The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress

by Victoria Alexander

  “You are a most confusing woman.” He gazed down into her blue eyes, deep and endless, colored by summer skies and filled with life. Summer had always been his favorite season. “Yes, I think spending money on an elephant you have no use for is foolish.” He drew a deep breath. “But you are as kind as you are clever. I cannot fault your motives. Or your heart.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fairchild.” She smiled up at him, her gaze locked with his.

  The sounds of the amphitheatre dimmed, as if the world itself had faded, leaving only the two of them. His heart thudded oddly in his chest. With very little effort he could press his lips to hers. “You have a very big heart, Miss Merryweather.”

  “Lucy.” She raised her face to his and leaned forward slightly. “You should call me Lucy.”

  “That would be most improper,” he murmured, lowering his lips to hers. A voice in the back of his mind screamed that this too was most improper. He ignored it.

  “Are you going to kiss me, Mr. Fairchild?” Her lips were a scant inch from his.

  “Yes, I believe I will.”

  “Are you prepared then?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “Good, Mr. Fairchild . . . Cameron . . . I . . .” Abruptly, she drew away, covered her mouth with her hands and sneezed. A second sneeze immediately followed the first and then one more. “I am so sorry.” She cast him a helpless look.

  “As am I,” he said under his breath, even if it was probably for the best.

  “My nose is itching terribly.” She rubbed her nose and held out her hand. “Do you . . .” He promptly pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. “Thank you.” She sniffed and her eyes watered. “I hardly ever sneeze, even when I’m ill.” She rubbed her arms.

  “Are you all right?” Miss West hurried to join them.

  “I’m fine.” She smiled at Cam and he could see in her eyes that she too regretted what her sneeze had interrupted. “Just a momentary reaction, I think, to all the dust in the air.”

  “It is rather thick in here.” Miss West coughed. “I can barely breathe myself.”

  “I think we need to get both of you out of here at once and into the fresh air.” He took each woman’s arm and propelled them toward the exit. “Tell me, Miss Merryweather.” A change of subject would take her mind off her nose and her eyes. He wasn’t sure, but she was starting to look a bit puffy. “Were you ill at ease? On the elephant?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Fairchild. I was terrified. It was far higher than I had realized and felt distinctly unstable. I had no idea riding on such an enormous beast would feel very much like being on a ship in rolling seas. But the terror was probably why it was so very enjoyable.” She smiled valiantly in spite of the anxious expression crossing her face. “I do think we need to return home now however. And as quickly as possible. I’m afraid I’m reaching the end of my endurance. It’s been quite an adventure and I’m sure Lucinda would have loved it. But . . .” She glanced at Miss West and winced. “Whatever we used to darken my skin”—she bit her bottom lip and her eyes watered—“is starting to itch.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lucy had had a bad time of it.

  While blame could not be placed on Cam—indeed, he would have stopped it had he had the opportunity—he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She was quite miserable, at least in the beginning, and then somewhat mortified. Even the knowledge that he was right about the foolishness of it, and she and Miss West were so very wrong and, better yet, realized it, gave Cam no satisfaction whatsoever.

  For the past week Lucy had been confined to Channing House at the insistence of a very disapproving doctor and her own embarrassment. It was something of a relief, really. If his job was to ensure Lucy’s safety, nowhere was she safer than Channing House, and she certainly wasn’t about to step foot outside its doors. Very few of her great-aunt’s adventures took place in a London house. What could happen to Lucy there?

  Cam had come by every day but had rarely stayed more than half an hour. He could think of no legitimate reason to linger, even though he had wanted to. He looked forward with increasing anticipation to seeing her every day and each day found himself reluctant to leave. Every minute with Lucy was a revelation and a delight.

  She was nothing short of fascinating in her outspokenness and the way she looked at the world and her place in it. Whenever they could dispense with Miss West’s presence, they spoke of all sorts of things. He learned she had four brothers, all engaged in various business pursuits, a bank director for a father, and a mother who sounded entirely too cognizant of proper behavior to have produced Lucy. Although, upon further consideration, perhaps only a very proper mother could have produced such a delightfully carefree daughter. But she never revealed her connection to Jackson Channing and, of course, it was not something he could ask. She was intensely curious as to the details of his alleged profession and he invented one story after another about the perilous adventures of a private investigator, each more adventurous then the last, making certain to write down whatever story he had spun after his visit. Her interest worked to his benefit and he managed to avoid saying anything that might reveal his true identity, although he did confide that he too had older brothers as well as a sister. But with every word he grew more and more uneasy with his deception.

  Worse, it was no longer entirely an act. He wasn’t sure when his ruse had become something akin to a legitimate position, but it had. When had keeping her safe become so important to him? Certainly, he did not want to further arouse her suspicions by being less than the efficient investigator she thought he was. Beyond that, she had placed her trust in him and he did feel honor bound to make certain no harm came to her. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t been overly honorable for quite some time. At least not when it came to women, even if he was no worse than any other man. He cringed at the memory of Miss West’s response to that.

  To make matters more confusing, at some indiscernible point in the last week, perhaps when her skin color had faded to an intriguing shade of lavender, he had come to the inescapable realization that he liked her. Quite a lot really. It was something of a shock. He wasn’t at all used to liking a woman. Oh certainly, he liked women, very much so, but aside from his sister and numerous cousins, he wasn’t at all used to thinking of a woman as someone to be liked as well as desired. It was as odd and unsettling an idea as it was intriguing. Nothing could come of it, after all. She was his, well, his muse, and if she ever discovered the truth she would never forgive him. His own experiences with women, in addition to his observation of his brothers’ romantic fiascos, was evidence of that.

  Lucy’s confinement to the house had proven most beneficial. For one thing, she hadn’t been able to check on the references he had left with her. One was written by Chapman, a second by Simon, who had been curious but had enough secrets of his own that his younger brother had kept through the years to refrain from extensive questioning. For another, Cam had been able to write the first four installments of The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress and half of a fifth, and he was quite pleased with them. They were humorous as well as adventurous. Two had already appeared in this week’s Messenger under the pseudonym I. F. Aldrich. Which did seem wise should Lucy stumble onto the stories. Not that it really mattered. While he had freely borrowed from her quest and list of adventures, he was confident that his heroine bore little resemblance to Lucy.

  Aside from that pesky matter of his conscience, all in all things were going quite nicely. Why, even that blasted dog was beginning to tolerate him. Yes, indeed, things were going well. A comforting sense of well-being filled him at the thought.

  “Good day, sir,” the butler greeted him.

  “Good day, Clement.” Cam handed the butler his overcoat. “How is Miss Merryweather today?”

  “Very good, sir. She is almost her natural color again.” The butler’s expression didn’t so much as twitch although there was a distinct hint of disapproval in his eyes. “And the swelling is nea
rly gone today.”

  Cam winced. Lucy’s color had gone from brown to an odd shade of purple and then finally faded to a distinct red, no doubt as much due to intense scrubbing to remove all traces of the dye as to the concoction itself. Miss West blamed herself even if Lucy didn’t. These things happen, Lucy had said. Obviously, the coloring agent hadn’t agreed with her and no one could have predicted that. Still, Miss West was beside herself with guilt and remorse.

  “She is in the kitchen, sir.” Again, the faint glint of disapproval shone in his eyes.

  “The kitchen?” Cam raised a brow. “Dare I ask why?”

  “It’s not for me to say, sir,” the servant said firmly. “But she directed me to give the kitchen staff a half day off.” Cam suspected there was a great deal more the butler wanted to say. Unease washed through him and his sense of well-being vanished.

  Clement directed a footman to escort Cam through the maze of the house below stairs to the kitchen. The room was larger than he expected, ovens and stoves along one wall together with a massive fireplace, cupboards, tables, and shelves along the others. Copper molds hung on the walls, pots and pans dangled from hooks under shelves weighted with various and sundry pieces of cooking equipment. A long worktable stretched the length of the room. Windows near the ceiling let in shafts of winter sunlight. Cam had been in his family’s kitchens on occasion and this one struck him as surprisingly spacious and probably well equipped. He stepped into the room and pulled up short.

  Lucy sat on a stool at the center table, her elbows on the tabletop, her chin resting on her hands, and gazed up at a man standing on the opposite side wearing a double-breasted chef’s coat. The cook was addressing her in an energetic manner accompanied by a great deal of gesturing. Obviously, he was not British.

  Cam was not usually inclined to note another man’s appearance, but in this case it was hard not to. Greek god was the first thing that came to mind, and given the way Lucy stared at him in a manner that could well be described as smitten, she thought so too. The cook took a spoonful of something from a bowl on the table and held it out to her. She opened her mouth and took the spoonful with a contented sigh. Something that might have been jealousy stabbed Cam and he shoved it aside. If it was his job to protect her, by God, protect her he would. Especially from Greek gods.

  He cleared his throat.

  Lucy glanced toward him and smiled a welcome. “Good day, Mr. Fairchild.”

  “Miss Merryweather.” He strode to her side. “I hear you are much recovered today.”

  “Indeed I am.” She tilted her face from side to side. “I am very nearly my normal color again.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Although she was still a shade pink, which might have been as much from the heat of the kitchen as the remains of her masquerade debacle. He glanced at the cook. “And what are you up to today?”

  “Oh, I am sorry. Where are my manners?” She hopped off the stool. “Mr. Fairchild, allow me to introduce Monsieur François Vadeboncoeur.”

  French? Cam should have known.

  A pained expression crossed the Frenchman’s face. “It is pronounced Vad-eh-bon-kehr, mademoiselle.”

  “Yes, of course, I am sorry.” She grimaced. “François—”

  François?

  “—this is Mr. Fairchild. My . . .” She frowned. “Why, I’m not certain what to call you. I’ve never had to introduce you before. What are you, Mr. Fairchild?”

  “Whatever you wish me to be, Miss Merryweather,” Cam said in his most gallant manner, then met Vadeboncoeur’s gaze directly. “As it is my job to make certain no harm befalls you, I suppose guardian is as good a word as any.”

  “Oh?” Vadeboncoeur raised a brow. “I would not think you so feeble as to need a guardian, mademoiselle.”

  “Mr. Fairchild is here for my protection, François. One might even call him, oh, a bodyguard of sorts.”

  “What a lovely job to have. Guarding the person of the charming Mademoiselle Lucy.”

  Lucy dimpled.

  “Yes, well, it has its moments,” Cam said in a crisp manner befitting a private investigator, then leaned close to Lucy and lowered his voice. “A word, Miss Merryweather, in private if you please.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at the cook, then strode through the door into the corridor, pausing beside the stairs leading up to the ground floor. “Will this do or would you prefer to go upstairs? I doubt if François can hear us here.”

  “I really don’t care if he can hear us or not. I simply thought it best to discuss this matter in private so as not to embarrass you.”

  “How very thoughtful of you.” She beamed up at him. She had donned a serviceable kitchen apron, and while he had never thought of something so inappropriate as being the least bit attractive, she looked quite fetching and nearly irresistible. No doubt the Frenchman had noticed. “Although I can’t imagine anything you have to say that would embarrass me. However, you do now have my complete attention.”

  “Where is Miss West?”

  “Why, that wasn’t the least bit embarrassing, Mr. Fairchild.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “I expected far better from you.”

  Damnation, she could be annoying. His jaw tightened. “Miss West?”

  “I insisted she take a day to herself.” Lucy shook her head. “The poor dear has had every bit as bad a time of it as I have. Worse, really, as she blamed herself.”

  “I see.” He drew his brows together. “And in her absence you thought it wise to flirt with a Frenchman alone in the kitchen?”

  “Flirt?” Her eyes widened. “I was doing no such thing.”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “What do you think I was doing?”

  “I am not going to play guessing games with you every time I arrive here,” he said sharply. “There is absolutely nothing on your great-aunt’s list that requires a French chef or a Frenchman at all—” Realization struck him and he gasped. “Unless you intend to take a lover or have a romantic interlude!”

  She stared at him in stunned silence, then laughed.

  Outrage raised his voice. “This is not funny, Miss Merryweather.”

  “Good Lord, Cameron, of course it is. It may well be one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “While taking a lover or having a romantic interlude are on my great-aunt’s list, I learned my lesson from kissing a stranger.” She shook her head. “We both agreed it was probably not exactly what Lucinda had in mind.”

  “Nonetheless . . .” He drew his brows together. “What do you mean—learned your lesson?”

  “I mean when it comes to things of that nature on the list—items like kissing a stranger or taking a lover or having a romantic interlude, one simply can’t grab the first opportunity that comes along. No, those things take a bit more thought and preparation.”

  “Preparation?” He snorted. “It looked to me as if there was a great deal of preparation already under way when I walked in.”

  “On the contrary, there was no preparation whatsoever. Besides, I would never hire someone to be my lover. Nor would I hide him in a kitchen. That would be extremely tasteless and tawdry and . . .” Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over her chest. “The mere idea that you think I would do such a thing is insulting.”

  She was right. Still, why else would she have a handsome Frenchman in the house?

  “I do think an apology is in order, don’t you?”

  “Not until you explain why that man is here.”

  “Jackson certainly did choose well when he hired you.” She studied him for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t believe I owe you any explanation at all, but I see no harm in telling you that François is here to teach me how to do something I have never done before.”

  “Exactly!”

  “You do have an overly suspicious mind, Mr. Fairchild. No doubt a consequence of your profession.” She glared at him. “One might even think you were jealous.”

  “Jealous?” He sc
offed and ignored the voice in the back of his head that said she might possibly be right. “Don’t be absurd. My job is to keep you from harm and I can tell just by looking at him that Vadeboncoeur is not to be trusted.”

  “Can you indeed?” She leaned to the side and peered around him into the kitchen. “How? He looks perfectly harmless to me.”

  “Believe me, Miss Merryweather, I know that type of man.”

  “He is shockingly handsome,” she murmured.

  “And he knows it.” Cam nodded. “He is not squandering all that Gallic charm on you to no purpose. The man is dangerous, probably to every female he encounters but especially to someone as inexperienced as you.”

  “I’m not a child, you know.” She shrugged. “Nor am I especially worried.”

  “Exactly my point. Why, before you can so much as call for help, he’ll be taking you into his arms and sweeping you off your feet.”

  “Do you really think so?” she said, still considering Vadeboncoeur in the kitchen.

  “I know so. Miss Merryweather!” he said sharply. “Do stop staring at him.”

  “I wasn’t staring.” Her denial might have carried more weight had she not continued to study the Frenchman with a thoughtful look on her face. “I really hadn’t considered the possibility of a romantic interlude with François, but I have always heard that the French take that sort of thing differently than we do. He might well be amenable to the idea. Thank you, Mr. Fairchild, you do make an excellent point.”

  “I had no intention of making a point!”

  “No, I didn’t think you did.” Reluctantly she shifted her gaze from the chef back to Cam. “François is here to teach me to make a cake.”

  “You can call it whatever you want!”

  She snorted back a laugh. “I call it making a cake.” She eyed him with amusement. “You know, one mixes flour and sugar and apparently all sorts of other things and bakes it in the oven.”

  “I know what a cake is,” Cam snapped even as he realized he had jumped to a nearly unforgivable conclusion. Still, the situation had looked bad. “Why?”