Mending the Baron’s Sins (Preview)

Chapter One

Lancashire, 1815

“Aye, it’s cold,” Orla muttered to herself as she stepped down from the carriage and onto the track road. She glanced back at the carriage, a dark and elegant structure, the wood ornately painted black with rich deep curtains shrouded across the windows. It seemed an omen to her mind, more like a funeral carriage than a coach to take a worker to their new home.

She turned her back on the carriage as the groom, George, took her bags from the back of the coach.

“You’re new to Ingleby then, miss?” George said with a heavy Lancashire accent.

“Aye, that’s right.” Orla’s Irish accent sounded strong in comparison. She smiled at him, wrapped her thick woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders, then shifted her focus to the hall before her.

In the autumn breeze and gray cloud, Ingleby Hall was a dark building indeed. Trees nearby shivered and waved their branches in the breeze, their copper and apricot tinged leaves flying off and whipping past her. She squinted and raised her hand to cover her brow, shielding her gaze from the onslaught of leaves.

“Ah, bracing here, lass,” George said beside her with a chuckle. “I would have thought Ireland was colder, though.”

“Manchester.”

“What?” he said distractedly, halting at her side as he waved at the carriage driver.

“I’m from Manchester. My parents are Irish,” she hurried to explain, glancing at the carriage. “Grand, eh? The grandest I have ever been in.”

“Well, from what I hear, they were eager to have you here, Miss.” George nodded and led the way up the track toward Ingelby Hall.

What is happening here? Why are they so eager to have me?

Orla kept the myriad of questions to herself as she looked at the hall. The wide building looked Tudor, or even Stuart in structure. The far left was made completely of redbrick, though the right side was made up of Tudor timber and white mottled walls. The lead-lined windows didn’t gleam in the gray light of the day but looked more like black abysses. The formal garden on either side of the path she now walked down was scrubby, with no autumnal flowers, but only grey twigs, longing for the life that spring would bring again. She nearly slipped more than once on the damp gravel as she followed George toward the house. 

The manor reminded her of a darkened heart. It was twisted, covered in shadows, and was repeatedly whipped by the autumnal leaves that flew past her in the wind. She shivered, holding her leather reticule close to her chest as she pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders still. The nearer she got to the door, she lifted her bonnet from her head, desperate to take in the full height and scale of the building. Her long brown hair tried to escape its updo in the enthusiastic wind.

The door was opened by a man wearing a butler’s garb who beckoned George inside. She followed behind them, sharing a brief smile with the butler as she looked around the hall. 

It was a vast entrance, more like an old great hall, once used for Tudor feasts and dancing, then an entrance at all. Portraits on the wall looked out at her with ancient, hooked noses, suspicion in their beady black eyes. Even the butler glanced at her more than once as he went to aid George with his bags.

“You are here at the bequest of Mr. Byrne?” the butler asked, scarcely looking at her as he spoke.

“Aye. Mr. Colm Byrne.” Her accent clearly startled him, for he glanced up from the bags as he made his way toward the stairs.

“He’ll be here to see you shortly.”

“Thank you.” She stepped forward as he left the room with George, looking around the hall a little more. Floorboards creaked above and she lifted her head to see a line of young maids, even younger than her, all lined up behind the balustrade on the landing. They were whispering and pointing down at her. When they saw she had seen them, they all promptly scurried away again, hiding behind nearby timber beams.

What a warm welcome.

She kept the thought to herself and stepped forward, eager to see her uncle.

She was here at Colm’s request. It was true, but not to attend to him. Her Uncle Colm was the surgeon to the master of the house, a man by the name of Horace Cotes, or Baron De Rees. She peered back and forth across the ancient paintings. Most of the characters within the frames bore Tudor and Stuart dress, but she was looking for a man in modern dress–a man who could be Baron De Rees.

A door banged somewhere in the distance. A voice raged and cursed so loudly that Orla flinched and turned around. There had to be a second set of stairs in the house, for she heard them creaking under someone’s racing feet. Through an open doorway a man appeared. He looked to be no more than thirty years old. He didn’t look at her at first, but continued to curse inwardly. When Orla stepped back, her foot tapping the floorboards beneath her, he snatched his head up.

His spine abruptly straightened, and his chin lifted. The cropped dark hair on his head was waxed to a perfect shine, and no crease of his suit jacket was out of place.

“You are the nurse, yes?” he said distractedly, moving right past her, though he clearly expected her to answer. 

“Aye, I am.”

“Ha, good luck,” he muttered darkly, the sarcasm plain as day.

He continued to march past her, leaving her dumbstruck. He stepped out of the door and, for good measure, just to show his irritation all the more, he slammed the door behind him. 

One of the paintings on a nearby wall went crooked because of the movement. 

In the silence afterwards, Orla tiptoed toward the painting and set it straight again.

“What a warm place,” she whispered to herself.

“Orla?”

She spun around at her name, looking through the open doorway that the stranger had just appeared.

“Uncle Colm?”

He smiled in greeting, hurrying toward her. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he wiped his hands on a white cloth as he neared her.

“Ah, I am glad to see you,” he said, with not a trace of the Irish accent that had once been his in his voice. Many years ago, he had adopted a strong Manchester lilt in its place, blending in with society around him. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have come and collected you from your parents’ house myself.”

“The baron’s carriage was enough to cause questions.” She grimaced. “You can well imagine what a coach as grand as that did on our street.” Colm nodded knowingly, matching her expression, making his dark brown hair dance around his ears. 

“The baron needed me today. We were hardly expecting a meeting from his business partner, on today of all days.” He sighed loudly and rubbed his brow.

Out of habit, Orla took the cloth from him and folded it neatly, returning it to the pocket in his waistcoat for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered with a sad sort of smile.

“His business partner… would he be the man who stormed from this house now? Rather like a child having a tantrum.”

“Be careful with your wit in this house, Orla.” Colm fought his smile on this occasion. “Yes, that would be him. Mr. Walter Gladstone is his name.”

“And the baron?” She glanced over her uncle’s shoulder. “If I am to attend to him, perhaps it is wise that I meet him?”

“You and your curiosity.” He tutted, though there was still fondness in his voice. “Come, another time. Lord knows the baron is in no state for visitors now.” He took her leather reticule from her. “I’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you.” 

He led her through the doorway and to the second staircase, hurrying up together.

“How was your journey?” he asked her many questions as they walked, and she answered all of them woodenly, thinking more of her surroundings than the house she had left.

“It was long, but I am here now.”

“And your parents? I bet they had much to say about me taking you away from your home. I do not doubt my brother spoke again about how it was high time you settled down and married.”

“You know my father well,” she murmured, her eyes on the poky corridor and the low-lying brown timber beams that her uncle nearly hit his head on as they walked along.

“This way.” He led her down a turning and to the east wing, to which a door was ajar.

Muffled voices sounded within, ones that were clearly so angry, Orla found herself slowing her pace.

A glass shattered. Had it been thrown against a wall? Had it been thrown at someone?

“Never mind about that,” Colm whispered hurriedly, clearly eager to get her away from this part of the house. “Come, quickly, Orla.”

She did as he asked, following in his shadow.

When they found her room, her portmanteaus had been left here by George and the butler. It was a small room at the back of the house, yet larger than the one from home that she had to share with her siblings. The roof was slanted, meaning she’d have to be careful when she climbed in and out of bed, not to hit her head on the timber beams, but the furniture pieces were impressive. She had two chests of drawers, an old coffer, and a sideboard topped with her own washbowl and jug.

“Goodness,” she whispered. “It is quite a place.” She moved to the window and peered through the latticed glass out at the garden. It struck her that in the summer, when the sun shined, it might be a fair-looking garden with red roses gleaming in the light. “I bet this is a fine view in summer.”

“Be warned, Orla.” Colm placed her bag down on the bed for her. “The sun does not shine particularly often here.”

She looked around at him, raising her eyebrows, but he didn’t say anymore.

“I’ll leave you to get settled. We can share dinner later and discuss the baron’s condition.” He hovered in the doorway, glancing back at her with one of those easy and warm expressions she had come to love over the years.

When her parents had been wary of her pursuing a career in medicine, Colm was the one who had encouraged her. At one point, it had seemed she was on the verge of entering a midwifery career in London when another party put a stop to it. She had much to thank Colm for, when others had told her this life was not possible.

“I am glad you are here,” he said softly. Momentarily, she heard the Irish lilt in his voice, then it was gone as he wished her well and left.

Orla hurried to unpack her things. She paid particular attention to the medicinal equipment she had brought with her, and her bottles of herbs and tonics, devoting an entire chest of drawers to these contents. 

“Knock, knock.” These words were accompanied by a tapping sound on the open door.

Orla put down her things and turned to see one of the maids who had been staring at her from the top of the stairs poking her face through the gap.

“Only me,” she said self-deprecatingly with a humble smile. “I thought I should introduce myself. I’m Esther.” She curtsied, and Orla hurried to mirror her. Esther pushed back one loose curl of blonde hair that had escaped out of her coif, tucking it back under the white muslin. “I am sorry we were all staring at you just now. We were eager to see you.” She smiled and quickly quelled it. “There aren’t many who would take on the care of Lord De Rees.”

“No?” Orla said with curiosity, but Esther didn’t elaborate. “Well, I am glad to meet you.”

“As I am you. Any help in this house is greatly appreciated. I do the fires and the laundry, but you can ask for my help with anything if you need it. Can I help you unpack?” She gestured to what was left in the portmanteau.

Orla was usually wary of new people, but there was something in Esther’s humble manner and the pinkness of her cheeks as she took the courage to introduce herself that made Orla like the maid before her.

“Thank you. That’s most kind.” Orla returned to her unpacking as Esther passed her things out of the portmanteau.

“You’re Irish?” Esther asked. “I love your accent. Far nicer than mine.” She giggled. 

“Thank you. Aye, Irish by blood, but raised in Manchester.”

“How was your journey?” Esther picked up a small leather bag out of the portmanteau and passed it to her. Unfortunately, the bag was unbuttoned, and a small silver ring fell out of the pouch. It rolled across the floor, in danger of tucking itself under one of the chests of drawers. “Oops, I am sorry.” Esther ran after it, managing to catch it narrowly before it disappeared. She picked it up, turned and passed it back to Orla.

With her heart hammering in her chest, Orla took the ring. It was cold and unyielding beneath her fingers. For a second, she just stood there, feeling the fluttering of her heart as she waited for Esther to ask about the ring, but fortunately, Esther did no such thing. She turned to help Orla with the rest of her things. Breathing a sigh of relief, Orla returned to the drawers.

“The journey was fine, but I am happy to be here. If I can make a difference… If I can help the baron…”

“The baron needs much help.” Esther giggled, blushed red, then held a quieting hand over her lips. “I should not speak so. Forgive me, Miss Byrne, but I give you one warning about the baron. I do not mean it to be unkind. I just wish to put you on your guard.”

“What do you mean?” Orla asked, fixing her whole attention on the maid as she took a stack of gowns from Esther.

“I mean…” Esther paused and chewed her lip, seeming hesitant about giving her full opinion. “Suffice it to say that healing the baron may be a fool’s errand. Something beyond reach.” She tucked that disobeying loose lock of blond hair beneath her coif again and shifted her focus to the medicinal kit in the open drawers. Fascinated, with her eyes lighting up, she gestured to the many glass vials. “Enough somberness for one day. This looks exciting. Would you tell me all about it? I’ve only ever been a maid. Cannot imagine being a nurse for a living.”

Orla struggled to reply. Her mind was still dwelling on Esther’s warning.

Why is healing the baron a fool’s errand?

 

Chapter Two

Horace stared at the shattered glass at his feet. For a moment, those broken shards blurred together. They glistened more like a viscous liquid than what they were, lethal and sharp. He blinked, recognizing the prickling feeling of tears in his eyes. He forced them away and roused his body.

Breaking every glass in his chamber was hardly going to help now, even if each one of Walter’s visits these days seemed to leave him even more frustrated and angry than before he arrived.

Horace glanced around the empty chamber, wiping his eyes and stopping any further falling of tears. The room was full of medicines and empty glass bottles left on nearby tables and bureaus. He supposed the maids had been warned not to come in so often these days, in case he threw any more glasses around the room.

“Damn body,” he muttered in anger, and moved to his knees before the shattered glass. As he did so, the dizziness swirled in his mind. He braced a hand against a nearby timber beam and bowed his head, urging the sickness to stop.

This is not me. What happened to me? What happened to the athleticism and strength of my youth?

He turned his head and glanced at a looking glass propped up against a nearby wall. In this position, he could just see the side of his body and his hand braced against the timber. There was gauntness in his cheeks, the cheekbones more pronounced than they ever were in his youth, and not in a handsome way, but an ill way. His whole body was thinner than it once was, no longer strong with muscle, still lithe, but also…

“Weak,” he muttered aloud.

Cursing once more, he picked up the shards of glass, gathering them together in the palm of his hand. As he stood, he staggered to the side, struggling to find his balance, then dropped the shards into a bowl on one of his bureaus.

“Horace?” A hand caught his shoulder.

“God’s blood!” Horace exclaimed in alarm, flinging his body around to see that Adam was in his room. “How did you get in here?”

“I knocked a couple of times.” Adam offered the easy smile that was always on his face. His cousin and good friend, the one who had taken over the running of the house and estate in Horace’s infirmity, stood before him. “I’m sorry to give you such a fright.” Adam laughed softly.

Horace yearned for the comfort his cousin could bring. They did not look particularly different, the same height, the same dark copper hair, though Horace’s was longer these days and Adam’s was cut short. The main difference between them was that at least Adam had a healthy look to his skin and a little more weight on his bones. 

Adam had a habit of bringing easy humor with him wherever he went. It was something Horace longed for, when he was tired of being shut up in this room for days on end, all on his own. 

“How about you take a rest in bed?” Adam suggested, then glanced down at Horace’s hand. “You cut yourself on that glass you threw.”

“What?” Horace looked distractedly at his hand. “Oh. It’s nothing.” He dabbed the cut dry with a cloth. “I don’t need to go back to bed.” When he staggered and ended up leaning against the bedpost, he cursed once more. “I’m still not going back to bed.”

“Very well.” Adam cleared up some more of the mess of broken glass shards that Horace hadn’t even realized he’d left behind. “How about a walk around the farms? Let’s go get some air. You used to love riding in the farmland and fields.”

“I know I did, but…” Horace wished he could say yes. “No. I need to save my energy.” He rubbed his brow in stress. “I’m sorry for my outburst, if you heard it. Walter came again.”

“Ah, what did he do this time?” Adam dropped the bits of glass with the others into a bowl, then turned and took Horace’s shoulders. When Horace dug his feet into the ground, refusing to be steered toward the bed, Horace took him to the low-lying ottoman in front of the lead-latticed window instead. 

“He has made financial investments again. Joint investments, before even consulting me. The snake.”

“He’s your friend. Your dearest friend.”

“Is he?” Horace scoffed as he dropped down onto the ottoman, feeling more like a sack of potatoes than human at all. “I’m not so sure anymore, Adam. He is taking my money and investing it without my knowledge. For all I know, these could be scams, deceptions to deceive me out of money. He says he’s doing it all for me–to protect my money and avoid worrying me in my time of need.” He was disgusted by the phrase that Walter had used.

Adam offered no words. He simply produced a glass of water and thrust it into Horace’s hands.

“Thank you,” Horace murmured and took a sip. There was something in the back of his mind that grated with these words.

Guilt. That’s what it is.

There was a time when he scarcely ever said thank you or showed any sort of politeness at all. Now confined to his bed, he was much more reliant on those words than he had once been. It also brought to home perhaps how many times he had been indebted to Adam for his help, and yet neglected to thank him for his kindness.

I am a different man these days, in so many ways. 

He took another small sip from the glass, deep in thought. 

“How does the estate fare?”

“All well, and your tenants are happy.” Adam clapped him on the shoulder. “I have written everything up for you, including my suggestions, and I’ll leave the papers for you here to look over when you’re feeling better. Rest, cousin. Please.” He squeezed Horace’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’ll call on you later, yes?”

“Very well.” He nodded, listening to the floorboards in the old house creak as Adam made his way to the door. “Adam?” he called as Adam reached the doorway and glanced back. “Thank you. Truly. For… everything.” His voice was deep, almost tremulous.

“Any time, cousin.” Adam winked and left, letting the door close softly behind him. The moment he was gone, Horace’s spine slumped.

Must I have everyone wait hand on foot for me?

Angered, he flung himself around on the ottoman as best as he could, cursing the sudden dizziness in his head at the movement. He gripped the old stone windowsill and veered forward, practically pressing his face flat to the glass as he stared out at the garden beyond.

Between the twiggy bushes that had shed their leaves walked two women. One he recognized. Esther, the maid, was walking with another woman beside her–one that Horace did not recognize.

He wiped the condensation from the glass as his breath clouded the window, peering at the woman more intently.

The dark brown hair was tied neatly into a chignon, though there was a single long lock that hung down and teased the nape of her neck. She was beautiful. There was no denying. The large eyes dominated her features, the full lips tempting Horace with imaginings he had not visited in months. She was small and lithe in build, almost doll like with the rosy tint of her cheeks.

“Oh dear,” he muttered. “Where did you come from, temptation?”

There had been a time when Horace would have been out of his chamber already, intent on talking to the woman. Charm had come easy to him at one point in his life. Exactly how many women had he seduced into his bed in his younger years? Many, each one knowing what it was–pure seduction and excitement, no hearts, but only bodies and thrills to share. Some of those nights taunted him now with longing, for he knew he did not have the strength for such things now.

Yet something stirred in his gut as he looked at the stranger. She turned her head and laughed warmly at something that Esther had said. The full lips parting captured him, and a wild idea entered his head.

He saw himself kissing those lips amongst the bare and autumnal grounds. He saw the two of them together pressed up against one of the trees, copper leaves falling around them as he pulled at her skirt, trying to reach for the place he knew would bring her the most pleasure. He could practically hear the breathy moaning in his ear, the cry of pleasure, as his hand slid home.

She turned to look up at him and not in his imagination, but in reality, her head lifting toward his window. Abruptly, Horace grabbed the curtain and pulled it shut fast across the glass, blocking out the gray light of the day. 

“That’s not me anymore,” he muttered gruffly, shutting down temptation before it could begin. 

***

“Enter,” Horace called as he pulled his shirt over his chest. He’d long ago dismissed his valet from helping to dress him. Though some days he barely had the strength to dress himself, he was determined to do it.

At least it is one thing in my life I can control.

“My Lord, I come with my new assistant. Oh.” There was a gasp of surprise from Mr. Byrne.

Horace turned from his place beside his open chest of drawers, wearing only his trousers and his shirt. It was an odd thing to gasp at. Mr. Byrne was his surgeon and physician. It was hardly the first time Mr. Byrne had seen him in a state of undress.

Then Horace’s eyes fell on the assistant at his side.

That is no man.

The woman he had spied in the garden the day before was staring at him, quite agog with parted lips, and a leather doctor’s satchel in her arms. Her eyes darted down him, to the unlaced neck of his shirt, and the evident glimpse of his bare chest beneath.

“My apologies, my lord,” Mr. Byrne said hurriedly, stepping into the room and lowering his own bag to the table as if he was in a great rush. “I did not realize you would still be dressing. Orla?” He looked at the young woman who had now snapped her gaze up.

She looked.

That tight feeling very low down in Horace’s abdomen had begun to stir again. 

You fool. Stop it.

“I’m here, Uncle.” She turned her eyes demurely away and moved to his side.

“Wait, assistant?” Horace held up a hand, staring at the woman wide eyed. “Byrne, you did not say the assistant you were bringing to help you was a woman?”

“Did I not?” Mr. Byrne looked between the pair of them, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. Then he shrugged. “She is excellent, my lord. I have never met another like her with her acumen when it comes to the way a body works.”

Horace moved away. He grasped a waistcoat and pulled it sharply over his shoulders, hastening with a cravat too. The sudden movement made him dizzy, and he latched a hand onto the top of the bureau, breathing deeply, before moving again.

Hearing that the young woman was good with the way a body worked was hardly helping his wild imaginings of her.

They are not decent.

“Perhaps the baron thinks a physician needs something other than a brain to be able to work in this field.” The woman’s words made him freeze.

Wit too, eh?

He turned slowly on the spot to face her. There was challenge in those large eyes, eyes that he now saw were a rich shade of brown, the color of cocoa powder. 

“Orla,” Mr. Byrne hissed quietly.

“An unusual name,” Horace observed, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop them. She turned her head to the leather satchel and pulled some things out. As with the day before, just one loose lock of long hair had escaped her updo and teased the curve of her neck. He imagined trailing his fingers through that lock, pushing it aside, and placing his lips to the bare skin.

Stop it, you fool.

He moved to the nearest chair and sat down fast. It had been so long since he had felt anything akin to attraction that the sudden power of it was alarming. He needed to hide his body at once from view, in case his length stood to attention before her. 

“I am Irish by birth, my lord,” she went on. 

“Now, you know what to do,” Mr. Byrne said hurriedly to Orla. Once more, he seemed in a hurry. “As long as you have no objections to my niece, my lord? I assure you; she is excellent. There is no one better to take care of you in my absence.”

“Absence? Where are you going?” Horace asked. If he’d had the strength, he would have leaned forward in his surprise, but dressing so fast had drained him of energy.

“To town. The news of my attendance to you seems to have spread, and I have many new enquiries for my help.”

“Ah, I see.” Horace scratched the back of his neck, pushing away his long copper hair. “It would seem everyone is benefitting from my illness, except myself.” The attempt at lightening the air was futile, yet Mr. Byrne laughed all the same.

Orla did not. She continued to stare at him with boldness in her gaze. She did not look away as many servants would have done under his look.

Do not make me like you all the more, Miss Orla. I am attracted enough as it is.

He thought of those eyes looking up at him, with her on her knees before him. He had to shift in his seat once again. 

“Are you happy with Orla’s attendance, my lord?” Mr. Byrne asked with more care this time. “If you wish me to stay in her place, I will.”

Horace had many words he wished to say. There would have been a time when he would have been outraged by the deception, for Mr. Byrne had most definitely never mentioned that the assistant he wished to bring into this house would be a woman. Horace would have been sharp tongued and offered a few choice words at the evasion, but what would be the point now?

It would serve no one to be angry, and he did not have the energy for the outburst.

Besides, at least she will be a fairer face to look at than Mr. Byrne.

“You go, Byrne.” He waved a hand. “If she is as excellent as you claim she is, then I am sure we will have no problem.”

Orla placed her hands on her hips. There was outrage in her expression, but it did not help matters. The eyes wild, the anger palpable, he longed to draw her toward him, and make that angry look soften.

“Very well, I shall leave you two alone, then. Good day, my Lord.” Mr. Byrne bowed and left the room, leaving the pair of them quite isolated together.

---

“Mending the Baron’s Sins” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Orla has had one dream for many years, to heal others, but a vindictive suitor blocked her path to a London midwifery career. Desperate, she accepts an offer to mend Baron De Rees, once the tempting blue-eyed boy of the ton and now dangerously ill. However, as she delves into his mysterious world, an irresistible pull draws her closer. When the lines blur between professional duty and forbidden desire, a stolen kiss will ignite a great passion within her.

Will she resist a temptation that could reshape her destiny?

Horace Coates, Baron De Rees is sick and haunted by past mistakes of his arrogant, selfish life, marked by bitterness and regret. When Orla, an unexpected healer, emerges to tend to his afflictions, Horace realizes that she is connected to his tragic story. Torn between his notorious history and ailing present, the beguiling Orla awakens a sizzling passion he cannot tame. As Horace seeks redemption, he slowly realizes that her scandalous touch will be the medicine he always craved for.

If only his burning love could free him from his golden cage…

As Orla and Horace’s forbidden romance deepens into something more than just stolen moments behind closed doors, a deep buried secret blocks their every step to happiness. The more Orla sees of Horace’s illness, the more she can’t help wondering if there’s something else behind it all. Will Orla stay long enough to discover the truth or will she leave fearing scandal? Can their love be the force against the sea of lies and fear surrounding them?

“Mending the Baron’s Sins” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!