by Cardon, Sara
If Lord Beauchamp worried about her breathing, he need not have bothered. Marjorie never had a chance to hit the shuttlecock. Mr. Easton dominated their end, leaving her nothing to do but grow tired. And watch the interplay between their opponents.
Miss Winters laughed as she smacked the shuttlecock. Reginald teased Miss Winters. The two played against each other as much as they played against Mr. Easton. Miss Winters slammed into Reginald, and he caught her to keep her from losing her balance. They grinned into each other’s eyes like a pair of dolts.
Marjorie dropped the battledore. It landed on the soft grass beside the shuttlecock’s dislodged feathers without a sound. With a parting glance at Lord Beauchamp, she left just as quietly, tired of the game.
10
The New Guest
After dinner, Marjorie found a quiet spot in the drawing room and opened her sketchbook. Miss Anne sat in the chair across from her, moving her hands as she chatted about her day outdoors. Marjorie stifled a yawn, more tired than she’d expected from the day’s activities.
When Reginald and his friend, Mr. Thomas Webb, strolled into the room together, both women turned their heads to watch.
Reginald clapped Mr. Webb on the shoulder. “You, my dear friend, are excessively amusing.”
Mr. Webb’s eyes twinkled with humor, and a dimple appeared when he smiled. “I know better than to put you to work when you visit me. You never ventured near dusty tomes during our Cambridge days."
“I still cannot see you as a fellow of King’s College. I prefer to imagine you at your leisure,” Reginald said.
“You have never been anything but at your leisure.” Mr. Webb shook his head good-naturedly. His dark blond hair put her in mind of an angel, while his pensive brows lent an air of sophistication. His gaze swept the room—and captured hers. Marjorie had the presence of mind to close her mouth and glance away.
“They are two of the three most handsome men I have ever seen,” Miss Anne said.
Marjorie started to agree, but stopped, studying the woman across from her. “Who is the third?”
Miss Anne gave an airy laugh, but did not get a chance to reply, because Reginald settled into the chair beside Marjorie.
He rested his elbows on his knees and glanced up at her, his hair falling into his eyes. “Miss Fairchild, I need to apologize for my lack of attention to you this afternoon. You have been on my mind, as you ever are, and I pray you will forgive me.” His eyes tensed, as if waiting to be disappointed.
Her heart turned over. He had forgotten her, and she was disappointed. But she could forgive him. “Of course.”
Reginald beamed. “You are too generous.”
Mr. Webb pivoted a chair and settled on the other side of her. Warmth encompassed her, whether from the crackling fire, or the attention of the captivating gentlemen, she did not know.
“Reginald, you are blocking the light.” Mr. Webb leaned back, his arms behind his head, to look over her shoulder at what she sketched.
She had forgotten the drawing and moved to hide it, but Reginald plucked the book from her hands. She gasped. Alarm rushed through her. All her thoughts were strewn with charcoal and lead across those pages.
“What have we here?”
Her throat tightened. “Give me—give me my book.”
“Come now, you are too modest.”
She shook her head. I must retain my composure. With effort, she remained seated and extended her hand, palm up. “Please. I insist.”
Reginald traded it to his other hand—and all the secrets stuffed into the binding appeared ready to shake loose. Desperate, she stood and reached for it.
A grin split his face when she pressed close. “Ho, ho. Now I must keep the treasure.”
She rocked back, rigid with fear. What would he think if he saw her sketches—all of them?
Mr. Webb stood, fluidly removing the book out of Reginald’s grasp. “Your book, Miss Fairchild.” He bowed.
Accepting the book, she melted back into her chair, murmuring a faint, “Thank you.” She clasped it to her middle with shaky hands. Thank heavens for Mr. Webb.
“You take the fun out of everything, Webb,” Reginald grumbled.
“And you said I was ‘excessively amusing.’ ”
Reginald scooted close again, and Marjorie tried not to tense. “Miss Fairchild, I hope you trust me enough to show me your drawings. Perhaps you could grant me a glimpse of what is in your heart when you are ready.”
Mr. Webb shook his head, a half smile on his face. “How about a game of cards, Reginald.”
“Yes. Would you care to join us, Miss Fairchild?” Reginald stood.
Her throat was still tight. “No, thank you.” The men bowed and left.
Marjorie needed to regain her composure and tuck her drawings away.
“There now.” Miss Anne took the vacated seat beside her and patted her hand. Marjorie’s heart filled with gratitude for Miss Anne’s friendship. “Those gentlemen were simply playing a game for your attention. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ isn’t that so?”
She nodded her head, but her heart was not convinced.
11
Midnight Wagers
Before retiring for the evening, Miles went with an anxious Mr. Tauney Easton in search of the missing diamond pin from Mr. Easton’s cravat.
“I believe the billiards room is the most likely place.” Agitated, Mr. Easton added, “The pin is my favorite.”
Lanterns were lit, and smoke settled like fog, making Miles’ eyes water. Reginald and Webb were deep in their cups, like the night before, and took no notice as Miles and Mr. Easton searched the room with the help of a servant.
“A beauty with no family connections,” Reginald slurred as he bridged a shot on the billiards table.
Miles tried not to eavesdrop as he and Mr. Easton held lanterns close to the floor and searched for the small pin.
“Is she a fortune hunter?” Webb asked.
Reginald hit the cue ball with a crack. “I think not. She’s as innocent as they come. True love and all that.”
“She is a tempting armful.” Webb chuckled low.
Miles worked his jaw, unhappy that Webb spoke of a woman in such a base manner.
Reginald placed his hands on his hips. His cue stick fell to the floor. “Away with it. You cannot swoop in and take the prettiest girl.”
“The best two out of three will win the sole privilege of her company tomorrow.”
“No.”
Webb twisted chalk with his thin fingers. “Come now. I am willing to relegate on the banknote you owe me for £200.”
Miles’ attention was arrested, his muscles tense at the discovery his brother owed his friend money. And Webb was gambling and adding a woman to the stakes. Unbelievable. Miles knew Webb’s family well, and this behavior went against their principles.
Reginald retrieved his cue stick from the floor, unsteady on his feet.
Mr. Easton stepped beside Miles. “I have found it. Look at this beauty.” He held the cravat pin up for his inspection. “Nothing does the job quite like your favorite cravat pin. Thank you for your help.”
“I was glad to be of service,” Miles said, distracted.
Mr. Easton shook his hand with extra exuberance and hurried out the door.
“It is no wonder you have never been blackballed at Brooks’, Watier's, or Boodle's. You are welcomed everywhere,” Webb continued.
Miles winced. Reginald had joined Watier's? He determined to write his solicitor and discover what he could. Shaken, he blew out a breath and headed for the door.
“That is another thing I appreciate about you, Reginald. Not only are you are a pleasant fellow, but you gamble whether the stakes are high or low. Like this servant’s daughter.” Webb chuckled.
Miles froze. His heart hammered and his vision blurred. Marjorie. They are discussing Marjorie. How dare Reginald risk an innocent woman’s reputation by making known her lack of fortune and connections?
&
nbsp; He gripped the doorframe, fighting the urge to snap his brother’s cue stick. Or drag him out by his neck.
Webb bent at the hips, aiming like a sniper with a rifle. “I will best you, Reginald.” He struck, and the ball crashed into the others, sending them careening.
Despite his respectable persona and his position at King’s College, Miles had misjudged Webb. He treated his brother’s gambling like a joke.
Miles made it into the hallway before another sinking realization hit him. Webb planned to single Marjorie out. For what purpose? Miles clenched his jaw, his mood darkening. He no longer trusted Webb. Miles could not let Marjorie out of his sight tomorrow.
12
Stained Glass
The stained glass window caught the light like a prism, impossible to capture in her sketchbook. Aunt Harriet had agreed to come early to church so Marjorie could sketch the architecture. When Reginald and Mr. Webb came along as well, she had been pleased. But the two jostled for her attention and interrupted at every turn.
“This is beautifully built.” Reginald gestured in a random circle at the elevated ceiling. “Though not as beautifully as you.”
She lowered her pencil and squinted at him, her eyes not adjusted from the light just yet. Marjorie waited for the rush Reginald’s attention usually brought, but she sensed no change.
Mr. Webb tsked. “Is that your idea of a compliment, Reginald? You are losing your touch.”
Marjorie again drew her pencil across the page, a frown etching itself into her countenance. There was something different about Reginald. His eyelids were red-rimmed, but it was more than that. She could not put her finger on it, but Reginald was acting different. Mr. Webb seemed to bring out a side to him she did not like.
Parishioners began taking seats, and her time for drawing the architecture was running out.
A sleeve brushed her arm, making a mess of lead on her page. Her irritation mounted and she gripped the pencil too tightly.
“Have you sketched this fine block of stone?” Mr. Webb pointed to Reginald. “He could be a veritable David under that rough exterior.” His eyes crinkled with humor.
She managed a vague smile and walked away, hoping Aunt Harriet would serve as a buffer.
“Please, please switch seats with me so I am on the aisle. I cannot endure Mr. Webb’s influence on Reginald,” Marjorie explained.
Aunt Harriet did not move fast enough for her request; Mr. Webb took the seat to her left. Why did Reginald not insist he sit next to her?
“Miss Fairchild, have I told you how much Reginald and I enjoy foxhunting?” Webb asked.
Reginald laughed hard, though what he found so amusing, Marjorie did not know nor care to find out.
She sighed and settled in for another story. As the chapel reached capacity, Mr. Webb’s voice did not hush. She winced at all the stares aimed their direction. She tried whispering so that he might match her tone, but he did not.
“I am friends with Lord Byron,” Mr. Webb said. “You have heard of him, have you not?”
A bitter taste, like sulfur, filled her mouth and nose. She turned away. Yes, she had heard of Lord Byron, and she knew of his indecent reputation.
Before the priest began his sermon, her head throbbed with a headache. At least with the service beginning, their frivolous chatter would cease.
“Did you know my father is a clergyman? How they drone on.” Mr. Webb edged closer, his trousers pressing against her skirt. Her eyes widened at his bold move.
“The tour of Wentworth Castle this afternoon should be very diverting. May I escort you?” His breath tickled the hair on her neck. He smelled of bergamot—like citrus gone bad—and faintly of alcohol.
She coughed and edged away from him. Dust motes shimmered in the sunlight, and an idea formed in her mind. It would be daring, but she could not allow him to act so familiar.
Marjorie squeezed her eyes shut and tilted her head. “Forgive me, I must go. I am unwell.” Before she lost courage, she surged to her feet, past her aunt, and stole down the aisle.
She reached the outer door, pushed it open with a whoosh, and stepped outside, reveling in the freedom of the sky, sheep grazing in the fields, and blessed open space.
Aunt Harriet’s footfalls sounded behind her. “Are you alright, dearest?”
Marjorie closed her eyes and breathed in a lungful of air—damp grass and sunshine. She exhaled with relief. “Yes.”
The door opened once more, and Lord Beauchamp came out, only just catching himself before he plowed into Aunt Harriet.
“Oh, forgive me. I came to see if you needed assistance.” He looked Marjorie over from head to toe then examined her face.
Her cheeks heated. “It was too crowded for me.” Why was Lord Beauchamp coming to check on her? And why did her heart lighten on seeing him?
He patted his black tailcoat as if searching for something. “I took the liberty of consulting Dr. Hill about the treatments he prescribed. The apothecary agreed with the use of devil’s snare, but with stipulations. Potency can vary depending on the plant, which part of the plant is used, even the season it’s gathered. I wrote it all down.” He spoke quickly.
Marjorie’s mouth opened in astonishment. Lord Beauchamp had inquired on her behalf? She did not know whether to be affronted or touched by his concern. She shook her head, entirely undecided about the matter. “I just needed some fresh air.”
“Are you certain you are well?”
She pressed a hand over her heart, touched by his concern. “Yes.”
Some of the tension in his jaw seemed to dissipate. His shoulders relaxed.
How different Lord Beauchamp was from the man she had believed him to be. She had thought him aloof, controlling, and cold-hearted. But she was beginning to see him as private, decisive, and generous.
“Thank you,” she said, surprising herself by her sincerity.
A light touched his eyes she had not noticed before.
What was it about him that made her sigh in relief now he was near? But she could not switch affections so quickly. Just because Reginald had disappointed her, she could not simply turn her regard to his brother.
She took a step back and fingered her skirt. Lord Beauchamp was not the kind of man suitable for a woman of her standing. He was one of the most influential people in Hampshire. She could admire him, but she could not allow herself to feel more than appreciation.
He interrupted her thoughts. “May I see you both home? I could escort you.”
Marjorie opened her mouth to reply, but stopped, remembering how Mr. Webb meant to escort her during the tour of Wentworth Castle. She had told him no, hadn’t she? She grimaced.
“Let me at least assist you to a carriage,” Lord Beauchamp said in a hushed voice, not meeting her eye.
How odd. She recovered her manners, glancing at Aunt Harriet for confirmation. “We would be pleased to have you escort us back to Somerstone Manor.”
He nodded, all business again. When he took her hand to assist her into the carriage, Marjorie did not understand why her heart stretched and pulled. She only knew it had something to do with her discovery of a gentle and caring side to the formidable Lord Beauchamp.
The horses stomped and tossed their manes as the driver took the reins. She blinked and gripped the seat. Lord Beauchamp was also her father’s employer. She could never endanger her father’s position by letting herself imagine a tendre with the heir to the Earl of Strathford. She must keep her newfound admiration for Lord Beauchamp to herself.
13
Castles
Miles squinted at the late afternoon sun and cursed himself for not having his horse saddled before the group departed for the tour of Wentworth Castle. Webb had placed a hand on Marjorie’s back and deftly guided her to the first carriage. It had a head start. The next conveyance was occupied by Mrs. Jones, Miss Standish, and a woman who glowered at Reginald, which seemed to amuse Lord Anthony. There was no room for Miles.
Miles followed in the thir
d carriage, which plodded along at a sedate pace. As soon as it stopped in the Castle’s circular drive, he wrestled the door open.
He searched for Marjorie but did not see her. Mrs. Jones was walking the grounds at a brisk clip, and, knowing she followed her niece, he trailed after her. Mrs. Jones strode through the gardens and doubled back. Her face was drawn. Miles’ heart jumped in alarm.
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
“Lord Beauchamp, I cannot find Marjorie.” She was breathing hard, a hand to her heart.
He blanched in fear and glanced around. “She cannot be far. Where did you see her last?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “Only a glimpse when I arrived. I have tromped through the grounds, searching without success.” She gestured to the paths branching out past trees and shrubs.
Miles groaned. He had kept Mrs. Jones in his sights, sure she was following Marjorie. “Who is with her?” He was afraid he already knew.
“I fear Mr. Webb is the only one,” Mrs. Jones whispered, driving dread into his heart. “They set off with the Eastons, but I have seen everyone except Marjorie and Mr. Webb.”
His stomach sank. He tried to swallow, but the anxiety stuck in his throat. The consequences of an unmarried man and woman being found alone were dire. Especially for Marjorie. She could be ruined. She had no wealth, no family connections—in short, nothing to protect her.
Mrs. Jones placed a trembling hand to her chin. “I feel terribly guilty. I am to watch over her. What will her father say?”
“They could not have gone far.” He glared at the trees, wishing he could hack them all down. He only had a half-formed plan, but there was no time. “I will go right. You take the left. Try to appear calm. Do not ask for help. We must keep this to ourselves.”
