Chapter Two

T he morning sky was overcast, and Gavin Winscombe wondered if it would rain before night fell as he strode across one of the two vast, flat wheat fields harvested the previous fall. He had been eager to stretch his legs after the two-day journey from London and to give Kingston House a quick survey, a place he had rarely visited before but had known his entire life would be his home.

The house was a sizeable Tudor-style brick manor, nearly three hundred years old, and it had been kept in pristine condition. Uncle John had apparently spared no expense in its maintenance. Almost a dozen chimneys poked up from the red clay roof, and the dark, nearly black, planks of lumber that stood out against the red brick gave it a rather charming contrast. Gavin had been informed by Mr. Armstrong, his late uncle's lawyer, that the house had recently undergone several renovations whilst repairing most of the fa?ade to its Tudor-era style. Essentially, it was a contemporary home dressed in medieval clothes, providing all the comforts of modern times, which pleased Gavin immensely. Though he had traveled far and wide, experiencing at times the barest of creature comforts, he had always been most pleased to return to the civility of London.

An ancient, yew hedge lined the crushed white stone of the drive, crunching quietly beneath Gavin's boots as he headed for the front entrance upon leaving the stables. They had been updated as well, and Gavin couldn't help but smile, feeling his luck at having inherited a property that didn't seem to need any work. He doubted he would find many issues with Kingston House.

Save the baroness, of course.

The news that his uncle had passed away was hardly a surprise, seeing how frail he had appeared during their last meeting the previous autumn. However, learning that Uncle John had married only days before his death had shocked Gavin for several reasons. For one, his uncle was a confirmed, life-long bachelor. It had long been believed that Uncle John didn't have a "taste for ladies," as his Aunt Marnie had always put it. She had disowned her brother decades ago and had tried very hard to persuade Gavin to join her in her condemnation, convinced that such a life was immoral. But the harder she tried to convince him, the more Gavin thought such things didn't matter. Still, such was the nature of his relationship with Aunt Marnie. If she hated something, Gavin would be far more inclined to like it on principle. Or maybe out of spite.

Aunt Marnie had taken Gavin in at age ten after a particularly lethal strand of scarlet fever had claimed his father's life. For that, she would always hold a particular place in Gavin's heart, but they seemed to disagree on nearly every topic.

Uncle John was supposed to take Gavin in to teach him about the barony he was set to inherit. But Aunt Marnie had told him that her brother didn't want him, and Gavin had been sent to live with her. Gavin had been somewhat bitter about being left in the hands of his miserable, morally righteous aunt.

Aunt Marnie had complained about everything during Gavin's time with her, but mostly about how finically stringent her brother was, which led to two very distinct personality traits in Gavin. The first was to never rely on anyone for money. The other was to always find the good in every situation, if only to spite his sourpuss aunt. She hadn't liked that he went into banking either, but he wasn't ashamed to be in the rare group of first-class men who had decided to have careers. His father had not left him much of an inheritance, and since he had no intention of turning to his uncle, hat in hand, and begging for an allowance, earning his own income had been the only option. Besides, he'd like that his work made him independent, requiring nothing from the uncle who had never had time or affection to spare for him.

A sense of abashment came over Gavin. He wouldn't be bitter about the past, even if he still believed it had been unfair. The money his uncle had sent to Aunt Marnie had provided him with food and clothing, as minimal as it had been, and paid for his education. There were thousands of men who were not as fortunate as he.

Sticking his hand into his coat pocket, Gavin pulled out a small, brown envelope with the words Gibraltar's stamped on it. Opening the flap, he tipped it into his hand until a pebble-sized, pale-yellow candy fell into his palm. Popping the sweet into his mouth, he climbed the front steps of Kingston House, finding it humorous how addicted he had become to these little confectionaries. Upon his arrival home in London, he had discovered the treats waiting for him, without a note saying who they were from. Someone who knew him personally, he assumed. Only his closest friends knew his ridiculous, somewhat embarrassing habit of always having sweets on his person. He had picked it up while attending Eton.

Taking a deep breath, Gavin lifted his fist to knock when the door suddenly opened, revealing a portly man with large, almost bulbous eyes. He was dressed in claret and black livery and motioned to a line of servants, from footmen to maids to the cooks, lined up against the wall.

"Lord Bairnsdale," the round man said with a deep bow. "Forgive the household for not meeting you outside. With the impending rain, we didn't wish to sully to floors with mud."

"Impending rain? It's just a bit overcast," Gavin said at the same time a roll of thunder sounded above them. Glancing up at the ceiling, with its dark wood beams, he smiled again and returned his attention to the butler. "But then, who am I to argue with locals?"

The butler seemed to be debating the question.

"Uh, well, My lord…"

"No, never mind it," Gavin said, waving his hand. "What is your name?"

The butler squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest.

"Dougherty, my lord. Underbutler."

"Underbutler? And where is your superior?"

"Mr. Jorden is with the baroness and Mr. Armstrong. If you will," he said, bowing and stretching his arm out. "I thought to introduce you to the staff first, so you could attend to the rest of your business uninterrupted today."

Gavin couldn't argue with that and nodded.

"Very well."

Mr. Dougherty bowed yet again and led him to the line of servants.

"This is Mr. Caplan, Mrs. Sheen, Mr. James…"

Gavin nodded at each servant, saying each name in his head three times as he did to remember them. It was a trick his father had taught him once as a lad.

Although Gavin had a cook, butler, and housekeeper at his London residence, Kingston House had nearly two dozen employees. He doubted there would be much room for solitude in a place like this, which unnerved him slightly. He had always been relatively comfortable with being alone. As soon as his income with the bank had allowed for it, he'd set up his own household separate from Aunt Marnie. He still supported her quite handsomely, of course—setting her up in a respectably sized home for a single, elderly woman, with a full staff and all her bills sent directly to him—but he'd ensured that she lived at a reasonable distance from his own London home.

And it wasn't just Aunt Marnie from whom he appreciated a bit of distance. Gavin had always enjoyed social settings like balls and soirées, but he would disappear without so much as a farewell whenever he decided he wanted to leave. He wasn't sure why he wasn't good at goodbyes, but he avoided them at all costs. It was why he never took on a permanent lover. He was always more comfortable with courtesans. Theirs was a transaction, a primal chore that required seeing to. No drama, no fuss, no commitment—just a fair exchange of goods for services. The business was business, even if Silas Winters, the Duke of Combe, thought otherwise.

Gavin smirked at the thought of his friend, whose recent second marriage had turned him into a damn convert on the ideas of romantic love and familial contentment. He was happy for Silas, who had suffered greatly in his first marriage, but Gavin had always been able to use that first marriage as proof that a man was wiser to stay alone. While their mutual friend Derek had argued that one needed a wife to procreate, Gavin saw no need to do so. Yes, he was the last living heir to the barony, but what of that? He felt no particular compulsion to see the line continued. Perhaps it had run its course.

After the staff introductions, he followed Mr. Dougherty into the parlor, where he was met by not two but five people, all of whom stopped speaking immediately upon entering the room.

Mr. Armstrong sat across the way from two ladies dressed in black gowns who were far more attractive than Gavin had anticipated. He had assumed his uncle had married some plain-faced spinster who hadn't been able to snag a husband due to a lack of attraction, but as he beheld the woman in front of him, he saw that this was not the case.

Though they were sitting, the two ladies appeared to be the same height, though the one closer to him had a slightly rounder face, appearing somewhat innocent compared to her more angular-faced, blue-eyed counterpart. Both had rich walnut-colored hair pulled back and twisted into near-matching styles, though the blue-eyed lady wore a grey teardrop pearl pendant around her neck. She was decidedly less angelic looking of the two, but there was something about her that commanded all of his attention.

"The Baron Bairnsdale," Mr. Dougherty said with a low bow. "May I present the Lady Bairnsdale, Mr. Armstrong, Miss Katrina Smyth, and Mr. Jasper Smyth."

"A pleasure," Gavin said with a bow, but when he raised his head, neither lady had moved. In fact, the lady with the pearl necklace only stared, her mouth slightly open, her expression suddenly panicky. He quickly surveyed the room and realized that everyone was staring at him.

The pearl-wearing lady returned her attention to Mr. Armstrong without so much as a hello.

"There has to be some sort of mistake," she said, her voice deeper than Gavin had expected but quite lovely. "John wouldn't have done something like this. Certainly not without at the very least explaining his reasons to me. But even then, I cannot believe he would have done so, because he would know that I would never agree to it."

"But you did agree, my lady," Mr. Armstrong insisted nervously. He reached for several papers and held them up. "This is your signature, is it not?"

So, this was his late uncle's wife, Gavin thought. Even frowning, she appeared far too pretty to be wed to an elderly, dying man. He could only assume her motive had been to gain some sort of inheritance.

"Yes," she said. "But half this document is in Latin, as you know very well since you were the lawyer who presented it to me to be signed. I was under the impression that it was marrying me to John. When you explained the terms, I distinctly remember you saying the sixth baron."

"But the paper says seventh."

"But you said sixth. I heard you. You said John's name."

"Yes, because he was the representative. I'm very sorry, my lady, but it is indeed all here," the lawyer said, shaking his papers. "You can petition for a dissolvent, I suppose."

"Yes. Yes, do that, straight away."

"But seeing as you were married by a Catholic priest, it will take more than a few months. Possibly years."

"Years?" She nearly choked. "No. No, absolutely not. I will not abide by this."

"Er, hello," Gavin said, taking a step forward, finished with being ignored. "I don't mean to intrude, but what exactly is the issue here?"

Once again, everyone turned to look at him, but no one spoke. A wave of impending dread swamped Gavin. He stared back at all of them. Something was wrong, and if the way they were looking at him was any indication, it involved him.

He took a step towards Mr. Armstrong.

"May I?" he asked, motioning towards the papers the lawyer held.

"Oh yes," he said, handing them to Gavin.

The papers were drawn in exaggerated penmanship, with flourishing letters and flowery prose. Gavin squinted, reading a line twice before realizing it was Latin. He frowned.

"And what exactly am I looking at?"

"A marriage certificate, my lord," Mr. Armstrong said before coughing and adding quietly, "Yours, actually."

Gavin paused. He couldn't have heard that right. His gaze lifted; his eyes locked on the lawyer's face.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a marriage certificate. Yours and the baroness's, to be precise."

Gavin didn't move. Why in the world would this man say something so ridiculous? He wasn't married. After a moment, he turned to see the baroness staring at him with something akin to fear. What the devil was going on?

"I don't understand," he said.

"It seems," she said, finally addressing him. "That your uncle didn't marry me for himself but as a stand in for you."

"For me?" Gavin repeated. "How?"

"Well, my lord," Mr. Armstrong said, pointing to a line on the paper, "do you see this, here?"

"Yes."

"I believe that is your signature, is it not?"

Gavin squinted. Sure enough, it was his signature, but he couldn't for the life of him remember when he signed it.

"It is, but how…"

"Your uncle said that you came to visit him, some time before you left for the continent last fall. Is that so, sir?"

"Yes, I was here last autumn."

"And you submitted to signing several pages when you came, did you not?"

Gavin's mind reeled as he remembered the visit. It had been a short trip. He hadn't even spent the night, returning to London as quickly as possible to continue packing for his trip to the continent. Uncle John had given him a ridiculous number of papers to sign, something about inheriting a soon-to-be-defunct whiskey distillery or something preposterous. He remembered being annoyed over having traveled so far for something absurd, but his uncle had insisted on finishing the large pile of paperwork before he left.

"Yes, but I certainly didn't sign a marriage certificate."

Mr. Armstrong visibly winced.

"Well, actually, sir… you did. The late baron explained to me that you had given your consent to have him stand in during a proxy wedding, as you were set to leave for the continent. I wondered at the time if he was being entirely truthful as to the degree of your consent, since I knew he was… ah… withholding some information from the baroness… but his instructions to me were quite clear, and I followed them to the letter. The document had your signature, and the marriage was duly recorded."

"But I never gave my consent to that ."

The lawyer shook the pages in his hands.

"I believe you, sir, but the marriage happened all the same. These documents are perfectly legal—and binding. I'm afraid that the late baron was successful in his quest."

"His quest being to marry me off?" Gavin asked, his tone filled with incredulity.

"Well, um… Yes."

"But that means…"

Gavin's gaze fell on the distraught widow. Well, not a widow, technically.

"That means," she said slowly. "That we are married, my lord."