you all good night, then, since it may be quite late when I return.”
Geni let out a sigh and realized she had not taken a full breath since Mr. Wright asked if anyone knew the whereabouts of his son. But Helen seemed more concerned about missing a day’s worth of observations on her experiments than whether her brother might be locked up in Bedlam again. Where most young ladies of Helen’s age would be begging for their introduction at Almack’s, Helen was pleading for another day of mold development.
Lucia had not exaggerated when she said her family was unusual.
Somehow Lucia had always been able to contain the eccentric energies of her younger brother and sister, but now that she was married and traveling abroad in the company of her husband, only Geoffrey and Helen’s stepfather stood between them and utter chaos.
Of course, the chaos was not really Geni’s problem, since Geoffrey was not her brother. It was the fact that they were staying in his house that was the problem. Her mother thought it would be an ideal place to meet Sir Richard.
Her mother was the problem.
And Sir Richard was the problem. Geni’s prospective husband and therefore her problem.
Friends had been able to tell her very little about the man her mother had selected to receive the sizable marriage settlement her father would make on her. Sir Richard Latimer came from a family of ancient lineage, with a family home that was already old at the time Magna Carta was signed. He was said to be an eccentric recluse who could not speak without stuttering and was unable to bear the crowded environs of London.
So her mother had arranged for him to meet them at Hayden Grange, the home of Lucia’s stepfather. A house party in the country, she called it. Except that instead of fashionable friends, they were sharing the house with a young woman who collected moldy toast rinds, a young man who changed occupations more frequently than shirts, and a host whose idea of morning calls was to go out and stand with the pigs in silent communion for an hour because he believed it would increase their sense of contentment. Her friend Lucia, the one person on the Wright family whose company she would enjoy, was not here.
Of course the party also included Geni’s mother, father and sister Sophie. But her parents could not be considered enjoyable company when they were so bent on seeing her respectably married before she could do something stupid as Sophie had done.
And Sophie was not good company because she was too busy being stupid.
So since Geni had no desire to spend any time with them, she would have plenty of time to talk to Sir Richard. And for some reason, that thought depressed her beyond all measure.
* * * * *
The misty rain that had seemed so light and refreshing at the start of the journey now hit Richard Latimer dead in the face as he rode, running down his cheeks to soak through his cravat. And the only thing worse than having a wet glob of cloth wrapped around his throat was the fact that the wet glob of cloth repeatedly slapped him with each bounce and sway of the horse. He hated riding. Once he was married, he could afford to have the carriage repaired and buy a team of horses to pull it. Then he would never so much as look at another saddle.
Once he was married. If that wasn’t the catchphrase of his life, he didn’t know what was. Everything had to wait until “he was married”. Or, more accurately, until he brought money into the vast, empty Latimer coffers that had yawned open for years waiting for something to stumble into the trap. Or rather, someone.
And now it might finally happen.
Well, it might.
This might really be the time.
Unless she thought him too eccentric. Or not masculine enough. Or too awkward. Too short. Or too odd. He knew what people said about him.
His father had been his most vocal critic. But he suspected the wits of the Ton would have done far worse were it not for that fact he went out so seldom that most of society remained unaware of his very existence.
He peered into the deepening twilight gloom, trying to determine if the road ahead curved or remained straight. Damn, if this Hayden Grange wasn’t in London it might as well have been. Two days’ ride in the cold rain and now as darkness closed in he seemed no nearer than when he’d set out. He shifted in the saddle, aware that certain parts of him were growing numb and not just with the chill. When that seemed to have little effect, he stretched his legs and leaned to the side a bit. Then a bit more.
A bit too far, as it turned out. The shift in position caused his horse to stumble so that he slid right off over her neck, rolling over to find himself flat on his back on the edge of the sodden roadway. He heard a whump just ahead and looked over to see that his portmanteau had come detached from the saddle, tumbled to the ground, and then cracked open, spilling its contents in the mud. That was his only change of clothing until his man Duncan arrived later with his luggage.
So now he could add “too muddy” to the list of complaints this rich heiress might have against him.
At the sound of hoof beats in the distance, he decided he’d better get to his feet so that whoever was approaching would not find him sitting haplessly in the mud. But when he tried to stand, he found his right ankle would not support his weight without a great deal of pain. So he crawled around quickly, gathering his belongings and stuffing them into the portmanteau. Then he closed it up, struggled to his feet and hopped over to where his horse stood munching on tufts of spindly grass.
“Artemis, old girl, I’m afraid you will need to give me a little help.”
The horse bit off an extra large clump of grass as if she were ignoring him entirely, but he knew she had heard him. Leaning against the saddle, he heaved the portmanteau up toward her back. However, she chose that moment to reach for a tuft of grass that was just one step away and so the portmanteau sailed over her rump and Richard lost his balance. He managed to keep from falling again by clutching at the hairs in her tail, which she did not like at all.
At least he was still on his feet. He remained there, awkwardly balancing against the backside of his horse when the approaching rider slowed to a stop in front of him.
“Might I be of assistance, sir?” The voice belonged to a young man. In the growing darkness, all Richard could tell was that he was tall and gangly.
“I’ve met with a bit of an accident and can ride no more tonight. Would you know of an inn in the vicinity?”
The young man eagerly scrambled off his horse. “I do indeed know of a place that is but a few miles distant.”
“That is fortunate then.” Just the thought of a fire glowing at the end of a dimly lit common room warmed him. “Would you be so kind as to help me with my luggage? It is just there, by your feet.”
“By my—” The young man’s next words were interrupted by the sound of cracking leather and splintering wood.
“I believe that was it.”
The young man reached down, picked up the portmanteau, now crushed in on one side, and held it up. “Er, um, shall I strap this in for you?”
“If you would just hold it in place for a moment I can—”
“No,” the young man insisted with surprising force, “allow me.”
“Very well.” Richard didn’t see what worse harm could come to his luggage this night. He wasn’t even sure it was worth stealing, should his assistant turn out to be a highwayman.
After much struggling and cursing, the young man stepped back with a sigh of satisfaction. “That should hold. If you follow me, I will lead you to the inn, for I am headed in that direction myself.”
Richard’s sense of warm anticipation faded. “I am afraid I travel in the opposite direction from which you are headed. But I thank you anyway.” The last inn he had passed had been at least ten miles back and he had no wish to return so far, even if it meant he might spend the night plodding painfully along on horseback.
“N-Nooo,” the young man drawled anxiously. “I travel the same direction as you. Which way are you headed?”
Richard nodded toward a hill ahead. “To the north.”
The young man smiled, his teeth just visible as a light spot in the darkness. “You see, I travel that way as well.” With the same almost frightening enthusiasm, he clambered back onto his horse. “Shall we?”
“Er, yes, of course.” Richard had the distinct impression that if he’d said he was headed south, or even to the moon, the young man would have said he was too. With a little grunt of pain, he hopped over to the stirrups.
“Do you require assistance?” The young man asked.
“No, no, I’m fine.” This was a lie, but Richard failed to see how the young man could help without adding at least a quarter of an hour to the process. He lifted his foot to the stirrup, took a deep breath, and then pushed off the ground with his bad foot. And somehow he was in the saddle, however awkward it may have appeared. There was only this young man to see.
He needed to know whom to thank for the assistance and company. “I thank you for your help, sir. I am Richard Latimer of Manaton.”
“And I am Geoffrey Wright. Pleased to be of service.”
Young Mr. Wright did not say where he was from, but that was fine because Richard was not at all certain he wanted to know.
Not only did the mysteriously helpful Geoffrey Wright reverse his course to escort Richard to the inn, he insisted that Richard dismount in front of the house while he took the horses around back to the stables. Though Richard protested that he could manage his own horse and luggage well enough, the young man’s insistence became so irritating that Richard finally gave in, figuring that even if he turned out to be a thief, it would be better to give away his belongings than listen to him any longer.
The inn was a lonely, oddly-shaped house, set back farther from the road than was the usual situation for a public establishment, and if he had not been brought to it directly, he would have passed it by assuming it to be a private home. In the dark, he could see no sign that might give him an indication of the name of the establishment or the owner. Lights burned in many of the oddly spaced windows, however, so the place seemed well populated with travelers.
Since the door was unlocked, he let himself in.
Candles burned in mirrored sconces in the entry hall, but he could see no sign of any guests or members of the household. However, the sound of clinking glass in the next room indicated that he would probably find at least some of the patrons and very likely the proprietor within. So he pushed open the door, prepared to ask the innkeeper for a bed for the night.
“Pardon me, but…” The words died in his throat. Instead of the guests clutching goblets of wine and punch, he found only a solitary maid picking up cordial glasses off the floor. She was kneeling with her back toward him, reaching under a sofa to collect some that had apparently rolled far underneath. After a moment he realized that though he might be enjoying the view immensely, the girl might not wish to have her backside stared at by a complete stranger.
He coughed to make his presence known.
“I’ve spent only these two nights under the same roof as Helen,” the maid called over her shoulder, “and already I must say I’ve grown quite fatigued with the effort of cleaning up after her. How did you stand it when you were together so much in London?”
Richard grinned. “I solved the problem by avoiding her company entirely.”
At the sound of his voice—obviously not what she had been expecting—the young woman sat up, or tried to sit up and only succeeded in banging her head against the bottom of the sofa. The collection of cordial glasses tumbled out of her hands and rolled across the carpet.
“Who are—damn.” The next sounds were muffled but whether it was out of embarrassment at having emitted an unladylike word or to cover a string of further unladylike words he was uncertain. Not that it mattered.
He picked up the cordial glasses, set them on a nearby tray, and then stepped over to the maid to offer his hand. “May I help you up?”
She looked at his hand as if she had never seen a human appendage before. Whatever footman or male servants this house boasted, they had obviously never made much effort to be of help to the maids. Which was surprising, really, because any man who worked with this young woman would be wise to take every opportunity to get in her good favor.
She had an attractive, round face, bright eyes that sparkled in the candlelight and a very feminine figure. Even so, he wondered how much prettier she might be if she were smiling at him instead of glowering with a look of confusion and mistrust.
He reached closer to her. “I won’t bite, though I cannot promise that I won’t stumble and send you flying into the bookcase.”
The ghost of a smile flitted across her features.
He hoped to encourage her with a smile of his own. “I am rather prone to stumble, particularly in rooms with turkey carpets.”
“I’ve tripped over this one twice today.” She took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “So thank you.” Though she flashed him brief smile, as soon as she gained her footing, she dropped his hand as if it had been made of molten iron.
And he had gloves on, so it could not have been sweaty palms that put her off.
“You’re dripping water everywhere,” she announced.
He lifted his arm and saw that he was indeed dripping like an eave in a rainstorm. “Have you any potted plants in need of watering?” he asked.
Though she seemed mildly amused at his joke, there was a nervous look in her eyes and she started to edge toward the door. “I’m sure it must be a dreadful night to travel,” she said.
He nodded. “Had Mr. Wright not known the route, I might be out there still.”
At these words, the young maid seemed to relax somewhat. She no longer looked toward the door as if she expected to be captured by invaders at any moment.
“I believe your host should return soon,” she said with a smile, “and then you may force him to listen to the tale of your journey from start to finish, embellished much by stories of hardship and suffering. Although I should ask him for a glass of his syllabub first, if I were you.”
“I suppose,” he sighed, “that means I cannot entreat you to listen to my tale of hardship and woe.”
She considered for a moment. “Woe, possibly. I said ‘no’ to the tales of suffering. I cannot bear to listen to anyone speak of aches and pains.” She glanced toward the door and her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “My mama has already regaled me enough to last a lifetime.”
He grinned. “I know of someone with much the same propensity.”
“And then when you offer a suggestion for how she might improve on her condition…”
“She gives you a score of reasons why nothing will ever work and she must endure.”
“Stoically.”
“Yes,” he nodded, pleased with her quick understanding. “That is it exactly. But if I should venture a complaint of my own…”
“Then you are no doubt reminded that it is impolite to speak of such personal matters.”
“No,” he shook his head. “I’m told that no one wishes to hear of another’s ailments.”
“Oh, well then.” She clasped her hands together primly. “I suppose I will remind you that it is impolite to speak of such personal matters.”
“And what, pray, is it polite to speak of?”
She pursed her pretty lips together in thought. “The weather.”
“Which leads to discussions of health and physical ailments.”
“Entertainments in town?” she suggested.
“Which I’ve not seen.”
“Ah, well.” She smiled. “I believe that disqualifies you not in the least, since those who have seen them have no doubt talked through most of the performance.”
“Are there no other fit topics for polite conversation?”
“Oh dear, is this a test?” Her forehead wrinkled in mock consternation. “This was just the sort of thing I was expected to learn at school.”
“The female education sounds vastly superior to that afforded to males then. Polite conversation is needed every day. Greek verb conjugations, on the other hand, are not wanted nearly so often.”
“I would venture to say I wouldn’t want them at all. Unless I were to travel to Greece.”
Despite his attempt to stay lighthearted, he could not keep a wistful note out of his voice. “It was that thought that kept me from quitting.”
“Ah,” she said softly, “but you’ve not been able to put the language to such use, have you?”
She understood. She recognized his longing to travel and understood the disappointment he’d felt for so long that he was expected to learn the languages of lands he would never have the means to visit.
“The war has torn up so much of the world,” she continued. “The grand tours of the past are an impossibility. Or rather, I suppose they are once again possible, but I’m sure nothing looks as it once did.”
“I would not know the difference.” She understood his bitter longing, but not the reason for his bitterness. And he himself had never fully considered that money was not the only problem. Even if the debts did not consume all the profits from the Latimer lands, he still would have been prevented from travel by the armies fighting their way across the face of civilization. He had given no thought the war, since he had no money to buy a commission. Whereas this simple maid had clearly given the matter a great deal of consideration.
“You wish to have seen the Continent as it was before the war,” he observed softly.
“I wish to see it as it was before any war.” She sighed. “An impossibility of course because men have no doubt fought from the moment Adam first drew breath. And animals before him. I cannot think that man was much of an improvement.”
“Perhaps God should not have rested on the seventh day?”
“Ah,” her eyes twinkled with mischief. “But before he rested he did create his ultimate masterpiece.”
Richard nodded. “Woman.”
She blinked in surprise. “You agree with me?”
“Of course.” He grinned, amused both at her wit and even more at her astonishment. “There is perhaps no one in the world so ardent an admirer of your sex.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed and refused to be tempted into any flirtation whatsoever. “You think God made us pretty. An improvement in the outer covering of his creation.”
“No,” he shook his head. “The improvements go much deeper. I believe women have a greater tendency toward compassion, correcting one of man’s greatest deficiencies. And the ability to bear children was also a decidedly necessary improvement.”
She sighed. “Oh yes, I should have guessed you would consider that of primary importance.”
“But there is much more.” He struggled to put his admiration into words. “Women have the ability to, I don’t know, pay heed to things a man would not notice. Keep watch over three pots on a fire, sew on a button, mind a baby and oversee the washing, all at once. Were a man set to accomplish such tasks simultaneously, the button would be stirred into the sauce, the laundry rinsed with soup and the child hung out to bleach in the sun.”
She laughed. Then she looked at him closely, perhaps for the first time. He became quite conscious of his mud-spattered breeches and worn riding coat. This maid might not think the worse of him for it, but he would have to endeavor to make his appearance more presentable before he arrived at Hayden Grange on the morrow.
She was still looking at him. Her interest might have unnerved him, but strangely did not seem to. After a moment he was able to look beyond her pleasant face and form to take in the details of her appearance. Her gown, though of simple cut and unadorned with lace or other embellishments, seemed uncommonly fine for the maid of a country inn. She might perhaps be the innkeeper’s daughter.
Her chestnut hair was disheveled, but that was probably due to the accident with the underside of the sofa.
Suddenly, she grew shy and glanced away. Leaving the tray of cordial glasses behind, she murmured “I hope you will excuse me.”
Then she turned and fled.
He simply stared after her, almost as if he could still detect her presence in the room. She had quite defied his expectations for what he would find in this remote country place. A very bold girl, to be sure, but uncommonly intelligent, and perhaps that ability gave her a confidence unique to most women of her station.
He began to wish his stay at the inn would be of longer duration and started to calculate how long it would be before he would pass back by on his return trip.
On further reflection, he decided she had to be the innkeeper’s daughter. A maid would have lost her employment had she left all those unwashed glasses piled up in the parlor.
All those glasses. Who on earth drank that much cordial? He looked around but did not see an extraordinary number of decanters in the room.
When the door started to creak open a few minutes later, he hoped to see the daughter returning for the glasses. Her face was by far the most pleasant thing he had laid eyes on all day.
All week, for that matter.
But before he could determine just how long it had been since he’d seen anything quite so pleasant, his thoughts were interrupted by not the daughter but the innkeeper himself. He was a short-sighted, slump-shouldered man whose green kerseymere coat hung off his shoulders as if not sure it belonged there. He shuffled as much as he walked and was apparently so preoccupied that he seemed not to notice the appearance of a new guest in his parlor.
“So what do we have for supper tonight, my good man?” Richard asked in what he hoped was a jovial voice. So often he feared that a quiet tone made it appear as if he were putting on an air of superiority. He would show this innkeeper that there was no need to stand on ceremony simply because his guest was a baronet.
“Supper was cleared from the table some time—” the innkeeper stopped as he finally caught sight of Richard. He stepped closer and squinted at him. “Who the devil are you? Do you know what’s become of this troublesome Geoffrey?” His eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’ve come in with him?”
Richard gaped for a moment under the barrage of questions. “I did just come in, yes. And I haven’t eaten since breakfast so I’m quite hungry. Surely you must have some food in the kitchen.”
The innkeeper scowled. “How would I know what’s in the kitchen?”
“Most people keep food in their kitchens,” Richard said with a smile. “It was just a guess.”
“Well, I suppose you might go look.”
His host’s continued rudeness finally forced Richard to use the haughty tone he generally reserved for use only with solicitors. “It is the usual custom for the host to serve his guests, is it not?”
The innkeeper waved in disgust, although the gesture was somewhat hampered by the poor fit of his coat. “I’m not your host. I’m not anyone’s host. I am a guest in this household.”
Heat flooded Richard’s cheeks in a rush. “F-forgive me, sir. I assumed you were the innkeeper come to welcome me. Do you know where I might find—”
“Innkeeper?” If possible, the man’s scowl deepened still further. “Has Wright invited an innkeeper as well?”
At that moment, the door to the parlor burst open with such force that the doorknob smacked into the wall. “I’m here now, fear not!” Geoffrey Wright, the young man who had directed him to the inn, bounded into the room dripping wet and with clumps of straw stuck to his shoes.
“Have you by any chance seen the innkeeper?” Richard asked, hoping the man in the green coat would not grow any more incensed.
“I have indeed, for I am your host.” Young Geoffrey bowed. “This is my inn.”
“Geoffrey?” The man-who-was-not-the-innkeeper squinted up at him. “Where the devil have you been?”
The young man frowned. “You should call me Mr. Wright in front of guests.”
“Well,” man-who-was-not-the-innkeeper huffed “I’m a guest. He’s just one of your friends.”
Richard had the distinct feeling he had missed something. “I am?”
“No,” Geoffrey insisted. “He is my first guest. And you are just Eugenie and Sophie’s father.”
Richard stepped back and had to catch himself as he nearly fell over the sofa. “D-did you say Eugenie?” A horrible sick feeling began to churn at the pit of his stomach.
The green-coated man nodded. “I am father to both Eugenie and Sophie.” He turned to the young man who had directed him to the inn. “And I am also a guest in your father’s house.”
Geoffrey began to grow anxious. “Though it is Papa George’s house, it is mine as well and I am the innkeeper.”
“Th-this is not actually an inn, is it?” Richard asked, feeling as if he were watching someone else act out a ridiculous farce and really wishing that were the case.
The older man looked around for a moment. “Not that I was aware of.” He leaned closer to Richard and added sotto voce “But these Wrights do take up some rather strange practices, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”
These Wrights.
It was the Wright home where he was to stay. Where he was to meet Miss Bayles, his potential bride, who was a close friend of one of the Wright daughters. Hayden Grange was not home to the Hayden family, but to the Wrights. He had forgotten.
And the older gentleman in the green coat said he was father to Eugenie and Sophie.
This man was not the innkeeper but Mr. Horatio Bayles, his potential father-in-law.
Richard wished he could render himself flat and disappear under the turkey carpet.
“You were seeking an inn, sir?” Mr. Bayles asked, his squint directed at Richard but in a more kindly fashion once he realized that he was just as confused as himself.
“I was seeking Hayden Grange,” he said glumly. “And I-I-I believe I have found it, is that correct?”
Mr. Bayles nodded. “It is indeed. You are not a friend of Geoffrey’s, then?” This revelation seemed to make him much more favorably disposed toward Richard. But that would not last long.
Geoffrey stepped in front of Richard with his arms outspread as if to prevent him from leaving. “This man is my guest. My first one. And do not let Papa claim him.”
“I don’t believe any of us intend to.” Mr. Bayles offered a bow. “I am Horatio Bayles.”
“I know,” Richard said miserably. Then he recovered himself and offered his own bow in return. “I-I mean, it is a p-pleasure to m-meet you. I am Richard Latimer.” He was now considering crawling under the turkey carpet even without the benefit of first becoming flat.
Mr. Bayles gave him an appraising squint. “Ah. So you are the feted baronet.”
“H-hardly f-feted, sir,” he stammered.
“My first guest is a baronet.” Young Geoffrey gave a little jump of glee. “Splendid!”
With narrowed eyes, Mr. Bayles sized him up as a housekeeper might weigh a fish at market. “You will not meet my daughter tonight, Sir Richard, for the hour is grown too late. We expected you much earlier.”
Richard let his gaze drop to the floor and mumbled something about having probably missed a turn in the dark.
“Our guest met with an accident on the road,” Geoffrey explained hurriedly, as if he’d just remembered. “He has probably broken bones in his leg or foot. Shall I send for the surgeon?”
Richard shook his head. “I do not believe it will be necessary, thank you.” And that was another matter to add to his gloom. While the injury had not prevented him from riding and he believed it would heal on its own, he also could foresee that it might take a great while before he could walk much without making it worse. He would be trapped in the house with the strange Geoffrey Wright and Mr. Bayles, whom he had insulted by calling an innkeeper. Moreover, he supposed the elder Mr. Wright would not think much better of him for believing his house to be an inn. Then of course there was the prospect of meeting Miss Eugenia Bayles, who was certain to find him disappointing. And his only chance for a respite from this company would be the prospect of climbing back up on his horse.
Heavens, but this fortnight would be one of the most unpleasant of his life.
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