The Babe and the Baron Read Free Page A

After accompanying his brother into Cambridgeshire, he intended to visit a friend who had sold out after Toulouse.
    “I'll have to be back in Town at the beginning of June,” he told Gareth as the brothers rode northward one bright, summery midday. “The Russian Tsar and King Frederick of Prussia are due to arrive for the victory festivities. There'll be parades, reviews, guards of honour, processions—I tell you, I'd a sight rather be fighting Boney.”
    “Gammon, you revel in cutting a dash for the crowds. I daresay I ought to put in at least a brief appearance in honour of Prinny's royal guests. What a bore!”
    “Gammon, you revel in ton parties.”
    “I'd rather spend June in Shropshire. I'm glad you could get away now. I've been thinking over what Jack Pointer said, and I may need your support.”
    “Don't tell me she is a game widow?” said Rupert, grinning.
    “I'd hardly go so far. Yet I gathered from Pointer that she was present at their drunken spree in the tavern. They were all bosky, he said, and it was a celebration on her account, for something Pointer promised her not to reveal.”
    “Therefore doubtless discreditable.”
    “It's possible,” Gareth reluctantly agreed. “He did tell me she has 'not an ounce of vice' in her, but since he said the same of Freddie, one cannot rely upon his judgement.”
    “I should say not! If ever there was a rakeshame—”
    “Exactly. You see my dilemma. I cannot leave her destitute in a hovel, nor do I wish to introduce a woman of uncertain morals into Llys Manor.”
    “Lord, no. Aunt Antonia would skin you alive. I'll tell you what,” he suggested with a lascivious leer, “give the jade a purse and I'll take her off your hands.”
    Gareth laughed. “I'll consider your generous offer. Look, the road is clear. Let's spring 'em.”
    Neck and neck, they galloped up the turnpike.
    * * * *
    Meeting Gareth's travelling carriage in Cambridge, they spent the night at the Eagle, then in the morning enquired the way to Swaffham Bulbeck. As the carriage rolled between the flat green fields, Gareth began to wish he had never embarked upon his errand of mercy. If Lady Laura Chamberlain were obviously a hussy he would know what to do, but suppose she had the outward appearance of a respectable female?
    Scarcely half an hour later, having asked at the Bull and Bush for Mrs. Chamberlain, they pulled up before a flint and brick cottage. A pair of dormer windows peered from beneath symmetrical eyebrows of thatch. The tiny front garden, separated from the lane by a clipped beech hedge, was bright with orange pot-marigolds and purple stocks.
    “No palace,” said Gareth, straightening his top hat as he descended from the carriage, “but hardly a hovel.”
    Rupert followed him. “Methinks Sir John is given to exaggeration. I wonder to what extent he exaggerated the lady's virtue?”
    “This is an unlikely setting for a confirmed doxy.” He opened the white-painted gate and started up the flagstone path.
    “I don't know. It's a sort of midway point between a haystack and a mirrored boudoir.”
    “You had best keep your mouth shut until we discover what's what,” Gareth commanded severely. He knocked on the door. The mob-capped maid who opened it had a scrubbing brush in her hand. She curtsied, her dazzled gaze fixed on the glory of Rupert's scarlet and gold, behind Gareth. “I am Lord Wyckham,” Gareth informed her. “I wish to speak with Mrs. Chamberlain. Is she at home?”
    Sparing him a brief glance, she curtsied again and said in a breathless voice, “Aye, my lord, in the back garden, but you can't come through for I be a-washing the kitchen floor. D'you want me to show you round the side?” she asked hopefully, addressing Rupert.
    “Thank you,” Gareth answered, amused, “I expect we can find our own way.”
    “I did ought to announce you, my lord.”
    “That will not be necessary.” He was glad of the opportunity to take Lady Laura unawares, before she had