Page 1 of Long Live the Baron
PROLOGUE
“The rise of the birds in their flight is a sign of an ambush. Frightened beasts indicate a sudden attack is coming.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
* * *
JULY 20, 1821, JUST AFTER 6 A.M.
The baron is dead.
Brendan Ridley staggered through the gloom of the study, slumping into an armchair to stare at the corpse lying on the study floor. A pool of blood framed Lord Josiah Ridley’s head while his sightless eyes stared into the infinite abyss. The mahogany desk was in disarray, drawers hanging open and papers strewn to suggest that someone had searched its contents in haste. Candles flickered in the early morning light as if to punctuate the macabre scene with grotesque emphasis.
Brendan rubbed his temples in agitation, realizing with dread that he had just inherited the title of Baron of Filminster.
Long live the baron.
A heavy dose of irony accompanied the thought. How did he feel about this revelation? Pained? Numb? Relieved? Indifferent? The man had never been a true father to Brendan. And on Brendan’s twenty-first birthday, he had found out why when he had been banished from the family home in Filminster.
Lord Josiah Ridley was not, in fact, his parent but his uncle, who had prevented a scandal by stepping into his brother’s place as both baron and groom to Brendan’s mother. His true father, Josiah’s older brother, had been thrown from a horse just weeks before his wedding, and Brendan had entered the world a mere seven months later.
He and the baron had not spoken in years, Brendan living in this London townhouse while the baron remained far away at Baydon Hall in Somerset. Until, unexpectedly, the man had found the fortitude to make the journey to London for the much-anticipated coronation.
Whoever had killed his uncle-father had chosen the worst of weapons, considering the baron’s mortal terror of all things equine. The lord had not left his country seat in two decades because of his deathly fear of horses, yet the murderer had apparently clubbed the older man to death with a heavy sculpture now lying near the body—a sculpture of a jolted horse rearing up. Evidence of blood on the muzzle proved that the baron’s notion that he would die at the hand—hoof—of such a creature was not unfounded.
Brendan groaned, rubbing his temples once more at the realization that this situation was likely going to get worse … much worse.
He would wager everything he possessed that later this morning he would be accused of patricide, and he strongly suspected that Lady Slight would not be coming forward to provide him with an alibi.
CHAPTER1
“He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit throughout all its ranks.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
* * *
JULY 19, 1821, ONE DAY EARLIER
“Lily!”
Her heart sank. Lily Abbott positioned her silver fork on her plate and, pinning a broad smile on her face, turned to face her mother. She did not miss her brother pressing his twitching lips together, his chocolate brown eyes dancing with humor as he lifted his cup of coffee for a sip.
It was Lily’s third Season—a fact that was causing increasing panic in Mama, who wanted her to expediently make a match.
Lily had hoped that Aidan’s recent return from his Grand Tour would split Lady Moreland’s relentless pursuit to wed her off. However, her brother’s lack of matrimonial plans was apparently more acceptable than his unwed sister.
“Mama—” The cheerful tone of excitement was deliberate. Lily had always been exuberant, but she had been cultivating it as a shield to thwart her mother’s efforts. She had found if she chattered for long enough, it made Mama quite lose her train of thought so that Lily could steer the conversation to safer topics and make her escape. “—you look lovely! Your gown is immaculate, and the beadwork is so intricate. You will quite distract everyone from the King’s coronation robes with such a glorious ensemble!”
Aidan snorted quietly behind her as Lady Moreland stopped to preen for a moment, smoothing her hands over her skirts as she peered down at her coronation finery. Lily’s flattery was not unfounded—her mother was exceptionally handsome with her sleek brown hair offset by the pearl-studded gold and red velvet coronet denoting her rank as viscountess.
But the distraction only worked for a moment before her mother remembered why she had been looking for her daughter.
“What happened with Lord Ashby?”
“We danced together. It was a waltz, and the music was sublime. I think the musicians were highly skilled and I could have danced all night—” Behind her, Aidan snorted quietly again, clearly muffling laughter as Lily babbled on. Her brother obviously knew what she was doing.
“Lily!” her mother interjected with a sharp tone.
