Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  “Me neither,” William said, turning quiet.

  “What if he’s the wrong sort? I mean, he is of course, but what if it turns out worse than that? We don’t know a thing about Bagshot, and she’s absurdly in love. He’ll break her heart.”

  “Anna Morris speaks well of him,” William said.

  “How tremendously reassuring,” Georgiana said, more skeptical than ever. She reached for a new pair of gloves laid out and ready on the table. “She’s just too good at—at snaring men. I shouldn’t have let her walk out in that red pelisse. You should have seen the heads turn. I don’t know how she does it—her husband—”

  “Not such a prize after all,” William interjected.

  “Naturally. I never set much store by that family,” Georgiana said. “And then Alistair. Jasper would probably ogle her too, if he wasn’t afraid of her.”

  “No!” William laughed.

  “Could be suspicion or his own wariness, but you must have noticed how he avoids her. And she’s enslaved Mr. Phillips, not that she shows a particle of interest—” He’d sent flowers after the Sutton ball, poor man.

  “She didn’t have luck with Tom Bagshot, though,” William said.

  True. Which might be a point in the man’s favor. “I really can’t be easy in my mind about him,” Georgiana said. “Not with the little I’ve seen of him.” It was grossly uncomfortable having Sophy in a stranger’s keeping.

  “Maybe we should go home for a spell,” William said. Cordell Hall, in Suffolk, was always home to him. Before she could finish shaking her head, he continued. “We could write first. We needn’t call.”

  “He might not let us through the door,” Georgiana said.

  “I could ask my tenants if they’ve seen Sophy. Taking rides in the neighborhood, that kind of thing.”

  She answered with a chilling lift of her eyebrows that usually made her family scrabble for excuses—any excuses—to explain their stupidity, but she only provoked a smile.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said. “Sophy’s marriage is undoubtably the talk of the county. If we set spies on Bagshot it will only make it worse. Besides, there’s Mrs. Morris. I promised Alistair.”

  “You should call her Anna.”

  “I will, at Lady Wincholme’s. Maybe even ‘dear Anna.’ It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, and Lady Wincholme will doubtless be taken in. Anna isn’t.”

  Lady Fairchild’s shrug was more a suggestion than an actual movement. “I agreed to help her, not fall in love with her.” Alistair had done that already. She hadn’t been too worried at first. Once he was removed from London, his feelings would naturally lessen, but to date, there were no signs of that. His letters to her arrived almost as regularly as the grocer’s bills. Alistair! Who wrote his own mother perhaps twice a year! It had been more than two weeks since his last, though. Perhaps she could begin to hope. “She’s not good for Alistair. I worry. She’d have offers by now, if she’d take the trouble to cultivate the interest gentlemen are so quick to bestow on her.”

  “You don’t want to rush her.”

  “Yes I do. The quicker she’s tied up with someone else, the better. Don’t tell me you enjoy all of that,” Georgiana said, tilting her eyes up to the ceiling. It was quiet just now, but the bumps and whoops as she’d been dressing . . . .

  “I’m pleased to see the two of them happier,” he said. “Her attention is on her son. No wonder she has none to spare for the gentlemen you are trying to foist on her.”

  “I’m not trying,” Georgiana muttered, reaching for her fan. “They’re eager enough on their own.”

  “She has good reason to be cautious,” William said, sliding it to her across the dressing table. “You should be able to understand that.”

  “I do,” Georgiana said coolly, adjusting her neckline. “No secret that Morris made a dreadful husband. Henry doesn’t look a thing like him.” She smiled at her husband in the mirror.

  “Doesn’t mean anything. Look at our children.” Jasper and Henrietta took all their looks from her side of the family. Sophy was the only one of William’s children who’d borrowed any of his features.

  “Yes, but I am not the same as Anna Morris,” Georgiana said. “We handle adversity differently.” She wasn’t sure and she would never ask. But when Henry got older, some people would remember Anthony Morris and they would wonder too. Anna’s preference for crimson rouge didn’t help.

  William was thoughtful for a moment. “I hope you still intend to help her.”

  “I gave my word,” Georgiana said. She’d always had a particular fondness for Alistair, and right now the best thing she could do for him was untangle him from Mrs. Morris.

  “I warn you that I intend to dance with her this evening,” William said. “Remember, it doesn’t mean I’m pursuing a love affair—I’m only interested in one with you.”

  Maybe that was why they never danced. William was the best secret she’d had in years. “I suppose you may dance with whomever you please,” Georgiana said as indifferently as she dared. “So long as you know where to come at the end of the evening.” Her eyes met his in the mirror.

  *****

  “Goodnight Henry.”

  He was wearing his nightshirt, his toes bare and pink as prawns. His hair was still damp from his bath.

  “You smell nice,” he mumbled, tracing the gauze of her gown with a careful finger—permissible, now that he was clean. By midmorning, he’d probably need another scrub. Anna had promised to take him and his toy sailboat to the park again.

  “Should we ask Grandpapa to come with us tomorrow? He’d love to see your boat. When I was small, he took me and Grandmama across the sea.”

  “To Spain?” Henry asked, perking up a little.

  “America.” Anna didn’t bother explaining the difference. Her transatlantic voyages would never compete with the adventures of a Captain of Hussars. “Sleep well.” Anna kissed him on the top of the head and propelled him into bed. He climbed under the sheets, hauling them up to his chin.

  “I’ll stay with him until he’s asleep,” Lucy whispered as Anna backed out of the room.

  Whisking downstairs, Anna reached up to check her hair—no serious damage. Good. Her maid wasn’t very quick with fancy coiffures, so there was no time to do this one over. Anna didn’t mind if her hair wasn’t perfect, but Lady Fairchild would. Tonight was an important party.

  “Much nicer than the Burlington’s last week,” Lady Fairchild had said. They’d attended that musicale only for her sake, Anna was sure.

  She hadn’t disgraced Lady Fairchild—yet—and it was mainly agreeable, spending time with her. Unlike Anthony’s mother, Lady Fairchild kept Anna close, preventing her from making noticeable mistakes in company, though Anna felt so much pressure not to embarrass herself people probably thought she was made out of wood. The women at least. Men were easier to entertain: just give them something to look at and choose the right smiles. Tonight’s gown was sufficiently lovely to make up for any shortcomings with her hair. It was new.

  Flush with money, Anna was spending joyfully: lemon yellow gloves, this gown of plum-colored silk, and a day dress in gauzy white muslin, embroidered with red flowers growing up from the hem. Today she’d purchased a bonnet adorned with cherries, and yesterday she’d bought Henry a toy boat. Alistair, she knew, would laugh at the bonnet before moving in to murmur inappropriate things in her ear. She’d thought of him the moment she’d seen it, because once he’d said her lips were the same color—and every bit as delicious. But she was biting the bottom one now, embarrassed to find Lord and Lady Fairchild waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” she said. “I was just with Henry.”

  “Did he like the boat?” Lord Fairchild asked.

  “He loves it,” she said. “We’ll take it out every day, so long as the weather holds. It should make the mornings quieter.”

  Lady Fairchild smiled politely at th
at, which only increased Anna’s chagrin.

  “You look lovely. Remind me to have my maid show yours a trick she has with hair,” Lady Fairchild said, pressing down one of Anna’s loose pins. She reached into her reticule. “I bought this for you. A dewy pink. Your vibrant cheeks are just the thing to make the color come alive.” She pressed an enameled box into Anna’s gloved hand. “There’s time if you want to try it now.”

  “I’ll wait until after supper,” Anna said, glancing at the hall clock. She had lingered far too long in the nursery. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Lady Fairchild said nothing. Lord Fairchild chuckled. “You must spend more time with Henrietta. I doubt you could turn her into a punctual creature, but her family would be glad if she acquired your habit of apology at least.”

  There were hot bricks on the floor of the carriage, but they did little to counter the insidious chill that crept under Anna’s cloak. Her ears were cold, but Lady Fairchild hadn’t drawn up her hood, so neither would she.

  The iciness was gone by the time they reached Lady Wincholme’s—from the air at least. The hostess bestowed warm greetings on Lord and Lady Fairchild, but welcomed Anna with a voice that would have left frost on a window. “So delighted. I’ve been longing to meet Captain Beaumaris’s fiancée,” she said. Anna smiled back bravely, convinced of Lady Wincholme’s curiosity and the threat it implied; the protestations of delight were a transparent lie. Anna fumbled for a reply, proving her stupidity to Lady Wincholme and whoever happened to overhear. Finally granted a chance to escape, Anna sped after Lady Fairchild into the ballroom.

  Lady Fairchild took pity on her. “Calm yourself. She’s probably jealous,” she said, patting Anna’s arm as they progressed around the perimeter of the brilliantly lit room. The heat from the candles and the miasma of perfume was stifling. Searching for somewhere to rest her eyes, but finding only gilt and mirrors, Anna tightened her grip on her fan, longing for Henry.

  “This place is fine,” Lady Fairchild said, stopping between two alcoves. “Count to fifty,” she ordered after a minute. “Use your fan.” She was working hers slowly, wafting air over Anna’s shoulders. “For goodness’ sake, get a hold of yourself.”

  Anna didn’t answer. She was counting as instructed, passing sixty. “Lady Wincholme is nothing,” Lady Fairchild whispered. “She’d have liked Alistair for herself, I’m sure, though after the disaster with Sophy it would have taken considerable adroitness to get her to marry him. She isn’t in a hurry to marry now that Wincholme’s gone.”

  Anna took in the scale of the room, crusted over with blue and gold flourishes like a hull eaten by barnacles. “Pity. She’d be a good prospect for him.” But Lady Wincholme would have to wait until next year, if Alistair came to London again. Anna licked dry lips, wishing she could totter out of the room and hide in the cool dark outside. Until she and Alistair were finished, she didn’t want to think about ‘eligible situations’ for him to marry.

  “Not as good a prospect as Sophy,” Lady Fairchild said, with a silent laugh. She raised her fan to shield her face and leaned closer. “Sophy is much more pliant and agreeable. Usually. I expect that when Lady Wincholme does remarry, her husband will not have an easy time of it. Of course, Alistair has considerable powers of persuasion. In a contest between him and our hostess, I would lay my money on him.” She slid her eyes over Anna, appraising her minutely but saying nothing. From Anna, her eyes moved to the crowd, alighting on a slim gentleman with a dark head. Anna recognized that hair. Impossible. She started forward, but then she saw the man’s face. He bore some similarity to his younger brother—clearly drawn by the same hand, but with softer lines and paler tints.

  Lady Fairchild nodded, acknowledging her nephew. “Cyril, on the other hand . . . . ” Her eyes flew to Lady Wincholme.

  “Lady Wincholme would boil him down and spread him on toast,” Anna whispered back, pleased they could agree on something.

  Lady Fairchild stifled a laugh, her shoulders shaking. “Too true. Should we throw them together and see what happens?”

  There was no time to answer. Cyril was before them, executing an elegant bow, presenting his compliments and asking Anna to dance.

  “Enjoy yourselves!” Lady Fairchild said, sending them off with a tinkling wave.

  Cyril’s hands clung like tentacles. Anna decided that no matter who she married, she would see to it that Lady Wincholme never caught Alistair. She was welcome to take a bite out of Cyril whenever she pleased.

  *****

  Anna was dancing with Cyril before Lord Fairchild reached the door of the card room. It was his usual haunt at entertainments like these, but tonight he didn’t plan to play. He made a circuit of the room, then returned to the ballroom. Georgiana was on the other side of the room, holding a glass of lemonade, nodding seriously (though he doubted she was listening) to everything Mr. Grimpen chose to say. A tireless reformer, Grimpen, with a keen mind. Georgiana probably had ten years on him. William inspected the sleeve of his black coat, flicking away dust that wasn’t there.

  “Evening, sir.” Jasper appeared beside him. “No games for you this evening?” Even as a child, he’d had that needling smirk.

  “Perhaps later,” William said.

  “Will you be at Cordell for Christmas?” Jasper asked.

  “Depends,” he said, glancing at Anna, who was dancing a reel with a man who seemed to have no control of his elbows. They flew out from his sides like the angular legs of a crane.

  “I thought you might be visiting Sophy. I am.”

  “Your mother and I weren’t invited,” William said stiffly.

  “I wonder why?”

  “Give her my regards,” William said.

  “I’d rather not.” He nodded in the direction of the dancers. “You and mother are taking prodigious care of Alistair’s pretty bird. Haven’t spoken much with her myself.” That was true. He’d dined with them twice since Anna had joined them, but exchanged no more than commonplaces with her.

  “Lovely, isn’t she?” William said, curious to test Georgiana’s theory, more interested in provoking his son than complimenting the lady.

  “Appallingly so. Alistair told me the first time he saw her he took her for a high flier.”

  “Yes, I heard that.” With the really good ones, it was hard to tell the difference. They looked and spoke the same as ladies. Only the reputation differed. Mostly. “How stupid. He’s usually keener than that,” Lord Fairchild said. Of course, Alistair had proven himself not entirely rational when it came to Mrs. Morris. Which wasn’t such a bad thing. William liked her.

  “Thought she was tangled with Sophy’s Tom. Well, I knew he must be mistaken on Tom’s part, but maybe he was brighter than he knew. I passed Frederick Morris in the club today. He was hinting all kinds of things.”

  William stiffened. Anna had alluded to an imperfect past, but he respected her confidence, and her efforts to put such things behind her. “I hope you had the sense to silence him.” He didn’t give a farthing if Georgiana’s suspicions about Henry’s parentage were right—he was in no position to judge. They both shared a close acquaintance with regret, which was probably why he liked Anna, and wanted her to be happy with her child. He wanted it to be possible for both of them.

  “I may have mentioned a foul odor and that I was thinking of giving up the place,” Jasper said idly. “But who knows? If they let Morris in at White’s the others are probably just as bad.”

  William couldn’t help a half smile. “Talk like that and he’ll call you out.”

  “I think not. The brother was a fire eater, but Frederick’s a coward. Spluttered and pretended he hadn’t heard me. No danger from him.” Jasper’s lip curled perfectly, an exact imitation of his mother’s. The two of them were like magnets: so alike they repelled.

  “Do you dislike Alistair’s fiancée?” William asked.

  “I have no quarrel with Mrs. Morris. Don’t know how I feel about Alistair’s fiancée.”
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br />   William didn’t know what to say. It was an ill-advised match, but Anna was a hardy soul. The world wouldn’t think her a good prospect, but—

  “Mama keeps looking at you,” Jasper said, glancing from one parent to the other, his narrowed eyes asking why.

  In spite of himself, William grinned. “Yes, she does.” And then he abandoned his son for the refreshment table.

  The champagne was good, the food tolerable, the music—well, he wasn’t qualified to judge. William caught Georgiana’s eye, walking past her at supper, and once again, from the edge of the ballroom. She was waltzing with Grimpen, trying not to look bored. She was a lovely dancer, but he ignored the temptation to ask her himself, knowing she wouldn’t stand for it. They didn’t exchange words at parties, only looks. Tonight was duller than usual, especially since he’d decided against the palliative of the card room. He danced with Anna, debating all the while if he should warn her about Frederick Morris’s rumblings. He decided not to. She was uneasy already, and had looked that way all evening. Instead, he set himself to drawing out smiles and handed her off to her next partner looking less troubled. He danced with a few more ladies and his hostess—standing in the ballroom meant he had to be somewhat obliging. Once, years ago, he had thought about kissing Lady Wincholme as they wandered too far from the rest of their party down a shadowy Vauxhall avenue. He was very glad he hadn’t. Lady Wincholme’s angular little chin was as piquant as ever, but he suspected intimacies between them would have been sordid and mutually disappointing. He was of a retiring disposition; Lady Wincholme, exhaustingly manipulative. Blatant about it too. Not for him, her crystal laughter, her over-bright cheeks, the arch manners and disdainful yet hungry smiles. Give him his intent, secretive Penelope. He wanted her painted again. She hadn’t had a portrait done in years.

  “My Lord, you aren’t attending,” Lady Wincholme said, teasing, but with a predatory showing of teeth.