Not an Ordinary Baronet

  Not an Ordinary Baronet

  By

  G.G. Vandagriff

  Dedication

  Written for my dear son

  Gregory Alexander Vandagriff

  1985–2017

  Chapter One

  Dorset, England

  Winter 1814

  Sir Herbert Backman, baronet, had no idea why he was so attracted to lighthouses. All Bertie knew was that, from a child, he had been enchanted by the entire idea of lighthouses—the way they pierced the horizon, pristinely white and emphatic. Perhaps it was the contrast of safety and order versus energy and confusion that appealed to him.

  Visiting the Portland Bill lighthouses atop these jagged cliffs required leaving behind a cheerful house party of close friends that was not precisely nearby. Bundled in his many-caped greatcoat and wearing his tall beaver hat, Bertie stood upon the Portland Bill, gazing at the blustery scene below. Why did a calm, even-tempered person such as himself love a good storm, crashing seas, and jagged cliffs?

  He certainly did not look even-tempered. On the contrary, Bertie knew that when people first met him, they always mistook him for a dangerous black-haired rogue. He had that kind of face—an imposing nose, haughty eyebrows, and high cheekbones. But he suspected his worst fault was only diffidence. Sometimes he did not warm up to people for years. He especially did not warm up to women. If one had known the mother who had lacerated his soul with her own bitterness, that was easy enough to understand.

  With care, he placed his Hessian boots upon the rocky path down to the beach. The locals had told him there were caves below reputed to be used by smugglers, so of course they were worth a look.

  The stones rolled beneath his feet, almost causing him to lose his footing. Here and there were sturdy low-lying succulents that made their homes in rocky places, but nothing to grab onto in case of a fall. Stopping halfway to orient himself, Bertie looked down at the beach again.

  There he saw the shrouded figure of a woman pacing the sands. As she wore a heavy hooded cloak, it was impossible to tell whether she was young or old. He hesitated. He was not in the mood to form a new acquaintance, and as she had apparently come out alone, maybe she felt the same. Bertie waited until she had rounded the point and then continued his descent.

  On the beach, waves rushed to their destruction, foaming at his feet. Not wishing disaster upon his shiny Hessians, he turned toward the cliffs, seeking the reputed caves. Heading south, he found them at the base of a craggy pinnacle standing straight up from the beach.

  Dangerous place this will be at high tide.

  What he really needed was a torch or a lantern. Just inside the tunnel opening was a hump of charred driftwood—evidence of a fire having been lit.

  “You ought not to go in there, sir,” a low but distinctly feminine voice warned him. “Not without a torch and a guide.”

  Turning, he saw the hooded figure standing just outside the entrance, framed by crashing surf. Feeling like a lad who had been caught out snooping, he stepped away from the cave toward her.

  For some reason he could not have explained, the lady seemed a tragic figure. Her face beneath the hood was in shadow. As he moved farther out into the diffused light of a sun blocked by an overcast sky, Bertie sought to make out her features.

  Her face was heart shaped with high cheekbones, a full mouth, and a small pointed chin. Eyes downcast, she refused to look at him.

  “It sounds as though you’ve been here before,” he said, gentling his voice, afraid he might startle her.

  Sea-green eyes fringed with thick, long lashes looked up at him then. Their clarity made them appear innocent, and yet something about the way she studied him gave him the impression she could see into his soul.

  All at once, he felt as though he were falling from a great height. His heart thumped so loudly he could hear it in his ears. Their gazes locked, and the two of them stood silent. The ocean crashed in the background.

  This is no shy miss. She is full woman.

  “You have unusual eyes,” she whispered. He wondered if she even knew she had spoken aloud.

  Finally, he spoke, offering her a short bow. “Sir Herbert Backman. I’m at the Oaks, Portesham. House party. I cannot resist lighthouses or smugglers’ dens.”

  A brief smile showed and was gone in an instant. “Who can?”

  “Don’t suppose anyone uses them now,” he said.

  She contradicted him. “Oh, they are in use. Our local mystery, actually. I am determined to solve it.” Some anxiety furrowed her brow. “We had best make our escape before the tide comes in.” Turning her back, she walked swiftly away.

  He stood rooted to the spot. He still saw her outline in the cave entrance, like the imprint of a lightning flash in the gloom. She had left too quickly. He was not ready to end their conversation. The moment was vital somehow, and Bertie felt off-balance. Such feelings had never overtaken him before.

  Was this desire, this sudden longing for completeness? Was this what his friends Tony and Beau had experienced upon meeting Virginia and Penelope?

  Was he not to know even her name?

  Bertie watched her recede from him, climbing up the path, holding up the hem of her cloak and moving with a strange heaviness, as though she carried a burden.

  What’s amiss? What brought her down to the beach today? Ten to one she’s distraught.

  Though he normally possessed the empathy of a wooden door, he wondered what was wrong in her life. She looked sad. He longed to solve the mystery of her.

  And there had been that curious sensation of falling . . . It was suddenly imperative that he find out who she was and what dispirited her so. Perhaps Virginia would know her identity.

  * * *

  Bertie returned to the Oaks, the large Tudor home of Lord Ogletree. It sat just outside Portesham on an estate that ran sheep in the rolling hills beyond the small town. It was idyllic, even in the winter.

  He found his friend Tony, Viscount Strangeways, with his wife, Virginia, in the sitting room playing cards with his other friend Beau, Viscount Wellingham, and Beau’s wife, Penelope. His friends were opposites—Tony being dark and Beau blond.

  Virginia, whose uncle owned the estate, answered his inquiry about the woman on the shore. “I’ve spent only a little time here, Bertie. I don’t remember anyone of that description being at the wedding, though. She sounds rather extraordinary. How peculiar that she didn’t give you her name.”

  “I’ve never known you to be so taken with a female, old fellow,” said Tony. Turning to his wife, he said, “Perhaps your uncle would know her, darling.”

  But Lord Ogletree could not help him, either.

  “Are you certain she was a lady, not a servant?” the stout man asked, settling back in a leather armchair, his feet on a hassock as he filled his pipe.

  Bertie answered, “Certain. Her cloak was velvet, and the clasp was gold filigree.”

  Lord Ogletree pondered, fingering his pocket watch. “I suppose she could be staying at Fortuneswell House, though it is usually empty at this time of year. It’s only one of the marquess’s holdings.”

  “Marquess?” Bertie repeated, his inexplicable hopes dimming. A marquess’s relation could have no time for a mere baronet. Perhaps that is why she walked off without giving her name after he introduced himself. Yet, somehow he doubted it.

  “Marquess of Westbury,” Ogletree elaborated. “His principal seat is in Somerset, but he sometimes visits here in the summer. I have never known him to be here in the winter, though.”

  “Westbury,” mused Tony. “I’ve met his son, Redmayne. He’s not the sort to mingle with minor members of the nobility.”

  Tony was a wealthy, well-thought-of viscount. If t
he marquess had no time for a viscount, he would certainly give a baronet short shrift. Bertie sighed.

  Beau rose from the card table and clapped Bertie on the shoulder. “How about some billiards?”

  His wife, Penelope, spoke up, “Not until you pay up, my lord. You owe me two shillings and sixpence.” The petite blonde woman had a reputation as a cardsharp, which was totally at odds with her form and gentle demeanor. It had always amused Bertie considerably.

  Beau paid up, and they left the ladies playing cards with Lord Ogletree.

  This was their first house party together since Tony’s wedding in December. It was customary for them to meet in January, but though the three men continued to enjoy one another’s company, things were not the same between them. During the last year, both of his friends had married for love. While Bertie approved of their wives, he knew his friends’ principal loyalties now lay with them. That knowledge left him lonely.

  He had known Tony since their days at Eton, and Beau had joined them at Oxford. For the last ten years, they had formed a tight triumvirate. They were an oddly assorted trio, bound by those loyalties that can be cemented only over years at public school and university.

  “Haven’t thought to ask you how the cataloging is going,” Tony said to Bertie. “When will Ian’s bits be ready for the museum? It is taking a beastly long time.”

  Beau laughed. “Bertie is loath to let them go. His library now looks like his own private museum, with all those artifacts standing about.”

  “The British Museum has high standards. I have got to fit Ian’s bits into their place in the greater history of Egypt. It’s jolly difficult.”

  “And you love every minute,” said Tony. “No one in the ton would guess that beneath that fashionable Corinthian exterior, lies a fervent Egyptologist.”

  His friends were far more standard issue. Beau was with the Foreign Office, and his wife preferred their country estate to Town, so they spent as much time as the Foreign Office allowed in Somerset. Tony ran his estate and horse breeding operation in Kent. When the war with America ended, Tony and Virginia would be off to her country for an extended visit.

  As though following his thoughts, Beau said, “We must find you a wife, Bertie.”

  He forced a laugh. “I won’t be getting leg shackled anytime soon. I have all the family I need in Marianne and the twins.”

  “A sister is not the same as a wife,” Tony told him. “I never would have believed it myself, but marriage to the right woman is exceedingly comfortable, as well as stimulating. Virginia keeps me on my toes, but she is also in my corner, come what may.”

  He couldn’t imagine altering his life in such ways as his friends had because of a woman. Contrary to what Tony averred, marriage seemed anything but comfortable. To his quiet irritation, he lost at billiards.

  * * *

  During the night, the mysterious lady from the beach visited Bertie in his dreams. He was walking along the shore and saw her atop the cliff, running, a red cape streaming out behind her. Suddenly, she was falling. Terror clamped his chest. He ran, and she fell into his arms. Her face was blurred with tears, and he kissed her . . .

  He woke, still feeling her close in his arms, warm and familiar like home. Reluctantly, he let the feeling go and came full awake. Getting out of bed, he went to the mantel where Tony had placed a decanter of whiskey. He lit a candle and poured a short drink, taking it over by the window. Bertie pulled back the drapes and looked out into the clear night. The full moon shone, imparting a ghostly hue to the landscape. She was out there somewhere, asleep, unaware of his strange longing.

  What was he to do about these feelings? They were unusual enough to make him uncomfortable and eager at the same time. This wasn’t like him at all. From his indelible experiences as a child he had come to view the fair sex (aside from his sister) as manipulative, shallow, and great disturbers of his peace. Of course, Virginia and Penelope did not appear to be that way, but one could never really tell, could one? How Tony and Beau would rib him!

  His drink finished, he extinguished the candle and climbed back into bed, only to lie awake reliving the scene on the beach. It was a devil of a thing, this obsession. Perhaps tomorrow he could ride over to Fortuneswell, just to somehow ascertain whether that was where she was staying.

  The following day dawned crystal clear as sometimes happened in the winter. Bertie itched for a ride. His friends hadn’t come down, so he sought out the stables and said good morning to Hermes, his chestnut stallion. Once he was in the saddle, he could not restrain himself from riding out and following the signposts to Fortuneswell. Was his mystery woman staying in the Marquess of Westbury’s home?

  When he arrived at the town, it provided yet another stunning scene atop cliffs which dropped to the waters of Portland Harbor. Stopping at the Lion, a welcome-looking pub, he ordered a cup of hot cider to warm himself. The other denizens of the hostelry appeared to be locals joined in a game of darts. There was one gentlemanly fellow reading a newspaper before the fire.

  Bertie approached the man. “Pardon me. Can you tell me the road to Fortuneswell House?”

  The man, who appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, was fine as fivepence in a gray morning coat, striped trousers, and gray-and-black striped cravat. “Who is inquiring?”

  In answer, Bertie bowed slightly. “Sir Herbert Backman.”

  The man’s nostrils flared with what appeared to be distaste. “There is no one at home, sir, so I can save you the journey.” He turned back to his newspaper.

  It had been many years since Bertie had suffered a snub. Turning away abruptly, he wondered if the man had even told him the truth. Tossing off his cider, he returned outside to Hermes. Some force still compelled him to find the house. He inquired of the stable lad, “Which is the road to Fortuneswell House?”

  Chapter Two

  Lady Catherine Redmayne was glad that it was winter. Besides suiting her mood, it was the time of year when social obligations did not weigh on every hand—not that she was overly social at the most demanding of times.

  Settling in the conservatory, she breathed in the scent of growing things, enjoying the sun across her lap. She found comfort in these simple pleasures. Unfolding the letter she had just received from her friend Lizzie, she read:

  Dearest Catherine,

  Life is very dull and dreary in London just now, and I miss your company. However, you were wise to withdraw to Fortuneswell. William’s engagement is all over the gossip columns, just as you feared. Sybil beams and blushes whenever she sees me. I do not know how she was ever your friend. I should not say that, I know, for it can only give you pain, but I am very angry with her for her betrayal.

  Although your crying off your engagement and their subsequent betrothal are the favorite meat of scandalmongers at the moment, I am certain it will all die away as soon as another scandal presents itself. It is winter, however, and the pickings are few.

  Catherine paused in her reading. She had never known it was possible to feel so much pain. It completely engulfed her, until she was drowning in it. She even wondered if Lizzie delighted in the opportunity to be its messenger. Her friend had written more, but Catherine crumpled the pages in her hands. She would burn them when she got near a fireplace.

  How was she to move on from here? How could she ever return to society? Would it not be better to remain here, cloistered away, doing good works for the rest of her life? Catherine never intended to risk her heart again, so it would be no hardship to remain in this place, which had always been the favorite of her homes. The wildness of the Dorset shore appealed to her imagination.

  But now her imagination had turned against her. Visions of William and Sybil together would not stop coming: William’s fair head bowing down to hear Sybil’s light voice; the two of them staring into each other’s eyes; Sybil waltzing in William’s arms.

  The two closest relationships in her life were now lost to her at once—that of her fiancé and her closest
friend. Her heart was so sore, her whole constitution was in commotion. Catherine could not eat anything but the lightest broth, and sleep was a stranger to her.

  Restlessness drove her to leave the conservatory, to venture into the garden and to feel the weak sunshine on her uncovered head. She looked at the bare stalks of the roses and perennials and thought how like them she felt. Fruitless. Ugly.

  Catherine had told Sybil everything—every detail of her courtship with William, every hope, every dream summed up in her ecstatic happiness. She had never guessed that Sybil and William had begun to see each other in secret. Would they have continued once she and William were married, had she not discovered the truth?

  She and her fiancé had been celebrating the holidays with her family and friends at Westbury Castle in Somerset when Catherine had come upon the pair in deep conversation in a corner of her father’s library. Something in their air had proclaimed intimacy. Her heart had hammered, and she was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Their faces revealed their guilt.

  Oh, they had denied their attachment, of course. But William had never looked at her that way. It was a fact, however, that she had never believed that she wholly possessed his heart. She had sensed that there was always some part of him that was restless, apart, still searching. He had apparently found what his relationship with Catherine had lacked. In Sybil.

  Later, Sybil had come to her in tears, begging her to understand that they had not been able to help themselves. They had fought their attachment for months. She treasured Catherine’s friendship. Was there not any way it could survive this?

  How could she even ask such a thing? Losing the two people most dear to her harrowed up Catherine’s soul. How could Sybil expect their friendship to continue? And yet she believed her friend was sincere. After all, what woman could not love William, with his blinding smile and the half-lidded look from his warm eyes that had turned her soft inside? Sybil was beautiful in a fragile sort of way—one that made men want to take care of her. It was not her fault that she and Catherine’s fiancé had been thrown together so much in their social circle and at engagement parties.