{"product_id":"the-wild-baron-isbn-9780515120448","title":"The Wild Baron","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe first title in \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Catherine Coulter's Baron series.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Wild Baron\u003c\/i\u003e introduces the dashing Carrington brothers with the story of Rohan, a man with a rakish reputation but a heart of pure gold...\u003cb\u003eCatherine Coulter\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the FBI Thrillers featuring husband and wife team Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock. She is also the author—with J. T. Ellison—of the Brit in the FBI series. She lives in Sausalito, California.The Mountvale Townhouse, Cavendish Square\u003cp\u003eLondon, April 1811\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eROHAN CARRINGTON, FIFTH BARON MOUNTVALE, BELLOWED\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat his brother’s portrait, ‘‘If you did this, George, and if you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eweren’t already dead, I’d thrash you within an inch of your\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebloody life. You little bounder. Were you even capable of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esuch a thing?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven as he yelled, Rohan felt a knot swell in his throat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGeorge had been dead nearly a year. No, George couldn’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehave done this. George was studious, a scholar with no interest\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein matters of the flesh. Rohan remembered once, a long\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etime ago, their father had taken him and George to Madame\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTrillah’s on Cliver Street. At the sight of a very voluptuous\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eredhead with magnificent breasts, George had blanched and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen run half the way back to Mountvale Townhouse.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter that, their father had left George alone. George had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estuck to his maps and his studies. At least so Rohan had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ealways believed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘No,’’ Rohan said, his voice low and deep now, his eyes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estill on his brother’s portrait, painted when George was eighteen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘I don’t believe this damned letter. It was another young\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eblood using your name, wasn’t it? Did you really manage\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto bring yourself to the sticking point and ravish a young\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elady? Hell, did you even know what ‘ravish’ meant?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘What does this man who calls himself her father want\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom me? Stupid question. Money, of course. Damn you,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGeorge—or rather damn the man who did this in your\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ename.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGeorge didn’t answer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe last Carrington to ruin a young lady and find himself\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshackled as a result had been Rohan’s great-grandfather, the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efabulous Luther Morran Carrington. Old Luther would shake\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis head, according to Rohan’s grandfather, and mutter that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe’d only tossed up Cora’s skirts one miserable time and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe’d nailed her but good. He’d continued to nail Cora fourteen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emore times, eight of his children surviving into adulthood.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRohan pulled the bell cord behind the immaculate mahogany\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edesk. His secretary, Pulver, must have been standing just\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eoutside the door, his face pressed against the wood, for he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas in the library in but a moment, not a bit out of breath.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked pale, gaunt, and put-upon, all three of which he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edeserved, because, as his friend David Plummy had told him,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘It serves you right, slaving like you do for the Wild Baron.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJust look at all those uncivilized hours he keeps, and he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eworks you harder than a dog in all the hours in-between.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat’s more, he beds more women than you and I will ever\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeven speak to in our lives and everybody loves him for it,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust like they love his mother and his father. He’s a philanderer.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt isn’t fair, damn him. As for you, Pulver, you deserve\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto look like you’re on your last legs.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePulver would shake his head mournfully, but the truth of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit was that Pulver enjoyed himself immensely. Working for\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBaron Mountvale gave him a certain cachet. He’d even been\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eset upon by several ladies trying to bribe him to get them\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto the baron’s bedchamber.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePulver came to a halt in front of the baron, who looked\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebilious and whose fair hair was standing on end. He was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecurious to know what news had sent his master over the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eedge. It wasn’t every day that the baron talked to himself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Pulver, get my solicitor Simington over here. No, wait.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe baron broke off, staring at the portrait of his mother that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehung beside George’s above the mantel. It had been painted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen she was twenty-five—nearly his age now. She’d been\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eglorious when she was young, and she was still incredibly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebeautiful at forty-five. In her younger years she had been\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewilder than a storm-tossed night, and he’d been told from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis earliest memories that he was just like her, and like his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eproud papa, of course. They’d told him that he’d been\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eblessed with their wild blood and tempestuous natures.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘No,’’ he said, bringing himself back to the problem at\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehand, ‘‘I will see to this myself. It’s strange and I don’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebelieve a word of it. Besides, if there’s no bastard, how can\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone prove ruination? And there’s no mention at all of a bastard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSurely there would be mention in the bloody letter if\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere was a bastard, don’t you think?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘No, I must do it myself. I don’t want to, but I must,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edammit. I will be gone for three days, no more.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘But, my lord,’’ Pulver said, near desperation in his voice,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘you must need me to do something. You are agitated. There\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis even a wrinkle in your sleeve. Your cravat is crooked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYour fair locks need a brushing. Your valet would not approve.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePerhaps you are not thinking too clearly.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRohan waved the letter in Pulver’s face. ‘‘I am thinking\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eclearly enough to know that I will probably put a bullet\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough this bleater’s brain. The man’s a damned liar—that,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor someone else is.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Ah,’’ Pulver said. A woman has managed to get hold of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehim. Was she a former mistress he didn’t want to see anymore?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe wanted money?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘I am a very good negotiator,’’ Pulver said with a modesty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe did not possess, not budging from in front of the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebaron. ‘‘I can deal with almost any bleater in London. Give\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eme a bleater from outside London and I’ll mash him.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRohan became aware that his secretary was bearing down\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon him. ‘‘Negotiator?’’ he repeated, distracted. ‘‘Oh, you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emust be thinking about Melinda Corruthers. She was a tough\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elittle bit of leather, wasn’t she? That was well done of you,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePulver. You convinced her that she was swimming up the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewrong creek since I had truly never heard of her before.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWell, this isn’t the same. I will handle it myself, I owe it to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy brother. Turn down all invitations for the next week.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe paused, frowning, looking into his secretary’s gaunt face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Eat something, man. You look skinnier than you did just\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyesterday. People already believe I pay you so little that you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecan’t even afford a turnip for your dinner. Even my mother\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethinks I torture you.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePulver was left standing where he was, watching the baron\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eleave the library, that piece of foolscap wadded in his hand.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt had to do with a woman. A woman and his brother? Surely\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat was beyond strange. Which brother? Neither of the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebaron’s brothers was the least like him. It was a start. Pulver\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ementally arranged the few facts already in his possession.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot much, but he was patient. He could begin to imagine\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe look of envy on David Plummy’s face when he heard\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout this new exploit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRohan strode into his bedchamber and paced, muttering\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout a straight-as-a-stick younger brother who must have\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehad wicked friends who had used his name. His valet, Tinker,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewho didn’t hear the baron’s muttering, even though he tried,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epacked a valise for him. Tinker wondered why his lordship\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewasn’t in a better humor. Surely this trip must involve a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efemale. Nearly all the baron’s trips did. Everyone knew that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe baron was famous for his trips to his little hideaways.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut more than lust and passion seemed involved here. What\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecould it be? Tinker was patient. He would find out soon\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eenough. He wondered if Pulver knew more than he did.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRohan didn’t think of Lily until he was tooling down the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eReading road at a fine clip, some fifteen miles out of London.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe sighed. He’d forgotten to send a message to her to tell\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher he wouldn’t see her this evening. Ah, there was so much\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto be done. Well, he wouldn’t be gone more than three days.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eT H E W I L D B A R O N 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWho the hell was this Joseph Hawlworth of Mulberry\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHouse, Moreton-in-Marsh, a town that wasn’t far at all from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOxford, where George had lived and pursued his solitary\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeducation?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSusannah raised her face to the sun. It felt wonderful. It had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erained continuously for two days, making everyone testy, but\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etoday the sun was shining as if God himself had sent it blazing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edown just for her. She gently patted the rich, black dirt\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003earound the base of the rosebush. She moved on to a patch\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof candytuft, her pride, sent to her by her cousin who had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003espoken to one of the gardeners in Chelsea Gardens and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elearned that the flowers had come from Persia to England\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust a few years before. John had managed to spirit a cutting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eout of Chelsea Gardens to her the previous fall. Now as she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elovingly traced her fingertips over the dark evergreen leaves\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the shower of white flowers atop the stem, she remembered\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis note, telling her that the name ‘‘candy’’ had come\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom Candia, the ancient name of Crete. She wondered if she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecould ever work that bit into a conversation with her father.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eProbably not. She wondered if she would ever be able to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ework that bit into any conversation, with anyone in the environs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eProbably not.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe jerked out a particularly nasty weed, made certain that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe soil was well drained and moist, and prayed the sun\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewould continue shining, for the candytuft thrived with sun.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe turned on her heel at the sound of a curricle drawing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eup in front of the cottage. Her father was supposedly in Scotland,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso he’d told her, but she knew he was very likely gambling\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eaway his shirt with his cronies down in Blaystock. She\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esighed and rose. A tradesman? No, it couldn’t be. She had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emade very certain that all the tradesmen had been paid before\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe allowed her father to leave Mulberry House, complaining\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebitterly under his breath about what a shrew she had become.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWho would come in a curricle? She rounded the side of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe house to see a magnificent gray snorting and prancing to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea stop. The man driving the curricle was speaking to the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehorse, a spirited conversation that drew an occasional snort\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom the massive animal, who stood at least seventeen hands\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehigh. When the horse quieted, the man looked about, probably\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor a stable lad.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSusannah called out, ‘‘Just a moment and I’ll fetch Jamie.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’ll take care of your horse.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Thank you,’’ the man called back.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen she returned with Jamie, who had been napping in\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea mound of fresh hay at the back of the small barn behind\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe house, the man was patting the horse’s nose, still speaking\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Oh, aye,’’ Jamie said, sprinting forward now. ‘‘Yicks,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejest ley yer peepers on that purty boy. I’ll feed him good,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGuv, don’t ye worry. Wot’s the name of this beauty?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Gulliver.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Odd name fer sech a manly beast and that’s what ye\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebe—manly—despite they cut off yer conkers. Gulliver, aye,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe name niver come to me ears afore, but who cares? I’ll\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etake ’im now, Guv. All gray ye be, and that lovely white\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estar in the middle of yer forehead. Come with me, ye purty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eboy.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRohan had never heard such an odd rendering of the English\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elanguage. It was both illiterate and intriguing and very\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enearly sung in a deep baritone. He watched the stable lad\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elead Gulliver and his curricle toward the back of the house.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGulliver was prancing beside him, shaking his mighty head\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat the lad’s words, just as he did with Rohan, only it seemed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto Rohan that his horse was showing more enthusiasm with\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe stable lad, a damned stranger, than he normally did with\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis true master, the one who paid for his oats.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd Susannah watched him watch his horse. When Jamie\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand Gulliver were gone around the side of the house, she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas left standing in the drive looking at the man in a very\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eelegant greatcoat with at least six capes. He took off his hat\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand ran his fingers through his pale blondish-brown hair. He\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas young, not above twenty-five or twenty-six, and very\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehandsome. Too handsome, and probably very well aware of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit. She frowned. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehim, not at first.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt took her ten more seconds. She sucked in her breath\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand took a step back. She said, ‘‘You’re George’s brother.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou’re the Wild Baron. Goodness, I didn’t realize how alike\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou looked.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe was so pale he thought she would fall over in a dead\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efaint.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Oh? You’re entirely wrong. George had black hair and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edark brown eyes. We looked nothing alike.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘I don’t understand,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘Why are you saying\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat? George had eyes nearly as green as yours—he said\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis were the same color as his father’s—and his hair was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust a bit darker blond than yours.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWell, damn. His ruse hadn’t paid off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Very well,’’ Rohan said. ‘‘It was George, then. You did\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eknow him.’’ Perhaps it also meant that she wasn’t part of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethis plan to skinny down his coffers. At least he now knew\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone thing for certain. It had been George, as fantastic as it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eseemed to Rohan.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘So,’’ Rohan said, not bowing, not offering to take her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehand, not doing anything except standing there, looking at\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe run-down house, bricks missing from one of the chimneys,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand the beautiful gardens that surrounded it. ‘‘Since\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou guessed who I am, since you described George nearly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto his eyebrows, then you must be the girl my brother supposedly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eruined?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe stared at him. The black smudges of dirt on her face\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estood out starkly against her pallor. She had become mute.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘You’re not, then. Very well. You’re a maid, and a dirty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eone at that. You simply saw George when he visited here?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou work at this house? For that paltry bugger who wrote\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eme that impertinent letter? If you do work here, you don’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eappear to do a very good job. The place looks like it’s ready\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto fall down and crumble.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe got hold of herself. ‘‘That’s true enough, but I ask\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou, how could a maid be responsible for how the house\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elooks on the outside?’’ That stymied him and she smiled to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eherself. She realized, of course, that most self-respecting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emaids would turn up their noses at her. Her hands were dirty,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere was black dirt on her muslin gown and under her fingernails,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher hair was straggling about her face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe let him wriggle free from that one finally, saying, ‘‘I\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot only work here, I also live here.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Then you are not a maid?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘No, I’m not a maid.’’ She didn’t say anything more. She\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewatched him draw a piece of foolscap from his greatcoat\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epocket. He waved it at her. ‘‘If you live here, then perhaps\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou can tell me why this man named Joseph Hawlworth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewrote me this insolent letter telling me that George had ruined\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou? It is you who are ruined, is it not?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302760173797,"sku":"NP9780515120448","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780515120448.jpg?v=1767742213","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-wild-baron-isbn-9780515120448","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}