On his arrival he had noted with satisfaction the two gentlemen he’d hired to watch over Mrs. Fairchild observing the house from across the street. He’d known she was going to be here because, the other day, when Roger had stopped by to see Hil about one of his cases, he’d mentioned the affair. At first Hil was determined not to come. He already had quite a bit on his plate. Involvement with a married woman on the run hardly seemed prudent at this time, regardless of the nature of that involvement. But, damn it, there was a mystery about her, an aloofness that he knew was hiding the real Eleanor Enderby, née Stanley, now Fairchild, and he was determined to uncover her. He refused to acknowledge that it was her physical appeal that drew him. There was a thrill to his encounters with her that spoke more of sexual desire than an intellectual puzzle, but he had never been ruled by his lust.
Generally he steered clear of married women. More often than not they were more trouble than they were worth. But the clever and unexpectedly attractive Mrs. Fairchild had been occupying his mind lately, and he wished to deepen their acquaintance. Not a love affair, of course. She was hardly the type for it, and definitely not the type of woman he usually bedded. He tended to get involved with ladies who wanted a fast, intense love affair with no promises, since their desires mirrored his own. Not someone whose circumstances made that sort of affair impossible, not to mention her connection to Roger.
He didn’t do well in relationships. Everyone told him so. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have some sort of lasting commitment—a companion to share his life with—but he was unable to focus solely on the women with whom he was involved, which irritated them. He was a busy man. While it was true he’d made his fortune when he was young with some fortuitous investments, and earned a yearly income from them far above what most of his acquaintances suspected, he did not sit idle. People sought him out to help with their problems, people who had nowhere else to turn or did not have the means to pay someone else to help them. Was he to say, No, I’m sorry, but I’m involved with a woman and can’t be bothered to help find your grandmother’s secret love letters to the tsar, or explain how your factory blew up? It wasn’t reasonable to expect that of him, surely. And his studies into human nature and the science of police work took a great deal of time, as well. Why, just last week he’d been asked to give a lecture at the Royal Society. Was he to turn down that august group because he was shagging someone? It was a damned nuisance, really.
There were days when being a gentleman of means and education grew extraordinarily onerous. If he were an average man, he’d be left alone to pursue his interests without interruption. And he wouldn’t have this damned inconvenient conscience that made him try to rescue damsels in distress.
He was not planning on having an affair with Mrs. Fairchild. She was married. Perhaps in no more than name—which was also questionable, since she was legally dead—but for argument’s sake, she was. And Hil was certain that her ex-husband-by-death had by now heard that his dead wife’s mysterious cousin had appeared in London. Mrs. Enderby, disguised as Mrs. Fairchild, had been enjoying the events of the season for the past two weeks. She had been noted in the papers several times as a guest at fashionable affairs. Enderby had quite a few people on his payroll. At least one of them must have seen those papers. This was going to develop into a messy situation, as he’d predicted, and he should steer well clear of it. His involvement would stop with the guards he had watching Roger’s house, for the safety of all who stayed there.
“Good afternoon, Sir Hilary,” a voice filled with feminine satisfaction said from behind him. “I was unaware you would also be attending Lady Gaston’s garden party today. That makes four times we have run into one another in the last two weeks, doesn’t it?”
He turned and saw Mrs. Fairchild standing behind him, sipping lemonade and smiling knowingly. He refused to acknowledge her amusement. Instead he decided to answer her with the truth she had demanded two weeks ago. “Indeed it does, Mrs. Fairchild. At the Templetons’, Lord and Lady Cheswick’s dinner party, the Leighton musicale, and now this garden party. I came here today specifically to see you, as a matter of fact, since you avoided conversation with me at those affairs.”
He’d expected to fluster her. Again he underestimated her. “Did you? Do you need my assistance on an inquiry, perhaps?”
At least she wasn’t avoiding him. But she was clearly going to make him state his intentions more bluntly. Revenge, perhaps, for his too forward behavior two weeks ago? By now she ought to have realized he had no trouble circumventing polite conversation. “Not at all. I find myself unaccountably fascinated by you.”
She laughed and it sounded genuine. “Unaccountably? Hardly flattering, sir, but honest, to be sure. Come, walk with me.”
“You spend a great deal of time walking,” he observed. “Drawing rooms, gardens—always when I see you, you are in motion.” Running from him, perhaps? He didn’t care for that notion.
“At my husband’s house, I was rarely allowed the freedom to walk anywhere,” she said without self-pity. “I am making up for a previously sedentary life.”
The unfamiliar burn of anger filled him. Very little truly angered him. He’d seen too much, knew too much. But the idea of anyone forcing the gay, amiable, droll Mrs. Fairchild to sit still when it was clear she was brimming with energy and mischief was enough to make a small tic appear in his left eyelid. How extraordinary. “Then we shall walk until you are too exhausted to walk any more.” He held out his arm and she lightly laid her lace-gloved fingers upon it. Her warmth seeped through his jacket.
“What an odd garden party.” She adroitly changed the topic, once again cutting off any questions about her past. “These are hothouse flowers and we are indoors. I have never seen the like.”
“Ladies of Lady Gaston’s station have too much time on their hands and not enough sense to use it wisely.”
His observation amused her. “Do you always speak so plainly?”
“I try to,” he said, stopping to accept a small nosegay of purple pansies from a footman. He presented them to Mrs. Fairchild with a bow. “It is not always appreciated. But I do find it eliminates most misunderstandings.”
“Hmm,” she said as she sniffed the flowers. “These are prettier than they smell.”
His smile was involuntary. “Most things are.”
“I hope I do not fall into that category,” she said. “I am wearing Harry’s French perfume.” She tucked the nosegay into the velvet sash at her waist. Her dress was obviously meant to resemble some sort of country maid’s attire, with large square pockets on the skirt. That is, if country maids wore fine white muslin embroidered with pink roses and decorated with green-velvet sashes.
“I suspect you do not need perfume to smell sweet,” Hil told her, remembering how she’d smelled at the Templetons’ not long ago.
“Do you need to borrow funds?” she asked suspiciously, eyeing him warily.
“I do not,” he responded, surprised at the question. “Why do you ask?”
“I cannot imagine why else you would shower me with compliments.”
“Telling you that you do not smell bad is hardly showering you with compliments.”
She burst out laughing. “From you it is.”
He honestly did not know what to do with her. She seemed to find him amusing, more than anything else. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated his attentions so cavalierly. “Madam, have you no response to the fact I find you fascinating?”
* * *
She really didn’t. Have a response, that is. He overthrew her common sense. She’d been avoiding him, it was true. His admission and her unexpected attraction to him made her uncomfortable. She’d known, of course, from that one scorching look at Harry’s, that he had an interest in her. But fascination was far beyond the scope she had been imagining. “I am fascinated by your fascination,” she countered, and it was true. Fascinated and fearful. She didn’t like feeling out of control, and that’s what
he did to her. She’d thought to take the upper hand today by approaching him first, but as usual, he’d thrown her off balance and taken over.
He blew out a breath that sounded vaguely frustrated. From what she knew about him from their mutual friends, it was out of character and made her feel slightly better. “What does that mean?” he asked impatiently.
“It means I do not understand the basis of your fascination,” she admitted reluctantly. She didn’t want to reveal any weaknesses that he might take advantage of, but she really was perplexed at his attentions.
“You have bested me, madam. Not many can say that.”
“Have I?” she said with undisguised amazement and shock. “I am delighted, more so because I didn’t even know we were playing a game. I have bested you in ignorance. Do I earn more points for that?”
He stopped. When she looked at him in question, he was facing forward, his lips pursed in annoyance. “Oh, dear,” she said, letting go of his arm. “Now I’ve annoyed you. Is that part of the game, too? Have I won again? Perhaps you should tell me the rules.” She could hardly believe her forward behavior. It was as if Mrs. Fairchild was taking over and meek Eleanor Enderby was fading away.
He looked at her then, his brows raised haughtily. “I think not. It would be worse to be bested by you when you had complete knowledge of the game.”
She laughed in relief and began to walk again. After a moment he followed her. “I am not accustomed to playing catch-up,” he said. “And yet I am forever doing so with you.”
“Really?” she asked, not sure how to respond. She leaned over to smell some red roses growing in pots. Their scent was faint and their beautiful petals were beginning to curl in distress. “ ‘Oh rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, that flies in the night, in the howling storm, has found out thy bed of crimson joy, and his dark secret love, does thy life destroy.’ ” She looked at Sir Hilary. “William Blake,” she explained.
“I know who wrote it,” he said, looking astonished she’d think otherwise. “I know a great many poems about flowers. What about, ‘Ah, sunflower, weary of time’? Also Blake.”
“There are no sunflowers here,” she observed flirtatiously, then wanted to bite her tongue. What was she doing, playing with a Devil? This girlish behavior was foolish in the extreme. He’d said ‘fascinated,’ not infatuated. It was her ability to outwit him he admired, not her womanly charms, despite that heated glance she’d caught. She was quite ordinary in most respects, with her boyish hair and slim figure. She’d heard Sir Hilary preferred curvaceous beauties.
“Fine. ‘The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, the humble sheep, a threat’ning horn: while the Lily white shall in love delight, nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.’ Also Blake. The man was obsessed with flowers.”
“A fan of the lily, are you? My point was that I do not think this garden party is good for the flowers.”
“Lady Gaston is not concerned about the flowers. She will grow more. She merely cares that her party is a huge success, which it is.”
“How can you tell?” she asked as she perused the room. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The ladies were staring at him with longing and her with envy, and the men were wary. The typical reaction to his presence.
“I came.”
She laughed at him again in delighted astonishment. “Roger was right. You are very full of yourself.”
“I merely state the facts, madam. I have never darkened the door of a garden party before.”
She gave him a coy little curtsy. “I am honored.” But also cautious. Why was he so interested in her? After a moment of silence as they walked past the French doors leading out to the real garden, which was still dormant and chill, she prodded, “I thought you made a practice of playing catch-up, finding lost people and things and such.”
“I do, but that is not the same thing as chasing you around ballrooms.”
“I am more easily caught, I suspect, since I am hardly running away. I sought you out today.” Because she found him equally fascinating, though she was not as brave as he and wouldn’t admit it. He was too smart, too observant, and far too unsettling for her peace of mind. A dalliance with a well-known rake such as Sir Hilary was most definitely not part of her plans.
“You did,” he agreed. “Why?”
“We are acquaintances, are we not?” she countered, feigning ignorance. “When I saw you I felt compelled to offer a greeting. It would have been rude not to. Also, you looked lost.”
“I am never lost.”
“Hmm,” was all she said. She could tell it infuriated him. “I am not interested in a love affair,” he stated bluntly.
Eleanor actually gasped at that and frantically looked around to make sure no one had heard him. “Are you mad?” she whispered roughly, gripping his arm. “Are you trying to draw censure to me? You will destroy my new identity.” Shock caused her to overreact. It was as if he’d read her mind. The crushing disappointment she felt at his declaration was troubling. Surely she didn’t desire such a thing either, did she?
“I am merely trying to put your mind at ease about my motives in seeking you out,” he explained. They were now facing one another. “I wish to know the person who can best me, who can outwit me. What flaw in me has allowed you to do so? There must be some explanation. It can’t be your intellect, which, though by no means small, is not as great as mine. You are passing fair, true, but hardly a beauty of renown. Why do you trouble me so?”
“That was not only blunt, but beyond rude,” she said without rancor. She’d been thinking the same thing. And of course they were both right. “Consider my mind at ease.” She crossed her arms and tapped her chin with her forefinger as if thinking very hard. “My intellect is too weak to help you with this conundrum, Sir Hilary. I am afraid you will have to play catch-up to figure it out. Good afternoon.” Irrational anger made her voice sharp, and she turned away with a flick of her skirts, disgusted with herself and with him. She left him standing there fuming as she went to look for Harry. Oh, he was an infuriating man.
* * *
“What on earth is wrong with Sir Hilary?” Harry asked her as the two were leaving the garden party. “I offered him a hallo, and got a glare for my trouble as he stomped out the door. I saw you two talking earlier. Did he say anything to you?”
“He is infuriating, and quite self-centered,” Eleanor said under her breath. “We had words and I expected him to leave with dignity. I did not expect him to make a cake of himself over it.”
“Really?” Harry said with glee. “How marvelous! I’ve never seen him so upset by a woman.”
“It is not marvelous,” Eleanor argued. “People will talk. I cannot afford to be the latest on-dit.” How society would laugh if they knew he’d declared her unworthy of him.
“I don’t see why,” Harry said. “The fact is, Enderby has remarried. Surely he will want to keep his new wife, whoever she is, rather than put himself through a thoroughly messy legal battle over your death, or lack thereof. I hardly think a love affair would make your return from the dead more appealing to him.”
Eleanor started to protest, but stopped. Was Harry right? She needed to think about that. It seemed too simple an answer. She still feared Enderby would track her down and denounce her if he discovered she was alive. But the truth was that there would be more trouble at his door if he did. Eleanor did not have great confidence in his common sense, but surely even he would see that, if he ever figured out Elizabeth Fairchild was his late, unlamented wife.
“You can see I’m right,” Harry said smugly.
“I do not concede you are right,” Eleanor told her, “but will consider your idea.”
“Ha,” was Harry’s rejoinder. “That means I’m right.” After a moment she said, “I think Sir Hilary is an excellent choice for an affair.”
“Harry,” Eleanor said sharply, hoping to end the discussion. She thought so, too, but she very much doubted she would be the one he was having th
e affair with.
“He’s quite handsome, don’t you think? I believe his red hair is indicative of a passionate personality. He doesn’t display that often, of course, in his line of work, but I do believe his Devil’s reputation more than corroborates it. According to Roger, his bedroom skills are legendary among the ladies. I honestly can’t believe anyone is better than Roger, but I’m just repeating the gossip.”
Eleanor closed her eyes and counted to ten. She would not think of Sir Hilary in the bedroom. Her bedroom skills were rudimentary at best. Sir Hilary, on the other hand, was the original Devil. A man who, rumor had it, pursued knowledge of the sensual as ardently as he studied science, detection, and poetry. She was a dismal prospect for a man of his stature and experience. “I do not think I am ready to take a lover.” The excuse tasted like a lie as soon as she said it, and she made a face.
Harry hugged her with one arm. “Was it awful, then, with Enderby? It was awful, you know, with my first husband.” She noticeably shuddered. “I didn’t expect what I found with Roger. It is … it is incandescent.”
“Incandescent?” Eleanor said disbelievingly. “That is hardly a word I would use to describe relations.” Unpleasant, messy, painful, and embarrassing, yes. Incandescent? No.
“I wouldn’t have either, before—”
“Before Roger,” Eleanor finished for her. “Yes, I believe you mentioned that.”
“Just think about it, Eleanor,” Harry begged. “I think Sir Hilary would be very good for you.”
Devil in My Arms: A Loveswept Historical Romance (The Saint's Devils) Page 5
