Chapter 26 — Into the Baron's Den

Percy was late to bed and ought, by rights, to have dropped immediately off to sleep but between the exultation of knowing that Helena returned his regard and his nervous apprehension of his coming interview with Lord Damerel, he was too agitated to settle and tossed and turned between his sheets for what little remained of the night. He dozed off just as dawn was breaking and woke some four hours later from a nightmare in which, on his way to Storborough House, he ran repeatedly into roadblocks and, by dint of having to take one detour after another, grew increasingly lost in a London at once familiar and strange.

Though he felt no more rested than when he'd lain down, he was too much on edge to remain abed or even within the confines of his rooms. He decided a brisk canter in Hyde Park was in order and had his mare brought round from the mews. It was early enough, fortunately, that the bridal paths were largely deserted and he was able for a time to give the horse her head. Percy had not taken her out for several days and she was as glad of the chance to stretch her legs as Percy was of her speed and power. When, at last, she'd had a good run and had slowed to a trot and then to a walk, Percy found the exhilaration of the ride had, as he'd hoped, cleared his mind and calmed his spirit. He was surprised to discover the first pangs of hunger as well and was contentedly heading off for home when he had the sudden thought that, his parents' house on Park Street being a good deal closer than the Albany, he might stop there to break his fast, and, as a bonus, have the company of one or more members of his family. He envisaged confiding his upcoming interview to his brothers and asking their advice as to what he might expect and how best to conduct himself before remembering that, for each of them — Arthur, because of his title and prospects, Gareth, because of close, neighborly ties — their applications had mere formalities, their acceptance preordained. He thought better of the notion then and turned for home.

Over the next few hours, he prepared to present himself — and most especially his finances — in the best possible light. He refreshed his memory of Mr. Reed's most recent reports: repairs and reconstruction of the Hall were progressing well; one of the dependent farms had found a buyer and the sale of a second was pending; the colt Speedwell having made a respectable showing at Epsom, there had been increased demand and correspondingly higher fees set for Vicker's services with the result that the stud was now operating, if only marginally, in the black. For this reason, perhaps, the anonymous party interested in acquiring the operation had written to remind Reed that he stood ready with the purchase price should Percy ever be disposed to sell.

The picture of his finances that emerged from this accounting was none too impressive, and there was a very real risk, Percy thought, that Damerel would judge it inadequate. In its current rundown condition, his estate was of no great value but, with careful management and investment, it could be returned to, or even exceed, its previous productivity. Would Damerel take that potential into account, or would he only weigh its worth in the here and now? And what of Damerel's own past? Would having started off his own married life with a dilapidated property and a bare sufficiency of funds incline him toward being a tad more receptive? Percy could not count on it. The only certain means of gaining the baron's approval was to show a respectable fortune now, and that was in his power, if he so chose, to do. The expedient was simple: he had only to sell the stud and the influx of capital would raise him instantly into the ranks of the suitably wealthy. The matter of the buyer's anonymity still troubled Percy greatly and he would have very much preferred not to sell, but if it were a choice between that and jeopardizing his chance with Helena, what contest could there be?

The morning seemed to stretch on interminably but, at last, the clock having ticked over into acceptable calling hours, Percy set off for Storborough House. He had thought to hire a hackney but the weather being fine and the distance less than a mile, he decided to walk instead and at as leisurely a pace as his nerves would permit. He tried distracting himself by taking note of his surroundings — the warmth of the sun, the clatter of passing carriages, the jewel-bright tones of the ladies' dresses — but still his heart beat at an uncomfortable clip. Finally, he rounded the corner of Grosvenor St. and, looking across the square at his destination, was brought up short by the sight of an elegant phaeton stationed before Storborough House, a young groom standing dutifully at the horses' heads. Percy had seen the beautifully matched grays and the groom's distinctive livery often enough to know who the caller must be. He continued to approach, though more slowly, and when he was still some small distance away, the door to the house yawned opened and Lucian Hartshorne emerged. Percy was at too great a remove to make out his expression, but his manner was relaxed and there was a decided jauntiness to his step as he descended the stair. Rooted to the spot, Percy watched as the marquess bounded into his carriage, gathered the reins and, his tiger jumping up into his seat behind, gave his horses the office to start. In the moment the phaeton barreled past him, Percy could have sworn he saw a smile of satisfaction on Hartshorne's lips.

He stood, frozen, staring after the phaeton long after it had disappeared from view. He could make no sense of what he'd seen. He could not conceive of Helena's having changed her mind. Had pressure been brought to bear on her, either by Hartshorne himself or her parents, to accept his offer? Could her resolve, so seemingly unshakeable the night before, have crumbled when met with opposition? His nerves all but swallowed up now in a sharper anxiety, he crossed the remaining distance in long strides and, at his knock, had the door opened to him by a politely smiling Fellowes. "My lord," he said in greeting, drawing back to allow Percy entrance. "A beautiful day, is it not?"

"Er… yes. Indeed," Percy said, distractedly. He removed his top hat, consigned it into Fellowes' keeping and was divesting himself of his gloves when the butler volunteered, "Her ladyship and Miss Damerel are at home and receiving in the drawing room."

Percy was tempted to act on the implied invitation to be shown up and, in doing so, gain some sense from a look or word from Helena as to how matters stood. He resisted the impulse as cowardly and informed Fellowes instead, "It is, actually, his lordship I have come to see. Is he at home to visitors?"

Fellowes relieved Percy of his gloves, and setting the hat and gloves on a table, sketched a slight bow. "I shall inquire. If you would care to wait in the anteroom…?"

Happily for the knots in Percy's stomach, Fellowes was not long in confirming that the baron had not yet left for his club and would be pleased to receive him in his study. This room proved to be at the back of the house and when, Fellowes having knocked and announced him, Percy walked in, he was surprised to find the space suffused with light streaming in through two large windows overlooking the garden. But for this light, the study would have had a close, oppressive atmosphere. The walls were paneled in a dark wood, the furniture of mahogany and the drapes, rug and chair upholstery all in shades of forest green and navy blue. At his entrance, Damerel rose from behind his massive desk and offered Percy a smile. "Claiborne," he said, in a genial manner. "Come in. Have a seat." He gestured to the two heavy armchairs set opposite the desk. "Glad you stopped by. I wanted to thank you again for your efforts in conjunction with last night's ball. If not for your — and Lady Callista's — intervention, the evening would have passed off with far less success."

"You give me too much credit," Percy replied. He settled himself on the closer of the two chairs and, Damerel having resumed his seat, continued, "I did nothing more than extend invitations to my family who, by all accounts, enjoyed your hospitality very much."

Damerel inclined his head. "That is most gratifying to hear. It was a personal pleasure to be in Her Grace your mother's company again after so many years. I was sorry His Grace's indisposition kept him from joining us. I trust he's on the mend?"

They went on talking in this vein, touching on this or that other of the evening's guests, the virtuosity of the musicians, and the superb quality of the refreshments until, finally, Damerel said, "You've come on some matter of business, I don't doubt. Perhaps we should get down to it?"

His mouth suddenly dry, Percy only managed a nod. He'd cleared his throat and was gathering himself to speak when Damerel said, not unkindly, "Just speak your mind. It's plain, after all, what's brought you here. I only wonder, indeed, that it's taken you so long to approach me."

The baron's needling smile was amiable enough that Percy could admit, "I haven't felt my position strong enough to do so."

"Until now." At Percy's nod, Damerel said, "And what has changed? No, don't tell me: it's my daughter's doing, is it not? She's responsible for this new-found confidence and it's at her instigation that you've come today."

Percy was so unprepared for this line of attack that he scarcely knew how to answer. "She did encourage me to call," he conceded, "but she did no more than assure me I'd be given a fair hearing."

Damerel shook his head. "Forgive my disbelieving you, Claiborne, but that is not the sum of it. I know my daughter. She'll have made no secret of just how keen she is for us to come to terms." He fixed Percy with a pointed look. "Am I wrong?"

"Er… no, sir. She left me in no doubt it's the outcome she hopes for."

Damerel said something under his breath that sounded very like "the minx!" but for all he spoke shortly, there was more grudging humor than anger in his tone. "Just out of curiosity," he said, eyeing Percy with interest. "How long have you known? That is, when did she confide in you?"

The question struck Percy as bizarre. Surely, the answer must be obvious? Not wishing to be rude, he supplied, "Last evening, at the ball."

The baron's brows drew down in confusion. "That cannot…" He broke off, a reflective expression overtaking his face. "The children were allowed a wander over the ballroom before being banished to their wing with strict instructions not to try sneaking back down once the guests had arrived. I half-expected she'd disobey, but when I didn't see her…"

By this juncture, Percy was completely at sea. "Pardon me, sir, but I think we must be speaking at cross purposes. You can't be speaking of Miss Damerel…"

"Of Helena? No, of course not. She can't have told you. Only Cassandra knows."

"Cassandra?" Percy echoed, dumbfounded. "I've neither seen nor spoken to her since our ride the morning after her birthday fête."

Damerel's gaze shot to Percy's, his regard suddenly sharp and assessing. Percy endured several moments of intense scrutiny before the baron said in quiet surprise, "You don't know."

"Know what?"

Damerel ignored the question. "If you've not come on… that other matter," he inquired, "what is it brings you here today?"

Percy briefly considered pressing the question of the "other matter" but, sensing it would be fruitless to insist and might only antagonize the baron, he mustered his courage and said with all the gravity the moment required, "I have come to apply, formally, for your permission to pay my addresses to Miss Damerel."

"Ah!" That short exclamation, eloquent of nothing more than acknowledgment, was for several seconds the baron's only response. He sat perfectly still, studying Percy intently, his expression somber but otherwise unreadable. At last, just as the tension was proving intolerable, Damerel's face contorted in a wince and his manner skewed suddenly soft and apologetic. "I'm sorry to say this, Claiborne, truly, but I fear you have left it too late. Hartshorne made the same request of me not an hour ago, and, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, I had no reasonable grounds to refuse him. I've yet to be informed as to how he was received — he may, indeed, still be pressing his suit for all I know — but, realistically, I have little doubt as to Helena's answer."

Hartshorne's jaunty demeanor and satisfied smile flashed across Percy's inner eye and sent his spirits plummeting. Damerel's words - too late, too late, too late! — resounded in his head. And only by an hour, for pity's sake! He cursed himself for having frittered away the morning, for having spinelessly observed the polite hours for making calls, for having chosen to walk instead of hiring a cab. Absorbed as he'd been in his other concerns, he'd entirely failed to appreciate the urgency of the situation and now, having acted too slowly, he'd forever missed his chance.

Sunk as he was in bitter self-reproach, it was only by chance that Percy looked up and caught Damerel watching him closely. Gone was the compassion of moments before, and in its place, an acute, dispassionate gaze was trained on him, quite as if Percy's reaction were an object of considerable interest. Percy was not much for card games, but something in the baron's intensity put him in mind of players trying to size up their opponents, and it was in that instant that Percy remembered Damerel had once been a gambler, and, what was more, as he had proved only the night before, was practiced at misdirection.

Suspicions aroused, he reviewed their conversation for any hint of trickery, and, once he thought to look, it wasn't difficult to find. Damerel had stated he had little doubt as to how Helena would answer, but he hadn't specified what that answer would be. He'd left it to Percy to infer his meaning and, what with Hartshorne's smug countenance seared upon his mind, Percy had jumped to quite the revealing assumption. It had been a test, Percy realized, a test of his assurance not only in himself but in Helena as well. Hadn't he as good as boasted that he had her full support? Why, then, at the first intimation that she might have wavered, had he doubted her will and commitment? Helena's beautiful face supplanted Hartshorne's in his mind, and his memory faithfully replayed her saying, clearly and decisively, that she'd refuse the marquess should he offer. Hartshorne's elation still begged an explanation, but, whatever it proved to be, Percy was certain in that moment it could not be on account of his having been accepted. Percy straightened his spine and, infused with a surge of confidence, informed the baron, "Hartshorne is no longer on the premises. He was leaving just as I arrived. And, as for Miss Damerel's answer, I agree: there's no doubt at all she's told him no."

Damerel quirked a cool brow at this. "You had that from the gentleman himself?"

"No. We didn't speak."

"Then…? You'll forgive me, Claiborne, but, if Hartshorne didn't tell you, you can have no more real knowledge of what's happened than I do."

"But I do know, sir. I know, and I suspect that you know, too, that, for all its luxury and privilege, Miss Damerel doesn't want the life Hartshorne has to offer."

The baron laughed in disbelief. "Not want to be a marchioness and a duchess-in-waiting? Not want to marry into one of the wealthiest, most illustrious, best-connected families in the realm?"

Percy was wise to Damerel's game now and did not take the bait. "Miss Damerel doesn't value rank and fortune in themselves. She doesn't, like many other young ladies, aspire to be a leading light in society, particularly as that society has shown itself of late to be fickle, judgmental and petty. She doesn't wish to live in the public eye, conscious every moment of her duty to reflect well on her husband's family. I don't doubt she'd willingly endure, and even embrace, that pressure if, in compensation, she felt she was loved and valued for herself, but that does not appear to figure in Hartshorne's offer."

"Whereas it does in yours, I take it. So, if I understand you correctly, you would have me believe that your offer of love — not in a cottage, admittedly — but in a derelict manor in the wilds of rural Yorkshire has more to recommend it to my daughter than the life she might enjoy as wife to one of the richest, most highly-placed nobles in the land." Damerel gave his head a reproving shake. "My daughter may be a romantic, sir, but, as her father, I cannot afford the luxury. Her interests must come first with me."

"I expect no less," Percy said, "And if I had the slightest doubt that I could provide for Miss Damerel's comfort and security, I should have kept my distance. I grant you that my uncle Maitland let Harebell Hall fall into considerable disrepair, but, with respect, 'derelict' is not an accurate description, and, in any event, repairs to the house and reconstruction of the west wing are well underway and will likely be completed in the next few weeks. I have the funds in hand to have the interiors refinished and the main rooms fitted with new furniture so the house will be habitable, if not fully restored, by summer's end. The estate, as you may remember, was once prosperous and productive and, with careful management, can be returned to profitability in a fairly short time. I won't pretend there won't be a few lean years to start with, but I give you my word she will never want for anything."

Damerel guarded his silence for a time, his gaze pensive as he weighed his response. "It occurs to me" he said at length, almost but not quite offhandedly, "that you've omitted any mention of your holding's greatest asset."

"Oh!" Percy said, astounded by his oversight. "The stud, of course. It was Sir Gerald's pride and joy, but he ran the operation more like a hobby than a business, with the result that he very rarely broke even let alone turned a profit. It's been a drain on the property right from the beginning and will have to be thoroughly reorganized before it starts generating income. That will take time."

"You've an interest, then, in running the operation?"

"Take up horse breeding, do you mean?" Percy shook his head. "Not in the least."

"In that case, I wonder you don't sell it. That whole complex — the stable block and paddocks, the stock and all the tack — should net you quite the considerable sum, enough, certainly, to lift you out of your current difficulties and into a strong financial position."

Percy acknowledged the truth of this with a nod. "It's an option we've explored, of course, my agent and I, and we've fielded a number of offers, the majority of them too low to warrant serious consideration."

"The majority, but not all?"

Percy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We have had one offer at a price, Reed assures me, which is more than fair."

"Ah! Then, what is the issue?"

"It's the interested party. He insists on remaining anonymous, and I am loathe to entrust the concern into which my uncle poured his heart and soul to a person — or persons — whose background and aims I know nothing about. I have a responsibility, I feel, to my uncle's memory and to the men who worked for him, and now for me, not to sell where I've no guarantee the men and horses will be treated well and not forced to engage in shady practices."

"There are certainly unsavory, even criminal, types in racing circles," Damerel allowed. "And your scruples on behalf of your employees and stock do you credit. It's been my experience, though, that acting on one's principles frequently comes at a cost and, in your case, not selling the stud and remaining in relatively straightened circumstances seriously lessens your chance of gaining my approval. I am not without sympathy, Claiborne. Lady Damerel and I were none too financially secure when we married, but that life of having to budget and practice economies, even if only temporarily, if not what I wish for my daughter. She deserves better."

Percy could not argue the point; he had always thought the same. It was upon him, then, the concession he had hoped to avoid. "You are saying, then, your approval hinges on my selling the operation."

"That would depend on the amount you stand to realize from the sale." Percy named the figure he'd been offered, and the baron, satisfied, inclined his head. "That would suffice."

Percy had anticipated this moment, had wrestled with his conscience and come to a decision, but somehow the 'yes, very well, consider it done' which should have rolled off his tongue would not rise to his lips. He thought again of the hardworking trainers and stable boys, of the magnificent thoroughbreds in their care and the uncertain future he was exposing them to by his choice. What did he owe them? Was it a betrayal of their trust to consult only his own interest and leave them to deal with whatever Fate held in store? Wasn't it possible, in any case, that the buyer was no scoundrel but an honest racing enthusiast? If so, though, why conceal his identity? He tried meeting the baron half way. "I will sell the stud — you have my word on it — and for as near the sum on offer as I can command, but I will need time to find the right buyer. As I said, I cannot responsibly do business with an individual whose reputation and past conduct are unknown to me."

Damerel steepled his fingers before his mouth and regarded Percy over them. "For a gentleman who professes a great regard for my daughter, you appear more concerned with your hired men's welfare than with the prospect of forfeiting your chance with her."

"I assure you that is not the case. My regard for Miss Damerel is sincere and profound, and I can envisage no greater joy and privilege than having her as my wife. I cannot feel it right, though, to secure my own happiness at the possible expense of a great many others."

"A noble sentiment," Damerel said, the trace of a jeer in his voice. "And is my daughter to be a modern-day Lucasta, then, esteeming you all the more for putting your lofty principles ahead of your love for her?" When Percy made no reply to this jab, he went on, "Let us come to the point. I have said I would approve your suit on the understanding that you have the means at hand — the sale of the Harebell stud — to increase your personal wealth to a respectable level. As for your counterproposal that, in lieu of selling now, I trust you to sell at some future date and for a comparable sum to a buyer more to your liking, that is a gamble I am not inclined to take. So… I put it to you. How do you answer?"

Percy felt the horrible anguish of being torn in two. All he need do was say one word and the object dearest to his heart, the object he'd long thought well beyond his reach would be his. He was so very close! Agreeing, though, would mean going against his conscience, failing in what he understood to be his duty to his fellow man. Either way, there would be regret: obey his conscience, and suffer the crushing disappointment of his hopes or accept the baron's terms, and suffer a crippling blow to his self-respect. Which would be the more devastating? He cast his mind forward, trying to picture the moment when, her father's permission granted, he would stand before Helena and ask for her hand, but the joy he'd expected to burst with was, in that scenario, unimaginable. It would be dampened by his feeling diminished, ashamed at having compromised his principles. He would not be able to look her in the eye, secure in the knowledge he'd acquitted himself with honor and was worthy of her love. His throat had grown so tight he was at pains to force the words out. "I regret very much that I have to decline. I thank you for your time and for your courtesy in hearing me out." He began heaving himself from the chair. "I'll impose on you no longer."

Damerel waved an impatient hand. "Sit down, Claiborne, and don't be absurd! I am scarcely going to punish you for acting with integrity."

Percy did not so much reseat himself as collapse onto the chair's edge. "Then, what…?"

"In all our dealings, you have never been less than a consummate gentleman, but I needed to sound your depths, to gauge, when put to the test, just how strongly you held to your principles. Frankly, had you not refused, I'd've been disappointed."

"But you committed to accepting my suit if I agreed!"

"Yes, well, happily, that point is now moot."

Percy, still reeling from this turnabout and hardly daring to hope, asked, "And so, are you saying, now, that you accept my proposal to postpone the sale of the stud?"

"As to that…" the baron said in a slow, measured tone. "We might yet meet in the middle. You object to the buyer, quite sensibly, on the grounds you know nothing about him. What if I were, personally, to vouch for him? Assure you he has every intention of running the operation in a strictly lawful and ethical way?"

Percy jolted to attention. "You know him, sir?"

Damerel essayed a careless shrug. "I can say, without exaggeration, that I have know him all my life. Going on for sixty years, and I still see him, sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally, at least once or twice a day."

Percy passed the small number of the baron's known associates in quick review, but, of these, only Alfred Damerel qualified as a lifelong acquaintance and, to Percy's knowledge, he only ever saw his cousin on a daily basis when he stayed at Storborough House. Percy could think of no one who perfectly fit the description and, after months of fruitless wondering and speculation, he could no longer contain his curiosity. "If he is all that you say — and I do not doubt you! — can you not simply tell me who he is? I shall learn it soon enough, in any case."

"You'll agree to his offer, then, and to the terms he specified?"

"On your recommendation, yes."

Damerel nodded, and then, on a gusty sigh, asked, "Can you really not puzzle it out for yourself? I thought you more acute, Claiborne. Very well, here's the key to the riddle: the buyer's a man I cannot help but see every day… in the mirror."

Percy gasped. "You! You're the anonymous buyer?"

Damerel bowed slightly from the shoulder. "One and the same."