The Unflappable Miss Fairchild

by Regina Scott

  Her spirits higher than they had been in days, Anne decided to stay downstairs for tea with her aunts. Her third visitor arrived just as tea was being served. Julian Hilcroft bowed over each of her aunt’s hands in turn, then over hers before calmly taking up his accustomed place at her side. He kept up a pleasant conversation, asking after mutual acquaintances, commiserating on the lack of company in Bath these days. She kept catching his eyes on her, with a decidedly calculating look that once more reminded her of Agatha, but he was always quick to look away. Somehow, she didn’t think his purpose in coming to Bath was anything like that of Mortimer or Bert.

  Agatha was the first to rise, leaning on her cane. “Doubtless you and Anne have things to discuss without the company of two old women. I hope to see you again while you are in Bath, Mr. Hilcroft.”

  Julian rose and bowed her out. Millicent, looking decidedly awkward, followed, leaving the door open. Anne could see Bess in the corridor, ostensibly dusting. Julian returned to his seat beside her on the sofa.

  “You are looking quite well, if I may say so, Miss Fairchild, considering recent events.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment of the awkward compliment.

  “It pains me to say this,” he continued, “but I did warn you about Prestwick. I hope you realize now what a blackguard he is.”

  Anne stiffened. “On the contrary. Mr. Prestwick has never been anything but a gentleman with me. The doctor at Hazeltine Hall told me he most likely saved my life that night in the lodge.”

  “How very noble,” Julian sneered, “since he had caused your injury in the first place.”

  “It was an accident,” Anne reminded him, noting how distasteful he looked with his thin lips curled in contempt.

  “There are no accidents where Prestwick is concerned.” He rose to pace the small sitting room. “It amazes me to hear you defend him, Miss Fairchild. Your kindness of spirit always impressed me, but I think you take it too far in this instance. Surely you realize he has ruined you.”

  “My true friends still stand by me,” Anne replied with a sense of pride. “I never much cared what others thought.”

  “No, you never did.” He paused to eye her with that calculating look again, and Anne fought not to squirm under the gaze. He sat suddenly beside her and took her hand. “Anne, I want you to know that I’ll stand by you as well. While an offer of marriage is now out of the question, I would not see your loveliness wasted. I offer you my protection.”

  Anne stared at him, then yanked her hands from his grasp. “I cannot have heard you correctly,” she managed.

  “I know it is unexpected, but hear me out. Your aunts are not well to pass. I know Lady Crawford hoped to fight her way out of Dun territory on the money from your marriage. I can see them well settled, and you as well. You will want for nothing.”

  “Except my honor and self respect.” She rose shakily to her feet, too angry to think clearly. “Get out, Mr. Hilcroft. I’m sure you have better things to do than to insult ruined women with offers of protection. Do not bother to call again.” Despite herself, she heard her voice growing shriller. “For if you do, I will have Henry throw you out!”

  He rose, shaking his head. “This pride ill becomes you, Anne. It was a far more generous offer than you’ll get elsewhere.”

  “Henry!” she screamed, and Bess galloped into the room with Henry close at her heels. Julian stiffened, once more his polished self, made her the smallest of bows, and strode past the glowering Henry.

  “I’ll just make sure he finds his way out,” Henry said, excusing himself. Bess took Anne’s arm and helped her back onto the sofa. Anne was so angry, she hardly felt the spasm in her knee.

  “What is all this?” Agatha demanded in the doorway, Millicent peeking over her shoulder.

  “The gentleman got fresh with our Miss Anne!” Bess piped up, smoothing out the folds in Anne’s dress. Anne met her aunt’s frown with one of her own.

  “You will be glad to hear, Aunt, that Mr. Hilcroft finally emboldened himself to make an offer. An offer of a carte blanche, that is.”

  “Oh, Anne!” Millicent cried, rushing forward to enfold her in a fierce hug. Pulling back, she sniffed away tears. “I never thought he was good enough for you.”

  “Odious makebait,” Agatha grumbled in agreement, moving into the room. “To think of the tea I wasted on that man.”

  “Oh, Agatha, really,” Millicent scolded, “thinking of tea at a time like this.” She turned her attention back to Anne who had only heard half of the conversation in her cloud of fury. “It will all be all right, dearest. You mustn’t refine on it.”

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in weeks,” Agatha said. “I have tried not to badger you, Anne, but this business with Hilcroft tells me I have been wrong to allow you to hide away. We must face down these ridiculous rumors.”

  “So soon?” Millicent fretted, biting her lip.

  “No, she’s right,” Anne said, eyes narrowing in thought. “By staying home, I may have been adding fuel to the fire. I think perhaps it is time Anne Fairchild showed her true colors.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Why was it everything took so much longer than necessary? Chas scribbled his name on the last piece of paper and thrust it at his brother’s man of affairs. Mr. Durrance took the paper gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and waved it in the air in front of his long, pointed nose. Then he let it glide to the top of the pile on the otherwise empty desk.

  “That is the last, I believe, my lord,” he said with a sniff.

  Chas sagged against the back of the leather-padded armchair. “Then I may go?” Watching the man wrinkle his nose, he felt suddenly like a child addressing the headmaster. This would never do. He straightened, favored Durrance with the emerald glare, and watched as whatever the man was going to say scuttled back down his throat.

  The accountant swallowed. “Yes, of course, my lord. We can discuss the countess another time.”

  Chas froze in the act of rising. “What about the countess?”

  Durrance looked down his nose at the pile of papers. “The fourth Earl, your father, apparently left no provision for her in his will. Your brother has been taking care of all her needs out of charity. He assumed you would continue.” He glanced up, his nose pointing directly at Chas. “I trust you will want to honor his wishes.”

  And to think how often he had accused Malcolm of treating her shabbily. Here was another instance where he owed his brother much more than he had thought. “Of course. In fact, if the countess so wishes, I think it’s time she was reinstalled in the great house.”

  Durrance made a note of that. “Very good, my lord. And will you be seeing to the hiring of a new companion?”

  Chas grinned, succeeding in rising at last. “I think I have the very person. Now, please excuse me, for I have a pressing engagement in Bath.”

  Escaping Durrance was one of the least odious tasks he had had to perform in the last week, he reflected as he took the massive stairs from the great hall two at a time. Seeing Malcolm buried, reassuring the tenants and staff that he would try to fill his brother’s shoes, and comforting his distraught mother had filled some of the most difficult days of his life. Then he had ridden hell bent for leather to London to obtain a special license only to have to return quickly for the official reading of the will. Now that the last paper was signed, he had only to bid his mother farewell before he could return to Anne.

  Anne.

  The vision of her smile, her serene confidence in him, and the light in her deep-grey eyes had kept him going these last few days. Whenever his temper threatened to crack or his patience to wear thin he would remember how she could sail through any storm and make him feel as if it were only a warm spring breeze. With her as his inspiration, he had been able to endure. And by this time tomorrow, she would be in his arms.

  By dinner, all was ready for his trip. His mother must have caught his mood for she smiled for the first time in days.
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  “Will you bring her home with you?” she asked when he reminded her of his impending trip to Bath.

  “I hope so, Mother,” he replied, watching her. “You’ll be all right without me?”

  She focused her attention on her plate, stirring the various dishes Cook had sent up to tempt her into one big jumbled pile. “I will be very lonely.” Then she looked up, brightening. “But you’ll be bringing me home a daughter. It will be very pleasant having another woman to talk with. Your Anne is very good to me.”

  Chas grinned at her. “My Anne is very good to everyone.” Just calling her his Anne made him feel ridiculously happy. Morning seemed too far away.

  Chas didn’t stop to eat the next day, though his stomach grumbled and he knew he was endangering his horses. He had realized that morning that today exactly marked the week he had promised Anne. He was going to make Bath by nightfall if it killed him.

  He had also realized this morning that once again he had been thinking only of himself. If his week had been difficult, what must hers have been like? What had she been enduring because of him? Lady Crawford could not have been understanding. Anne had feared her reaction over a bloodstained sofa; how much worse would she react when something as serious as Anne’s honor was at stake?

  Beyond Lady Crawford, the entire Society of Bath, he had no doubt, would be happy to let her know how far she had fallen. He cringed thinking of the knowing looks, veiled insults, and rude remarks she would have had to endure. More than ever, he understood why Malcolm had kept silent all those years to keep Chas’ mother from having to go through such humiliation. He knew Anne was infinitely more confident than his mother, but even his unflappable Miss Fairchild must be having a difficult time.

  He made good progress until just beyond Wells, where one of his brother’s (better get used to saying his own) horses faltered, and he had to pull up at a farmstead. The farmer was sympathetic but pointed out that the horses could go no farther. And he had only oxen to offer in their place. He could, however, return Chas to Wells, where he might be able to hire horses. Chas accepted, chafing at the delay.

  In Wells, it took him an hour to find and purchase a horse, an untrained brute of a stallion. Chas was at least convinced that the animal could make it to Bath without tiring. He set off once more just before dark. The stallion threw him five miles outside Bath. The brute must have realized Chas’ temper was set to explode, for he promptly bolted and disappeared into a copse of trees, taking Chas’ satchel of clothing along with him. Chas didn’t waste time trying to locate him. He started walking.

  He was nearly to Bath before he found a passing carriage willing to take him up. In all his travel dirt, his greatcoat torn from his throw, his hair wild, he couldn’t blame them for insisting he ride with the driver. Luckily, the driver knew of the Petersborough’s house in Bath and let him off in front just as the clock somewhere struck nine. He wearily climbed the stairs to the front door. It was only after he had knocked that he realized he could hear voices and the sound of music from within.

  He wasn’t familiar with the tall, imposing butler who opened the door. The man took one look at him, heaved a martyred sigh, thrust a tuppence into his hand, and muttered, “Next time, fellow, try the back entrance,” before closing the door in his face. Chas’ temper snapped, and he hammered on the door. Was this Fate’s punishment for his wild life? By God, he was going to see Anne Fairchild tonight, and Leslie was the one person he knew in Bath that could tell him where she was.

  The door swung open again, but this time the butler was flanked by two equally imposing footmen in full livery. All three were glaring.

  “Move along now, fellow,” the butler ordered.

  “I’m not a beggar, damn you,” Chas snapped. “I’m the Earl of Prestwick, and I demand to see Lord Leslie Petersborough at once.”

  One of the footman chortled only to snap his mouth shut as the butler frowned at him.

  “I don’t care if you’re the Prince Regent himself,” the man said with a sniff. “Lord Petersborough is entertaining, and I won’t have his party ruined. Rap on this door again, and we’ll do the same to your skull. Now, move along.”

  The door banged shut again.

  Chas frowned, then his brow cleared. Earl of Prestwick or not, he was still the infamous Chas Prestwick. His confidence may have been shaken, but he’d still thought his way out of more difficult scrapes than this. The trick was to get to Leslie before Leslie’s servants got to Chas.

  A number of schemes flitted through his mind before he hit on one that pleased him. If he remembered Leslie’s Bath house correctly, around the corner to his left was a balustraded porch overlooking a small garden. French doors led from the porch to a large drawing room that Leslie’s family frequently used for entertaining. If he could reach those doors, he ought to be able to get Leslie to notice him.

  He made a show of shambling away from the front door in case the butler or footmen were watching from one of the windows. Once beyond the lamplight, he crouched low and slunk along the wrought-iron fence that edged the small front garden. Making sure no one else was in sight, he vaulted the fence and dodged around the trees and shrubs to the path that led to the porch steps.

  The sound of music was definitely louder here--hands were clapping and feet stamping to a country reel. Quite a party for the Petersboroughs when the Season hadn’t even begun. He darted across the path to the edge of the steps. It took but a moment to mount the stairs and reach the French doors. Keeping well out of the light, he surveyed the room, on the look out for Leslie.

  The party was in full swing. He counted over a dozen couples jigging about to the strains of a lively country air. Another dozen or so individuals were strolling about the room, pausing to converse with others sitting along the satin-draped walls. He spotted Leslie right away, in the back of the largest group, a herd of young bucks. He had no doubt he’d find Bath’s reining belle in the center.

  He grinned at himself. It must be a mark of his affection for Anne that he hadn’t the slightest interest of knowing who she was. He was puzzling over how to get Leslie to the doors without alerting the other guests (another mark of his new-found respectability--he could remember when strolling in in his condition would never have daunted him), when he realized that the dance was ending. The knot of young gentlemen instantly doubled in size as they importuned the Incomparable for her hand. He was pleased to see that Leslie had obviously won, for the gentlemen were bowing aside to let him pass with the lady on his arm. It would keep Chas on the porch a while longer, but he found he couldn’t care. Perhaps he and Anne could find Leslie a lady of his own after they were wed.

  The lady came into view, and he caught his breath as he recognized Anne.

  For a moment, he thought his eyes were deceiving him. He had been dreaming of her for so long that his brain had filled in her presence wherever he looked. Then Leslie took her into his arms for a waltz, and she smiled up at him with that glow she reserved for her friends, and he knew what he was seeing was real.

  Other couples joined them on the floor, and he was hard-pressed to keep them in sight. A wave of fire swept over him, and he wanted only to get his hands around Leslie’s neck. How dare he hold her so close--his black evening coat was nearly touching that smoky blue gown of hers. And what could Lady Crawford have been thinking to allow her to wear something that emphasized her slender curves in such a way? And how could she smile so adoringly, so disgustingly adoringly, at Leslie when his ham-fisted driving had almost killed her? And when had she finally taken down that ridiculous bun to let her hair fall in that enticing curl with the tendrils framing her face?

  They swept past the French doors, and Anne let out a delighted laugh. His hands clenched into fists. Leslie grinned at her and had the audacity to bend his head to whisper something in her ear.

  With a yell, Chas kicked open the French doors and leapt into the room. Women screamed. Young ladies fainted. Gentlemen turned several shades of white. The musicia
ns screeched to a halt. Dancers tripped over each other in their attempts to flee the wild man in the doorway. Leslie gasped in recognition.

  Anne blinked her beautiful grey eyes at him and offered him a serene smile. “Good evening, Mr. Prestwick. How nice of you to join us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Anne found she was actually enjoying the party at the Petersborough’s. Although the Marquis of Hastings stayed in the card room most of the time, he was his usual jovial self, and she could always count on Leslie to be entertaining. The gentlemen she had met the last two days since she had been out had begged for invitations, Leslie confided. She would only be surrounded by friends.

  And she had needed friends tonight. The week was up, and Chas had not returned. Part of her was sure he would still arrive; another part worried that something dreadful had happened. And a tiny niggling voice kept whispering that she would never see him again. Chas would not have been the first gentleman to flee the country to avoid a forced marriage.

  If she listened to that voice, she would go mad, so she concentrated instead on trying to enjoy the party.

  It would have been far easier if she could have danced, but she feared her knee would never survive the strain of leaping about to the quick beat of a country air. When she explained as much to Leslie, he made sure the musicians played a slow waltz. It was a poor choice, for it reminded her all the more of Chas, but she put on a determined smile and let him lead her forth.

  “I’m usually rather poor at this,” Leslie confessed, grinning at her. “My feet have been known to step on a few toes.”

  She laughed. “Between your feet and my knee, we make quite a pair.”

  He leaned closer. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re a great gun, Miss Fairchild. Chas would be proud if he could see you now.”

  With a crash, the French doors flew open, and Leslie stumbled to a halt. Women screamed. Young ladies fainted. Gentlemen turned several shades of white. The musicians screeched to a halt. Dancers tripped over each other in their attempts to flee the wild man in the doorway. Leslie gasped in recognition, and Anne knew him instantly. His chest heaved under a filthy, torn greatcoat. His hair was wild, his eyes wilder. The theatrical entrance was so very like him.