How to Wed a Baron Read Free Page A

and the array of tall masts Justin could see from his bedchamber window had not altered considerably in the time it had taken him to bathe and dress; which, for a gentleman of the first stare like the Baron Wilde, was, coincidentally, considerable.
    He’d arrived in the town late the previous evening, having delayed departing London until he could be assured word had gotten back to the Prince Regent that it appeared Baron Wilde was flouting His Royal Majesty’s orders.
    After all, why should Prinny be allowed a peaceful slumber if he, the victim in this sad farce, was to be denied his?
    â€œPetty,” Justin muttered beneath his breath. “You are a petty, petty man. With a sore backside from being in the saddle for two full days.”
    â€œMy lord? You wish something?”
    â€œNo, Wigglesworth, thank you. I was only chastising myself for being seven kinds of fool.”
    â€œSomebody should,” the valet answered, nodding his periwig-topped head. “It will take me days to brush all the road dirt from your buckskins, if they are to have so much as a prayer of ever being again presentable, which, sadly, I very much doubt. I’ll continue in my duties, then, my lord, if you don’t need me.”
    â€œI would no doubt perish without you, Wigglesworth,” Justin assured the man. “Carry on.”
    Justin was only half teasing, and both men knew it. Not that Justin needed his valet to survive. Not literally, and not since Bonaparte had been caged a second time and the world was again free to muck itself up without him. But it was Wigglesworth who still kept the facade of Lord Justin Wilde intact, and for a man like Justin, who’d felt himself in need of concealment and for so many years and so many reasons, the foppish, overdressed, fussy little fellow remained the perfect foil.
    Plus, Wigglesworth understood the completenecessity of never overstarching one’s shirts. One should never undervalue such talent.
    â€œStill no sign of an Austrian or Czech flag in the harbor, Wigglesworth. I shudder to think we might be forced to endure another day in this dreary hovel before the lady arrives. The prince’s man assured me he’d had word her journey was proceeding according to plan as of two days ago.”
    â€œA man of your sensibilities, my lord, could not but be rendered maudlin by such a thought. If the lady’s ship does not appear by three, I shall make it a point to prepare your supper myself. You must not be made to endure both this inadequate chamber and a less than excellent repast.”
    â€œBe sure to take our good friend and personal protector Brutus with you again if that unhappy event should become mandatory,” Justin warned, as Wigglesworth remained the only man in all of Creation to believe it was his consequence, and not the hulking Brutus’s mountainous physique (and fearsome expression) that opened the doors to sanctuaries like inn kitchens. Bless Brutus, he was an army unto himself, and invaluable to Justin.
    â€œYes, my lord.” Wigglesworth brushed some imaginary lint from the foaming lace jabot at his throat. He was a man who believed in his heart of hearts that Mr. Brummell should have been horse-whipped for convincing the gentlemen to give up their silks and satins and laces in favor of lookingas if they were all a flock of penguins heading off to some perpetual funeral.
    He fluttered about the inn bedchamber now like a small exotic bird himself, uncertain where to land.
    Poor Wigglesworth. The man had a mind alive with bees….
    Wringing his delicate hands, the valet finally flitted to the dressing table, counting for only the fourth time the number of brushes, combs and other silver-backed necessities of the well-groomed English gentleman to be sure none had slipped into the swift and crafty hands of the inn servants who had visited the chamber to light the fire or deliver his lordship’s breakfast, the fine repast