by Donna Hatch
Silently, Grant slipped in and out of shadows and obstacles, keeping his senses tuned to the females. He sensed rather than saw the Fairley girl glance about cautiously. He was almost certain she’d noticed him the first day he’d tailed her. Unexpected, that. But she hadn’t gotten more than a glance before he made sure he disappeared from her view. He’d been more careful today.
She relaxed her posture, and they chatted amongst themselves as they turned off the alley and headed to a wider street where they would find a hansom waiting to take them home. The attractive lady, who couldn’t have been much more than five years the Fairley wench’s senior, walked with the proud bearing of a duchess, perfectly confident of her place in the world. The younger girl exercised more caution, as if she understood she trod on turf belonging to those who viewed her as an aristo and therefore the enemy.
His senses went on full alert as he spied another shadow tailing the women. Some thug had noticed a couple of easy targets. The predator might have only theft and not something worse on his mind, but Grant moved into position to stop him. The ruffian slipped behind the women.
The thrill of the hunt coursed through Grant’s veins. The world became sharper, each sound more clear, every color more vibrant. He trotted across the street, reaching for his gun. Knives were less messy and more elegant, but the gun made a better display of threat, and he wasn’t in the mood to stick a knife in someone’s ribs this afternoon. That might change by tonight.
Grant dodged a milk cart. He wasn’t exactly dressed to pay a call on a member of Society, and revealing himself would lead to all sorts of questions, but it couldn’t be helped.
The blighter leaped in front of the girls and brandished a knife he’d probably used to chop wood. “Gimme yer valuables and I won’t ’ave t’ use this.”
The maid let out a gasp, her hands flying out to the side. The lady with the umbrella merely drew herself up as if her status alone protected her from harm.
Grant moved closer and to the side as the Fairley chit offered the armed a compassionate smile. “I realize you must be very desperate to threaten ladies. And while I will agree to give you all the money I have on my person, I must tell you that if you’d simply asked, I would have offered it freely.”
Grant almost snickered. Oh, that was rich; she was trying to help the blackguard. Grant had to admire her courage, though. She didn’t fall apart like her maid. Hesitant to break up the little drama and deprive himself from a moment’s entertainment, Grant waited to intervene.
The thug made an inarticulate sound something like, “Ugh?”
“Here.” The Fairley wench opened her reticule and drew out half a crown and six pence.
“Jocelyn, no,” said the lady with the umbrella.
The Fairley girl ignored her. “This is all I have. Although now you leave me in the difficulty of not having enough to pay for our fare home.”
The thug swiped the money out of her hand but then he got greedy and grabbed her by the wrist. “Wha’ else ye got fer me, ducks?”
The Fairley girl’s cry of surprise rang out. “Let go of me!” She kicked his shin.
The Fairley girl’s companion swung her umbrella and landed a solid hit on the thug’s shoulder. “How dare you! Let go of my niece at once, you villain.”
The cretin grunted in surprise. He jerked the Fairley girl closer to him and put his knife to her throat. The girl sucked in her breath and went utterly still. Grant’s thirst for justice sharpened and he got into position.
The thug’s mouth twisted. “I’ll slit ’er purty neck if’n ye don’t shut yer trap, hag.”
Grant stepped up into the thug’s line of eyesight and cocked the gun. He kept his voice soft and deadly calm. “Let her go, dog.”
The attacker’s gaze flitted to Grant’s gun. “No ’arm done, eh?” In one swift motion, he removed the knife and threw the girl at Grant before dashing down another alley.
The Fairley girl stumbled into Grant and collapsed against him. He steadied her, torn between going after the lout who attacked ladies and his duty to see them safely home. He let the man with the knife go for now. Grant would hunt him down tonight. It would be fun to catch the thug unawares and thinking he’d gotten away with assaulting a defenseless girl.
The girl in his arms—in his arms?—shivered. Grant put her back on her feet perhaps a bit too roughly. “Miss Fairley? Are you hurt?”
She wrapped her arms around herself and drew two deep breaths. Her enlarged pupils nearly obliterated her irises. She gave a little start as recognition came to her. “Mr. Amesbury? How can I ever thank you?” In a classically feminine gesture, she smoothed trembling hands over her fair hair underneath an old straw hat.
“Did he hurt you?” He looked for a cut on her throat but no blood marred her pale skin. Her gloves and sleeve hid possible bruising on her wrist. Oh, he would enjoy hunting down the blackguard and making him pay for his brutality.
“I’m unharmed.” She laughed weakly in the throes of after-battle nerves. “I seem to be making a habit of attracting men who wish to do me bodily harm.”
Grant winced at her reference of his own attack in her father’s study. He hadn’t held a knife to her throat, but he’d threatened her convincingly, and she had no way of knowing his warning had been idle.
She let out a long, steadying exhale and stopped shaking. Gratitude shone in her eyes, and a smile edged through her fright. Her breathing returned to normal and her pupils shrank to a normal size, revealing the clear blue of her eyes, so blue a summer sky would be envious. Which was a stupid thing to think at this time. But indeed her recovery powers were impressive.
She said, “And you seem to be making a habit of rescuing members of our family. We are so grateful to you for your brave assistance.”
“Indeed we are,” said the attractive lady who resembled the Fairley girl enough to be an older sister. Still pale, she took fast, shallow breaths but her gaze was steady. “We are most indebted to you, sir. If not for your timely intervention…” she cast a glance at the younger woman and put an arm around her. “Please allow me to thank you properly, Mr.—? Do I know you? You look familiar.” She eyed him, her eyes resting briefly on his scar.
Raising her chin and summoning a smile from somewhere within, the Fairley girl took over the introductions. “Aunt Ruby, may I introduce Grant Amesbury. Mr. Amesbury, my Aunt Ruby, Mrs. Shaw.”
Calming surprisingly fast for a so-called lady of quality, Mrs. Shaw repeated, “Amesbury. Was your mother the Countess of Tarrington?”
Grant added another layer of protection around the velvet space in his heart where his mother’s memory resided and inclined his head. “Yes, she was.”
The aunt said, “Fine lady, indeed. I don’t recall meeting you, so I cannot account for why you seem so familiar.”
With a voice growing increasingly steadier, Miss Fairley said, “Mr. Amesbury was in attendance at our ball, Aunt. You might have noticed him at the dinner table next to Papa.”
The aunt nodded. “Perhaps that’s it.” She cast a curious glance over Grant’s clothing.
“And this,” the Fairley girl tugged on the arm of the pale and trembling maid to bring her forward, “is our parlor maid, Katie Jones. We were here visiting her sister.”
Grant concealed his surprise that the Fairley girl included a maid in the introductions. He offered her the same slight bow he’d given to the others. “Miss Jones.”
Still openly terrified, the maid bobbed a curtsy but kept her gaze lowered. “Sir.”
Miss Fairley smiled more brightly, her nerves visibly stronger every second. Had she recovered so quickly when he’d threatened her in her father’s study? The memory of the press of her lush, curvy body against his, the softness of her skin under his hands, her scent of flowers and something warm, like vanilla, the same scent that permeated her now, leaped into his memory. He ruthlessly crushed it.
“We’ve been visiting Katie’s sister and her children,” Miss Fairly explained.
“I thought my aunt’s particular skills would help her.”
“Good of you,” Grant managed, because they probably expected it.
She smiled again, but she eyed him carefully as if detecting the layer of sarcasm he tried to hide underneath his voice and finding some amusement in it.
He gestured toward a wider street up ahead. “Allow me to escort you to a hansom.”
“Thank you,” the aunt said. She linked her arm through his as if he were a fine gentleman and had already offered her his arm. Her hand trembled.
Spurred to remember his oft-forgotten manners, Grant held out his other arm to Miss Fairley who beamed, and placed a steady hand on his. All trace of her earlier terror vanished. She certainly had stern nerves, that one. She might have made a decent nurse on the battlefield. Of course, no blood had been spilt today. That was an entirely different matter. Grant shut out all thoughts of war and bloodshed and escorted the two ladies while the maid trailed behind.
Calming every moment, Mrs. Shaw smiled up at him, all warmth and gratitude. “You must come home with us and enjoy a cup of tea and perhaps seedcake or biscuits.”
Grant had to hold himself stiff to keep from shrinking at the thought of having tea with two ladies in some frilly parlor. “There’s really no need.”
“What’s this about you making a habit of rescuing the Fairleys?” Mrs. Shaw asked.
Miss Fairley answered, “He found Jonathan carousing in a gaming establishment. When Jonathan got so deep in his cups that he passed out, Mr. Amesbury was kind enough to bring him home.”
Mrs. Shaw let out a scoffing noise and uttered something about wastrel and dissipated. She patted Grant’s arm. “Not you, of course, dear—I speak of my nephew.”
Grant almost choked. Dear? He couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him by that term of endearment. Not even his Aunt Livy called him dear, and she tolerated him better than most of his relatives. And why would a woman about Grant’s age speak to him as if she were thirty years his senior? “Thank you for clarifying, Mrs. Shaw. I was about to feel very scolded, indeed.”
Mrs. Shaw chuckled. Miss Fairley’s warm, husky laugh rang out and she tightened her hold on his arm. Except for the night of the Fairley’s dinner party when Miss Fairley had held his arm, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had done so. Today was a day of many rare events. He darted at glance at Miss Fairley. She grinned as if all were right with the world, not as if she’d been threatened at knife-point only moments ago.
Miss Fairley glanced at him and he could almost swear her expression was that of friendly camaraderie. “My aunt is something of a midwife. She was kind enough to accompany me to help Katie’s sister.”
“You’re a midwife?” He’d never heard of a member of her class in such a profession.
“Not truly,” Mrs. Shaw said. “But my mother comes from a long line of midwives and passed her knowledge down to me. She reached far above her station and married the man who later became my father.” She smiled ruefully.
“And we’re all so glad grandfather did marry her,” Miss Fairley said with affection shining in her eyes.
“You’ve already done well with Lucy, sweeting,” Mrs. Shaw said. “I couldn’t have done better myself. I have every confidence in you.”
“I bow always to your superior wisdom.” Again came that smile, joyful laced with a touch of mischievousness. Though a bit playful, Miss Fairley was totally innocent, for a woman, that is. She couldn’t know anything about the extent of her father’s ambitions or plots, not that he really thought a man would involve his daughter in so sordid a scheme.
As they turned a corner, a hackney rolled up, the same one that had brought them there. Apparently the young Miss Fairley had the jarvey twisted around her finger. Typical female, using men for their own devices.
“You’ll be safe now.” Grant handed in all three women.
“Oh, no, Mr. Amesbury,” the aunt protested. “This will never do. You simply must come with us and take a bit of refreshment. How else can we thank you properly?”
Grant almost choked. “That’s really not necessary. I’m just, er, happy you’re safe.”
“Oh, do say you will come,” Mrs. Shaw persisted. “There’s plenty of room in the carriage. Katie scoot over, there’s a good girl. Come, Mr. Amesbury, surely your business isn’t so pressing that you can’t have tea with us.”
Did the woman not know when to let up? “I’m afraid it is, but I thank you for the offer.”
“Nonsense. Bachelors never eat properly. Come now, we won’t bite.”
The Fairley girl put a hand on her aunt’s arm. “You’re making him uncomfortable, Aunt Ruby.”
“Oh, he’s just being gallant so we won’t feel indebted to him, but we do indeed owe him much.” The Shaw woman turned a pleading smile on Grant that would have melted ice. She obviously knew men found her attractive and knew how to use her charms to her advantage, the wench. “But you’ll be gallant enough to allow us to at least feed you, won’t you?”
Grant mentally threw up his hands. How did one fight against such a force of nature? Clearly the woman would have her way no matter what. He climbed inside the carriage while all the females smiled, a bit too victoriously for his taste, he might add, and settled himself in the rear-facing seat next to the maid.
They looked at him expectantly. Right. Small talk. He had no knack for small talk. It was one of the reasons why he avoided social situations. That and he hated the way most people either stared at his scar or made a point not to. But mostly he avoided society because of insipid conversations and vain pretenses.
Sitting next to him, the maid kept her gaze cast downwards and her hands folded tightly in her lap, probably painfully aware of her place among them.
“I understand you were a war hero,” Mrs. Shaw ventured.
Grant firmly kept his expression bland. “Hero is a vastly overused term. I went to war. I came home.”
“Your mother worried for your safety, you and your brothers,” Mrs. Shaw added. “But she was also proud of you all—you in particular. Once, she mentioned a letter she received from your commanding officer praising your valor and loyalty.”
“I did what I had to do.” He leveled a cold stare at her, while every nerve in his body screamed at him to change the subject. He grabbed his favorite weapon of choice and hurled rudeness at her. “She never mentioned you.”
She waved away his attack. “I cannot claim to be one of her bosom friends, but I always admired her and made a point of seeking out her company whenever we crossed paths. She was gracious and kind.”
Mama had, indeed, been gracious and kind. Too good for Grant’s father.
Miss Fairley studied him so intently that he adjusted his cloak to cover himself like a shield. He glanced at her with a raised brow to let her know he considered her study of him overly bold, then ignored her to address the aunt. “Do I know your husband?”
Mrs. Shaw winced as pain crossed her features before she drew a breath. She spoke wistfully. “His name was Arthur Shaw.”
“A fine man, may he rest in peace,” Miss Fairley said. She exchanged a tender glance with her aunt before returning her attention to him. “Mr. Amesbury, my father is sure to want to thank you himself for your assistance today, but he is not often at home in time for tea. Perhaps you would be so kind as to have dinner with us tomorrow evening? We’re hosting a very small gathering with some of Papa’s closest friends, so it will be an intimate, informal evening.”
“Yes, yes, do come,” added Mrs. Shaw. “I won’t be there myself as I have another engagement, but Jocelyn does a lovely job as hostess. The menu will be very fine, I am sure.”
Grant thought it over. Fairley’s closest friends would probably include those who supported him politically. They might speak freely enough to drop hints as to the plot. If nothing else, he might get invited to their next meeting.
Miss Fairley said, “It won’t be a huge affair, just some of our closest friends—
a fine group of gentlemen and their wives. No one will be trotting out their daughters for bid, I assure you.” She smiled knowingly.
“Oh, good. Then I’ll only bid on the horses at Tattersall’s and not on the women at your dinner party,” he quipped.
She smiled as if she appreciated his dryness. But there was something more, something soft and almost tender in her expression, as if she suspected he carried painful secrets and she sought for a way to ease his burden. Which was ridiculous. Most gently bred females were either conniving and merciless or silly and vain. This girl simply hid her evil better than others of her gender. She might be innocent of her father’s schemes, but no woman was innocent of being a…woman.
She tilted her head to one side, her lips still playing their little game. “Does that mean you’ll accept my invitation?”
“Very well. I accept. As long as no silly daughters are present.”
“Only this one.” She gestured to herself, her smile broadening and taking on a self-deprecating flavor he found almost charming. Oh, she was good. He’d have to be wary of her.
He stretched out his legs. “I suppose I can defend myself against one.”
The aunt watched their exchange with that same calculating attentiveness present on the faces of mothers whose daughters had selected the next victim for their game of hearts, or the hunt for a fat purse to marry. The size of his purse, he’d ensured, remained quietly his own business, so no one could accuse him of being a wealthy bachelor and have designs upon him.
He’d have to walk a fine line between getting close enough to the family to covertly investigate the father without giving them any reason to believe he’d be a desirable match for the daughter. He was completely out of his element. He’d have to be polite. It was so much easier to be rude to people so they’d leave him alone, and people generally gave him so many reasons to insult them.
When they arrived at the Fairley’s house, Grant stepped out and handed them down, treating the aunt, the girl, and the maid with the same indifference. The maid hurried off while the aunt paid the driver before Grant got out his money.
