Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  Well, it hardly mattered. Sophy would marry some peer before the Season was out and that was that. He would probably never see her again. It was ridiculous, pathetic even, that he had shared more of his hoarded memories with her than with anyone else.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Guilt

  When one was Miss Rushford, one could lay abed as late as one pleased. Sophy didn’t. Sleep eluded her, bothered as she was by a guilty conscience.

  Unimpressed by the daughter of a viscount, Tom Bagshot seemed to like her person well enough. He had a kind of unflappable charm; whether he was setting her arm or being dragooned into the navy, he faced the world with a smile. A handsome one, if truth be told. He would attract attention, she knew, despite his plain clothes and straightforward manners. And he would lose any respect he had for her, if he discovered the truth.

  Kicking aside the twisted sheets, Sophy slid out of her giant bed. She made use of the pot and splashed water on her hands and face. The cold water stung, but it was better than waiting until Sarah carried up a can of hot water.

  All night she had lain awake, trying to think how to hide the truth. Jasper would likely arrive today and managing him would be a delicate business. She had to think, and to do that, she needed to move. She was tired of the painted shepherdess on the wall smirking knowingly at her, making her twitchy and cross. Tentatively circling her arm, she decided she would leave off the sling. Though her muscles protested with every inch, the joint worked fine and having just one arm was getting irritating. She tidied her hair and scrubbed her teeth with the toothbrush and soda her hosts had provided, then left to prowl around the house.

  Eye-popping, that was the word for it. She had never seen its like. There was an Egyptian salon in black and gold and a ballroom of mirrors and blue silk swathed under dust covers. The long gallery was covered in pictures, all wedged together, with the ceiling a masterwork of plaster and paint. Craning her neck, Sophy counted fourteen cherubs in a single section.

  “Up all ready?”

  Sophy spun around. It was Tom, his approaching footsteps muffled by the carpet running the length of the gallery. He was dressed the same as yesterday, in a blue coat and brown trousers, carrying a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “If you need anything, you must not hesitate to ring,” he said. “Were you searching for anything particular?”

  “No.” Sophy smiled. “I couldn’t rest and decided to look around.”

  “You do not take breakfast in your room today?” he asked.

  “I’ve no appetite this morning. Perhaps later.” If her stomach stopped churning, that was.

  “I’m afraid my mother has not risen yet,” he said. He was edging around her in a wide circle, not quite meeting her eyes, hiding behind his solicitous manners again.

  “I am amiably occupied. You have so many remarkable pictures.”

  Politeness demanded that he offer to show her around. Sophy waited expectantly.

  “May I show you the house?” he asked. “Or would you like to see the gardens?” His words were correct, but he thinned his lips as he spoke and glanced impatiently at the papers under his arm. Of course he must make things difficult. He’d liked her last evening. Why did she have to begin all over again today?

  “I should like so much to see both,” she said. He blenched and she lowered her eyelashes, hiding her satisfaction at scoring a point. Tom acquiesced with a bow and disappeared to dispose of his papers. Returning, he held out his arm. Letting the hand of her injured arm rest on his forearm, she allowed him to lead her to the next sizable painting, a magnificent portrait. The subject was male, with the mustaches, lace, and curling hair of the seventeenth century.

  “This is a picture of—the Marquis of Blaise—by Anthony van Dyck,” he said, squinting at the label.

  Yesterday he had confided in her. It annoyed her that today he plainly preferred his own company. “It is a handsome portrait,” she said, and they walked on. Miss Frensham was a great admirer of Mr. van Dyck and Sophy had seen etchings of his famous works, besides the portrait he had made of two long-ago Rushford brothers hanging in the long gallery at Cordell Hall.

  If she had wanted to discomfit Tom, here was revenge indeed, for he stumbled over the subjects of the pictures and could only give the artist if the name was tacked to the frame. Sophy doubted he had ever looked at them before. His color rose as his ignorance grew more apparent, until he was as red as a sunburned farm hand. After traversing half the gallery, Sophy took pity.

  “I think you don’t really care for pictures,” she said and smiled.

  He relaxed. “Not a great deal, no.”

  “Surely you have one favorite?” she said, trying to make it easy for him.

  “I don’t think so.” He considered. “I’m afraid I don’t really see them. Which is yours?”

  Letting go of his arm, she walked a few steps and sat down on a low settee. “Maybe this one,” she said. “The view of Jerusalem.”

  He joined her on the settee, leaning back and staring at the painting in question. “It’s nice enough, I suppose, but I don’t know why you should prefer it to the others.”

  It was a smaller canvas, with softer colors. Turning her head, she met his eyes and smiled. She needed him in a more malleable state before Jasper came. “For years my governess has been trying to get me to sound less rustic when I look at pictures,” she said. “It’s no good. I like this one because—see that goatherd in the corner? He looks just like a little boy I once knew. His name was Fred.”

  Tom laughed and Sophy let her eyes fall to her hands, lightly clasped in her lap.

  “So you see, I’ll be a dismal failure in London. I can’t even be trusted to admire paintings the right way.” Her words were teasing, meant to absolve him of his failure and poke fun at the foibles of society. But when she raised her eyes, his warm look smote her, making her hesitate. Earning his friendship only to hoax him . . . she was heartless. He must never be allowed to know.

  The thought sent a chill down her arms, and she resolved that in London she would not fail. She would marry before the Season ended, and never see Tom or Suffolk again.

  “Well I’ve never seen Jerusalem, but I’ve seen goats,” Tom said. “And they looked just like these.”

  “We agree then,” Sophy said. “The painting is very well executed.” She realized they were sitting very close, the skirt of her habit touching his trousered leg. And again, with just a few words, a spell of confidence and intimacy was cast around them, just like last evening. Well, she had wanted that, hadn’t she? Best get it over with.

  “I am indebted to you so much already . . .” she began.

  “What do you need? Ask.” he said.

  Yesterday Mrs. Bagshot had assured her she would keep Sophy’s accident and her unplanned visit secret. Tom had made no such promise. She needed to extract one, but guilt over her duplicity made her look away. “I know my foolishness can’t be kept from Jasper, and of course I will tell my parents the truth. And the servants at Cordell know what has happened.” Too many. How would she ever keep this hidden?

  “It will be a great embarrassment to me, if my mishap becomes known. . . if the neighbors knew and spoke of it. I am trying not to disgrace Lady Fairchild too badly this Season, and—”

  Tom stopped her accelerating speech with a raised hand. “No one will hear it from me or my mother.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Who would we tell? You know my mother and I don’t mix in society. We’ve lived here for nine years and you and I have never met before.”

  Sophy blushed, ashamed. “I would have liked to have known you.”

  “Now you are flirting with me,” Tom said. Sophy’s cheeks flamed hotter, her shoulders rising with indignation, but Tom cut off her outraged reply. “Don’t worry. You do it perfectly. You’ll be the success of the Season.”

  Her tension left in a laugh. “Flatterer,” she said. “But I will repay your compliment by exc
using you from showing me the rest of the house. No doubt you have matters demanding your attention.” She smiled, letting him know he was forgiven for preferring business to her company.

  “Well, about that . . .” Tom stretched his legs and rotated his neck, relaxing at last. “I don’t mind showing you the house and the gardens, so long as you don’t expect me to tell you anything about them.”

  He wasn’t going to take her offer?

  “It’s a deal,” said Sophy.

  *****

  To hell with it, Tom thought, looking sideways at Sophy as she took in the view from the terrace. He may as well enjoy this. She was leaving soon enough, within hours probably. He would spend a few uncomfortable days and nights and then he would forget her. Infatuations always wore off.

  She wasn’t the loveliest girl he had ever met. Not ugly though; not with that translucent skin, fiery hair and her eyes melting and snapping by turns. She looked merely pretty to the passing eye, her beauty improving on acquaintance. He was not immune to her—he memorized each new expression that crossed her face—but he could not remember being this besotted with a girl who wasn’t incomparably beautiful. No, it was the roguish humor that had caught him this time. He couldn’t help himself from falling in with each absurdity she came up with. She probably didn’t fit easily into her own world.

  Her family obviously thought her a sad romp. They must be quite hard on her, he thought, for her to be this anxious about her debut. It was too bad. If they knew how charming her outrageousness could be, they might not censure her so badly. Still, it wasn’t his concern.

  “You are not always at Chippenstone?” Sophy asked, and he stopped trying to count how many colors were in her hair.

  “Hardly ever,” he said. “My father chose this house, not me. I keep busy with my work.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand how you can not want to always be here. I love Suffolk. It is beautiful.”

  It was. The land spread away from them, wide and green, burgeoning with new growth and new life. “I’ve seen many beautiful places,” he said. “If I were to fall in love with each of them, where should I be?”

  She grinned, abashed. “I don’t know. The Canadian colonies? You made them sound quite unforgettable. But that wouldn’t do. Your mother would miss you.”

  “She would indeed.” He offered his arm. “As I expect she is right now. She is probably hoping we will join her for breakfast.”

  Today he wasn’t bothered by his mother’s ecstatic smile, seeing the two of them come in arm in arm. His mother would never understand that Sophy, and every girl like her, would always be separate from people of his own class. Even if such a girl were to become his wife, she would be received in society and he would not. He knew society sneered at those upstarts who tried to slip in clinging to their spouse’s skirts or coat tails. It was a kind of life he could not contemplate.

  In the end, no harm would come of his mother’s schemes. He was not the one who would disappoint her. Sophy and her family would do that. She would leave, and they would never see her again. He took a slice of toast, watching Sophy talk to his mother, animated and smiling.

  He would enjoy her folly while he could. Her family would soon correct her. This bothered him, more than knowing she was leaving soon, for good. He didn’t want this Sophy, who he found so irresistible, becoming someone else.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tactical Maneuvers

  The Honorable Jasper William Rushford was worried, an emotion he hadn’t experienced in at least fourteen months. Few things had the power to upset him. Noble, wealthy and blessed with his mother’s good looks, he preferred the role of satirical observer to participant in an untidy world.

  He tolerated his father, cordially despised his mother and was fond of his two sisters. He seldom saw Henrietta, who was entirely wrapped up with her babies. These infant specimens he could not yet like—they were far too drippy—but he made time for Sophy in his negligent way. He wrote her letters of amusing, sarcastic tidbits and spent most of his time with her when he stopped in at Cordell, though he never stayed long.

  Mercy had prompted Jasper’s offer to escort Sophy to London. It was a known fact within the family that Lady Fairchild was not a pleasant traveling companion. Used to her comforts, she found even the most luxurious travel arrangements lacking, and did not hesitate to give voice to her complaints. Lord Fairchild made a point of never traveling with his wife, always finding some business constraining him to make his own journey a few days before or after her own.

  Jasper had expected no difficulties with the journey. His new curricle was light and fast, and his matched bays, bred at Cordell, were the envy of all his friends. Changing horses regularly, he and Sophy could cover the eighty miles to London at a blistering pace. He was quite prepared to enjoy a few days in Newmarket, followed by his sister’s company. Then he had a letter from John, informing him that Miss Sophy had ridden out on Ajax and disappeared.

  Surprising his friends, Jasper prepared to leave Newmarket with all speed, but he was intercepted by a second message, telling him that Sophy was found. She had injured her arm, but was recuperating as a guest at Chippenstone. Did he think they should inform Lady Fairchild?

  Jasper did not. Sophy would be in enough trouble without his mother hearing about Chippenstone before they arrived. If he broke the news in person, he could deflect some of the blame. A second letter from Sophy, begging him to keep quiet and to collect her from Chippenstone instead, confirmed his decision.

  Years before, when Chippenstone fell into the hands of a wealthy merchant, his mother had led the campaign excising the place from the neighborhood. She would not be pleased, having the acquaintance forced on her now. Still, that was a relatively minor trouble. Sophy assured him she was well, so Jasper discarded the notion of setting out immediately. Another day could hardly matter. He stayed for the races as planned, though his mind was elsewhere.

  He left Newmarket early, flying along the country roads. Near Cheveley, a washed out road forced him to take a longer route, setting him behind three quarters of an hour, but he nevertheless reached the park gates of Chippenstone well before noon. Surveying the place with a grimace, he imagined again his mother’s response when she learned Sophy had stayed under this roof. Bowling down the drive and over the bridge, he stopped the horses in front of the imposing entrance.

  “Walk ’em,” he said, handing the reins to his tiger. It was churlish to whisk Sophy away after the briefest of thanks, but he knew his mother would expect him to damp any pretensions. And frankly, he doubted his ability to talk civil in front of strangers. The urge to shake Sophy until her teeth rattled had dogged him since the first letter reached him in Newmarket.

  As he climbed the steps, the door swung open. Jasper stepped inside, handed his hat to the butler and checked the arrangement of his hair and neckcloth in the mirror on the opposite wall.

  “Jasper Rushford. I’m here for Miss —”

  “Jasper!” Sophy shrieked from the stairs.

  He jerked his head around, surprised by her enthusiastic greeting. Sophy ran to him, catching the lapels of his coat and lifting herself onto her toes to kiss his cheek.

  He couldn’t help his smile, but he made a show of stepping back and smoothing his coat. “I can see my worries for your health were misguided. You are in working order?” he asked.

  “Oh, much better.” Taking his hand, she started drawing him up the stairs.

  “Good.” Jasper cast a helpless glance at the butler. “I suppose my sister intends to present me to her hosts. She’s a dreadful hoyden.”

  Sophy blushed, but kept moving, hurrying him into the drawing room. She curtsied. “Allow me to present my brother, Jasper Rushford.”

  Jasper bowed, an elegant maneuver for which he was well known.

  “Jasper, this is Mrs. Bagshot, and her son Mr. Thomas Bagshot.”

  The mother rose to her feet and curtsied deeply. The son executed a jerky, mechanical
bow that was little more than a nod. Neither spoke.

  What a pair of frights, Jasper thought. No wonder Sophy was anxious to escape.

  He unsheathed his blinding charm. “Dear sir,” he said. “Kind madam. I cannot thank you enough for taking care of my scamp of a sister. I am most indebted to you.”

  “We did nothing more than any Christian would have done,” Bagshot said.

  Lord! Pious as well as boring. Jasper began calculating how long it would take to talk himself out of the room.

  “He’s being modest,” Sophy said with an amused glance at the man in question. “Mr. Bagshot set my shoulder and the surgeon said he could not have done it better himself. Mrs. Bagshot has been everything kind, for I am sure I have been a troublesome guest and tedious company.”

  Mrs. Bagshot took the bait, protesting that she had delighted in Miss Sophy’s company. Strangely, the son did not, watching with an impassive face.

  “Will you stay for refreshment?” Mrs. Bagshot asked.

  Jasper endured a cup of tea, with the overeager mother making most of the conversation. After exchanging pained smiles with the son, Sophy gave up trying to entice words from him and sipped from her cup with downcast eyes. Jasper downed his tea in scalding gulps and rose. “Your servant, Mr. Bagshot,” he said, bowing once more.

  “Do not feel yourself obliged,” Bagshot said. “It was no trouble.”

  Jasper was turning for the door, Sophy’s hand on his arm, when Bagshot thawed, lurching forward.

  “You must promise me to be careful, Miss Sophy,” he said, extending his hand. “I don’t want to hear of you coming to grief again, if I’m not around to put you to rights.”

  Sophy colored. “I promise,” she said.

  Bagshot bowed over her hand, then Jasper carefully reclaimed her arm. He’d noticed how hesitantly she’d stirred sugar into her tea, and suspected the shoulder pained her more than she let on. Sighing inwardly, he hustled her down the stairs.