Julia Justiss

by Wicked Wager

  Sancha shook her head. “Nay, I hear only sadness for my lady’s loss. Much talk it caused, the groom being dismissed, but all approve Mr. Fairchild’s action.”

  “Was the groom angry? Contrite? Guilt-striken?”

  “This, I do not know. Only that he left before sunrise the day after my lady’s fall.”

  Disappointed that Sancha could only confirm what Jenna had already told him, Tony continued, “Might you be able to find out where that groom is now?”

  “One of the housemaids is cousin to him. I can ask her.”

  “If you can discover his direction, I’d very much like to speak with him. Let me call again—Thursday, perhaps—and see what you have learned.”

  Sancha nodded. “If weather is fine, I will make sure my mistress goes riding. Come and send for me, like today.”

  Tony felt a flicker of excitement. In just a few days, he might be on his way to uncovering whether there was in fact something sinister about Jenna’s accident. “Excellent! If my fears are groundless, we will have done no harm—but if they are not, we may be saving your lady from even graver injury. Remember, though,” he added, “to be very careful, for if her cousin should have been responsible for this, she would be in great danger should he discover anyone suspects him.”

  “If someone hurt my lady, we must find him. And if she is in danger, we must protect her,” Sancha agreed.

  “You have ever been her loyal friend. Thank you.”

  The maid nodded, then curtsied and walked him to the door. “Perhaps I was wrong, my lord,” she said as she paused on the threshold, a hint of a smile in her solemn eyes. “Perhaps you are not so evil any longer.”

  Pleased with the interview, Tony limped after her. While he hoped his fears were groundless, having spent much of his young manhood in roguish company, he could not help but suspect wrongdoing when an accident befell someone who threatened great wealth and aroused strong emotion.

  Had someone paid off the groom to substitute an unfamiliar, unstable mount, intent on triggering a fall?

  A fall that might insure no male child would supplant Bayard Fairchild as the next viscount.

  Her family would have known of her condition—and how many others? Might Garrett’s spiteful former lover have decided she could not bear watching Jenna parade before the ton the child of the man she’d spurned—but still cared for? Or would causing Jenna to truly “lose everything” been necessary to complete the revenge of a grief-deranged widow who held Jenna accountable for her husband’s death?

  Accepting his coat, gloves and walking stick from the butler, Tony descended the stairs and took the hackney the Fairchild footman summoned for him. Propping his knee on the squabs, he wondered whether he should warn Jenna.

  No doubt the lady would insist she had a right to know. Certainly she’d shown she possessed a cool head and the ability to function in a dangerous situation. Still, unlike himself, Jenna was an honorable individual who would find it difficult to credit that anyone would wish her ill, especially a member of her husband’s own family.

  Worse yet, he realized, if circumstances should implicate someone within the Fairchild household, Jenna would be understandably furious at learning one of Garrett’s own blood could have schemed to deprive her of their child. Honest as she was, she might well find it impossible to hide those feelings, thereby putting herself into further danger by revealing the suspicion.

  Since she’d already lost the babe that threatened the succession, she should be safe for the moment, as long as whoever arranged her fall—if indeed someone had—did not learn anyone was investigating the incident. Better, he decided, to say nothing to Jenna, gather more information—and keep a closer watch over her.

  That last posed no hardship, he thought with a smile. And though initially she’d roundly abused his character, of late he’d detected indications that she was growing fonder of him. A bittersweet, aching hope washed through him that she might become more than just fond.

  Having already survived Waterloo, he dare not hope for a second miracle. And it would surely require an act of divine intervention for the widow of Garrett Fairchild to look with more than fondness upon the half-crippled, nearly destitute and completely unsuitable Anthony Nelthorpe.

  Though involving her in the plight of the army families had turned out to be a master stroke, bringing out glimpses of the fiery Jenna of old. What a magnificent woman!

  Of course, once she was fully herself again, she would have no further need of his help. With a pang of guilt, he had to admit to hoping the pace of her recovery did not quicken overmuch, that he might continue to enjoy the tantalizing delight of her company.

  And tantalizing it was. Just thinking about her brought back in a rush the desire that always pulsed just beneath the surface. How wise he’d been to make tempting her, as she constantly tempted him, an intricate part of their bargain. Not only did his not-so-veiled innuendoes remind her of the need to improve his character, it saved him the surely hopeless task of trying to mask his attraction. An attraction she shared, at least in part, even if she wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge it.

  As long as he could link the duration of their bargain to her promise to turn him into a man as worthy as the husband and father she’d lost, he should be guaranteed her company for a very long time.

  Along with the deal offered him by Harris’s father, that would be the best thing that had happened to him since surviving Waterloo.

  LATER THAT EVENING, Jenna allowed Lane Fairchild to hand her into the carriage. “Do hurry, Jenna,” Aunt Hetty’s aggrieved voice said from behind her.

  “Since the event is to honor Waterloo veterans, ’tis likely to be even more crowded than usual,” Lane explained.

  “I’m surprised there are enough veterans in London to justify two fetes within the same week,” Jenna remarked.

  Lane chuckled. “If Lady Charlotte Darnell held a very successful fete, then the Countess of Ellsmere must needs have one even more lavish. The countess has considered Lady Charlotte ‘une rivale amicale’ since they debuted together in their very first Season.”

  “It is most unfortunate, Jenna, that you refused Lady Montclare’s offer to accompany us tonight. It could be very injurious to the family if the Countess takes offense at your befriending Lady Charlotte. With her intimate knowledge of the ton, Lady Montclare could help avoid any damage,” Aunt Hetty said.

  Jenna had no intention of apologizing for having evaded being saddled with Lady Montclare’s company for the whole of the evening—bad enough that she would doubtless suffer her presence and advice during the function itself. Nor would she express regret at having accepted Lady Charlotte’s offer of friendship.

  She recalled how congenial their lunch had been today. Far from expressing disapproval at Jenna’s foray into east London, Lady Charlotte had been admiring and deeply sympathetic to the plight of the soldiers. She’d assured Jenna she would ask her friend Lord Riverton, who held an important government post, to see if it were possible to do something for them through official channels. She’d also recommended that Jenna establish a philanthropic trust to augment her own efforts and pledged to contribute to it.

  Indeed, Lady Charlotte was the only one Jenna had met thus far within London Society who seemed to understand the grief she bore and her need to work through it her own way—one that didn’t include a hasty remarriage.

  Except for Nelthorpe—although he wasn’t precisely a Society member in good standing. Would he attend the fete?

  Though it bothered her to admit it, she regretted missing his visit this morning. She was also eager to discuss with him what she’d learned from her solicitor.

  She could almost hear him advising her, with that roguish glint in his eye, not to give a rap about trying to navigate her way through whatever undercurrents of jealousy surrounded tonight’s hostess and her newfound friend.

  To her surprise, she was finding he shared more of her views than she would ever have credited upon meetin
g him again mere weeks ago. He also cared deeply about the soldiers whose welfare was now her most pressing interest. And thanks to the silly bargain she’d agreed upon, they would be allies of a sort for a few more weeks.

  Could she truly hope to turn Anthony Nelthorpe into a principled gentleman in so little time?

  Recalling the caress of his gaze upon her, warmth flushed her cheeks and tension spiraled in her belly.

  Did she really want to?

  A sharp rap from Aunt Hetty’s fan recalled her. “Jenna, you are not attending, and ’tis important!”

  “I’m afraid Aunt Hetty is correct, Jenna,” Lane inserted with a placating smile. “I realize you may not yet be aware how such subtle intrigues can create lasting good or harm. Perhaps it would be wise to seek out Lady Montclare immediately upon our arrival, that she may advise you on how best to greet the countess.”

  Jenna nearly laughed at the absurdity of asking counsel on how to properly say hello, but a glance at Lane’s face showed him to be quite serious. If scores were indeed kept over so trivial a matter as one’s friendship with rival ton hostesses, then she’d best see about removing herself from London Society as soon as possible.

  Perhaps Lord Nelthorpe could help her do so tonight.

  Confining herself to a noncommittal murmur, as soon as she exited the carriage, Jenna began scanning the crowd, hoping that before her relations found the bobbing ostrich plume and shrill laughter that would mark Lady Montclare’s presence, she might spy the dark head or distinctive limping gait of Anthony Nelthorpe.

  In the anteroom a few minutes later, Aunt Hetty rose up on tiptoe, waving her handkerchief to signal to someone who could only be Lady Montclare. Feeling as trapped as a picket before the approach of enemy cavalry, Jenna was on the point of inventing some urgent need to visit the ladies’ withdrawing room when, across a sea of nodding heads and waving fans, she spied Anthony Nelthorpe.

  She no sooner saw him then he smiled a greeting. Relieved this time that, as always, he seemed to have been watching for her, after confirming Lane and Aunt Hetty were gazing at Lady Montclare, she gestured him to approach.

  A slow grin spreading across his face, he began making his way toward her through the crowd—as, from the opposite corner of the room, was Lady Montclare.

  Nearly tapping her toe in impatience, she waited, hoping that despite his limp a cavalryman would prove swifter in his mission than a Society matron.

  He didn’t disappoint her. Before Lady Montclare had crossed half the chamber, Lord Nelthorpe reached her side. “Lady Fairchild, what a fortunate encounter,” he murmured, gray eyes dancing as he gave her an elaborate bow.

  She threw him a warning glance. “Fortunate indeed.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and proceeded to subject each height and valley of her knuckles to a slow and highly improper caress that sent a volley of little shocks ricocheting to all parts of her body.

  “I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you want me,” he murmured for her ears alone.

  Irritated by her response, but too much in need of his help to risk scolding him at present, she pulled her hand back, resisting the urge to rub away the residual tingling.

  “I was hoping I might see you, my lord. Evers, my father’s old batman, arrived this afternoon, bringing with him the names of several troopers in need. He’s eager to start canvassing London for more.”

  Evidently overhearing this exchange, Cousin Lane pulled his gaze from Lady Montclare’s approach. His smile faded when he perceived to whom she was speaking.

  “Nelthorpe,” he said in frigid tones.

  The viscount’s grin widened. “Mr. Fairchild.”

  “You mean to continue working among the soldiers?” Lane asked her.

  “Yes, cousin, with Lord Nelthorpe’s assistance, as I believe I already told you. Were you, ah, able to gather the information I requested, my lord?”

  “Information?”

  “Yes,” she replied, shooting him an urgent look.

  “Ah, that information. ’Tis rather complicated. Shall we discuss it further?” Nelthorpe offered his arm.

  Frowning, Lane waved it away. “Lady Fairchild has not yet greeted her hostess. And besides, ’tis not the time nor place to debate the merits of such a course. Cousin, I beg you to refrain from discussing so…inappropriate a matter in the middle of Lady Ellsmere’s ball.”

  Jenna’s ready anger stirred. “Inappropriate to talk of the plight of his Majesty’s soldiers? Then perhaps I should leave—”

  “Lady Fairchild,” Nelthorpe interrupted, “we are distressing your cousin. Stroll with me so we may speak of this more discreetly.” Before Jenna or Lane could respond, Nelthorpe appropriated her elbow and urged her away.

  “Can’t have you brangling with your cousin in the middle of the anteroom. Very bad ton, you know, and certain to upset the countess,” Nelthorpe said.

  “Who, if I may believe my aunt and cousin, is already offended that I have become a friend of Lady Charlotte’s.”

  “Quite probably. Now, did you require of me more than a rescue? I am, of course, ever eager to service you.”

  As he’d no doubt intended, her nimble mind was momentarily deflected by the naughty innuendo. She gave him a stern look. “Be of service, you should say.”

  He smiled, showing dimples. “I prefer my original wording. But no more!” He lifted a hand to forestall a protest. “If your relations were ringing a peal over you, no wonder your gaze begged me to come to your rescue.”

  “I wasn’t begging!” At his raised eyebrow, she admitted, “Well, perhaps I was…anxious to get away. Lady Montclare was approaching, and once she latches on, she’s as difficult to detach as a burr in a saddle blanket.”

  “And about as pleasant.”

  Jenna stifled a choke of laughter. “Indeed! She’s determined I must begin seeking to remarry to advantage, and none of my protests that I have no interest in such a project will discourage her.”

  “But since she’ll not wish to risk the contamination of my company, you should be safe from her as long as you remain on my arm. Let us pass through the gauntlet of the receiving line. With luck, your relations will be offended enough to leave you alone the rest of the evening.”

  “Accept your escort for that and I shall be scolded all the way home. I’m not sure what would outrage Cousin Lane more—my intention to spend money on what he believes are homeless ‘reprobates’ or to spend time with you.”

  “He probably considers them one and the same. Nay, my lady, in for a pence, in for a pound. Having nobly dashed to your rescue, I demand the pleasure of your company, at least for a time.”

  “Very well,” she capitulated. “I can hope the novelty of my arriving on your arm will distract the countess from remembering I am supposedly allied with her chief rival.”

  “I can be quite distracting when I try,” he murmured.

  Under the guise of patting her hand, his fingers massaged hers in something closer to a caress. The skilled, hypnotic touch set off a tingling, which once again rapidly conveyed itself from her wrist up her arm to radiate through the rest of her body.

  “A little less distraction, please,” she said through gritted teeth, “or I may have to choose Aunt Hetty.”

  As his thumb completed one last stomach-fluttering circuit across her palm, he glanced down at her. The teasing light had vanished, leaving in his gaze an intensity that sent another little shock through her.

  “I suppose I can let you go if I must,” he said in a low voice, and released her hand.

  By the time Jenna recovered her disordered wits, the butler was announcing them to Lady Ellsmere. A tall, elegantly dressed woman a few years Jenna’s senior, the countess inspected her from forehead to slippers, as if sizing up a potential rival, Jenna thought with amusement.

  Unconcerned about this stranger’s opinion of her, Jenna had a hard time suppressing a giggle when the countess, having evidently decided Jenna posed her no threat, looked back up
with a sniff. “Lady Fairchild, a pleasure,” she murmured as Jenna curtsied.

  Then, expression warming, she turned to Nelthorpe. “So the reports I’d heard of your return were true. Why remain away so long? London has been dull without you.”

  “There was the small matter of the war,” he replied dryly. “But if my absence distressed you, I am desolated.”

  Laughing, she tapped him with her fan. “Rogue! I’m sure I must have been lonely a time or two. Perhaps, now that you are here, we can…renew old acquaintances.”

  “I am ever at your ladyship’s service.”

  At that gallantry, which so closely echoed the compliment he’d offered Jenna earlier, an instinctive and totally irrational anger swept through her. Before she could utter a word, however, with a firm tug on her arm, Nelthorpe led her away.

  She couldn’t be—jealous! she thought, appalled by the reaction. Nelthorpe was no more to her than a congenial companion and friend. Whomever he chose to spend his more…intimate moments with was immaterial to her.

  She surfaced from those reflections to note that Nelthorpe still propelled her across the room, one insistent hand at her back. “You needn’t haul me away like a beached carp,” she objected. “I’m not such a rustic that I would have made some inappropriate remark. Or interrupted your planning for a cozy tête-à-tête.”

  Nelthorpe’s eyes brightened. “Jealous, my dear?”

  “Certainly not!”

  He sighed. “I thought not. Nor have you any need to be. The Angelic Anellia’s tastes run to young bucks of youth and fashion. She’d hardly deign to waste an evening with a half-crippled war relic, whatever our history.”

  A half-crippled war relic. Was that how he saw himself? Jenna had never considered that his injuries diminished him—rather the opposite—but such a view was probably a very masculine one. With an unexpected pang of sympathy, she began, “You have a bit of a limp, but—”

  “Please, no more on so dismal a topic,” he stopped her. “Tell me what your solicitor said.”

  Happy to embark upon a less disquieting subject, Jenna summarized her solicitor’s advice. Mr. Samuels had been admiring of her plans and enthusiastic about the investment opportunities inherent in purchasing land when property values were relatively depressed.