Page 4 of The Baron Takes a Bet
“Where is the cat?” Katrina asked.
“She lives in London and apparently is intolerant of loud voices. It’s marked down right here,” Mr. Armstrong said, pointing to the paper he held.
“The cat is at the baron’s residence, Bairnsdale Terrence. Now, that property is also entailed, but there are a number of things within the home that the baron insisted you have. He reworked a bit of his will before he died.”
Holly lifted a brow.
“Did he?”
“But why would he keep a cat in London and not bring it with him here?” Katrina pressed.
“He didn’t like the cat.”
“Well then why have it?”
“Because he felt sorry for the thing,” Holly said exasperatedly. “Mr. Armstrong, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that John had changed anything. I mean to say, I was with him the last week of his life and I barely left his side.”
“Ah, yes, but you did. The Thursday before his passing, you went to wash and rest,” Mr. Armstrong said, his head lifting with his tone. He had been there as well. “He requested an audience with me to make sure that the marriage contract was solid. He was adamant that I was to do everything to make sure that it was unbreakable.”
Holly’s shoulders dropped as she breathed a sigh of relief. John had always tried to take care of her, and at that moment, she was even more sorry that he was no longer with them.
“He was a fine gentleman,” she said.
“Yes, although you may think differently after I explain about this next part,” Mr. Armstrong said lowly, shuffling his papers.
Holly peered at Katrina, who shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Holly said. “What next part?”
Mr. Armstrong took a deep breath and observed her.
“Lady Bairnsdale, have you ever heard of the term proxy marriage?”
Chapter Two
The morning skywas 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 façade 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 hisluck 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 intobanking 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 wordsGibraltar’sstamped 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.”
