by Julie Beard
Jack sipped his port and sat casually. "I scarcely know Miss Cranshaw. What makes you think I can find out?"
"You are new here in town. People do not yet know your ways of business. You can investigate without raising queries among Liza's acquaintances. And you'll be discreet because you are my solicitor."
Jack sipped his sticky, potent port, then licked his lower
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lip. "I was given to understand that I work for Cranshaw himself."
"You can think that if you like, but you'll soon see who holds the reins in Cranshaw's affairs. It will all be settled by this weekend. Upon my word, Fairchild, you could use a woman yourself. I have a nice little doxy in a small village not far from here I'm growing bored with. She's only twelve, if you like them young. A gentleman with your history should sheath his sword somewhere before it ends up in the wrong place, eh?"
Jack smiled wanly. "No, thank you."
"Oh, yes, you prefer married women. Wouldn't try that here, old boy, the town is too small. But that's your problem, not mine. Mine is a cold, rich little fish. But I mean to teach her what pleases me, and well before our wedding. That way she'll have no choice but to show up at the altar, right, Fairchild?"
He laughed again, a low, cynical sound, then tossed back the entire contents of his glass.
"You'll soon learn that I leave nothing to chance. I have a plan for everything. In fact, I may act sooner than planned. I just might visit Liza tonight." He smiled tauntingly at Jack. "Does the thought of that bother you?"
Jack feigned a lazy yawn. "Your personal affairs are no business of mine, my lord. Have another glass of port before you go."
He didn't wait for acquiescence, but filled his visitor's glass to the brim. Lord Barrington was drunk, but not drunk enough. Jack had to make sure the brute lost consciousness before he could return to Cranshaw Park and harm Liza.
"Here's to your health, sir," Jack said with a charming smile, and his grin deepened when Barrington downed his
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drink with one swill. By tomorrow Viscount Barrington would have a splitting headache he wouldn't soon forget. And, he prayed, Liza Cranshaw would end this madness while she could.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
he next afternoon, when Giles returned from an errand, he found his employer prone on the couch, eating an apple. Jack had whittled it down nearly to the core. He frowned at what remained, nipping away the small white remainders with his teeth, chewing contemplatively with each bite.
"I say, Mr. Fairchild," Giles said lightheartedly, dropping a stack of papers on the front desk, "you've taken my spot. If next I find you in the tavern, you'll be taken to task. If not by me, then by Mr. Harding."
"Watch your manners, you insolent wretch," Jack said without emotion, still studying the core of his apple. "Did you find out anything important?"
"Yes and no."
The clerk ran a hand through his tawny curls and sat down in a chair with as much preoccupation as his employer. No longer a walking rumpled heap, his dashing new clothes made his lanky movements seem graceful.
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"I found out that Lord Barrington staggered out of here last night and found himself this morning in a flea-ridden bed in the Red Boar Inn. When he arrived here last night, already foxed, he sent his carriage down the street out of sight, apparently to keep his visit quiet. When he left here, after being so skillfully plied with more liquor by you, he couldn't remember where it was. So he walked or crawled down to the inn, where he promptly passed out."
"Good." Jack stared at his apple core and grinned with the first moment of satisfaction he'd had all day. He'd been ill-at-ease all morning. He'd expected a note from Liza saying she'd come to her senses. When she'd left on the terrace last night, it seemed she was prepared to reconsider. Thus far he'd received no word from her.
The ache in his heart warned him that he was being selfish. He simply wanted her for himself. But logic argued otherwise. Liza was in danger. Barrington was so determined to claim her that he would rape her if necessary to ensure a wedding.
"Where's Harding?" Giles inquired.
"He went to the tailor to have his new waistcoat fitted."
"He's barking up the wrong tree."
"Some men care about their dress, young ruffian," Jack snapped irritably.
The clerk tugged on his sleek waistcoat. "Yes, I understand, sir. I've been utterly reformed in that regard. However, I'll avow that new clothes won't get Mr. Harding any attention from the ladies."
"All the more reason to have a good waistcoat. A lonely man has to have some comfort, doesn't he? Have some compassion, young man, for those unfortunate enough to be older than you."
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"I do, sir. But Harding's problem has nothing to do with clothes. He needs confidence."
"Oh, la!" Jack returned. "When you're done giving unsolicited advice, why don't you tell me what in the bloody hell you've found out about the fire?"
"I visited old Mr. Pedigrew at Waverly. His brother-in-law, you know, is a lord with a great estate not far from there.
"Yes, I know," Jack remarked dryly, turning the apple core to make sure he'd done it justice. "Why do you suppose my grandfather engaged him as his attorney?"
"Pedigrew did indeed have some papers on Lord Barrington."
Jack went still, then sat up abruptly, tossing the spent core in the trash. "What? Why didn't you say so?"
"I just did."
"Go on," he ordered, dusting his hands.
"It seems," Giles said, grinning from ear to ear, "his lordship asked Mr. Pedigrew if there was any legal way to rid the Davis property of Mr. Davis."
Jack and Giles shared a significant look.
"What was the date?"
"This second query into the disposition of the property was made shortly after the first. The day before the fire."
"That's splendid."
Giles sank into his chair. "Unfortunately, the day of the fire Mr. Pedigrew met with Lord Barrington in London. So he couldn't possibly have set the fire himself."
"That means nothing," Jack argued. "Barrington could have sent his man of affairs to do the deed. What was his name? Roger. Upon my word, I'd expect no other course of action. Roger was doubtless an ape hired for that very purpose. Man of affairs indeed."
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Giles shrugged. "Perhaps, but speculation won't prove your case, sir."
Jack sighed. "Of course not."
"There is one other matter."
"Hmm?"
"I looked closely at the notes and found a paragraph scratched out. The writing was my own, notes I had made for Mr. Pedigrew. I don't know who scratched it out, and I don't remember what I wrote. But I could recognize one word, a name: Beauchamp."
"Beauchamp?"
"Yes, that's the butcher who works across the street from Davis's property."
Jack sat back against the couch and twiddled his fingers. "This Beauchamp would be a good person to talk to, no doubt. He might have seen something the night of the fire."
"I'd have heard about it if he had some speculation on the fire."
"Would you have?" Jack tipped his chin up, looking down at Giles like a stuffy barrister puffed up in his white wig.
"Yes, I hear everything in this town."
"That is only if someone is talking, Giles. Did it ever occur to you that Mr. Beauchamp might have a reason to keep his tongue? Perhaps he was threatened."
"No, that never occurred to me."
Jack wagged a finger at him. "And when it does, dear boy, then you'll be ready to become a solicitor."
The door flew open and Jack's secretary entered with a radiant smile. "Good day, sir! Good day. And what a fine day it is."
"Turn around, Harding," Jack said, twirling a finger in
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the air. "Let me see your new waistcoat and coat."
"Oh, what nonsense, sir," Harding replied, waving him off with a blush, but he turned around nevertheless. "You can see it is
just a regular sort of coat."
"On the contrary. You are the pinkest of the pinks!"
Harding's color deepened. He stopped and smoothed his gray lapels. "It is rather nice, isn't it? You were more than generous, Mr. Fairchild. You shouldn't have really."
"I should have and you know it."
"Do you think that Mrs. Brumble would find this an agreeable shade of gray?"
"Mrs. Brumble, eh?" Giles said needlingly with a teasing look in his eye.
"I'm quite sure she'll be charmed," Jack avowed. "Miss Cranshaw says her aunt has been asking after you. Perhaps you should pay her a visit."
Harding's head snapped his way. "Mrs. Brumble was asking after me? Did Miss Cranshaw say that? I mean, those exact words?"
"More or less. I suspect a visit from you would be most welcome at Cranshaw Park."
Harding exhaled a sigh of wonder and his face lit like the sun. "Oh, splendid!"
Giles and Jack exchanged amused glances.
"Cranshaw Park!" Harding looked down at the letter poised in his hand. "Oh, sir, that reminds me, I was greeted outside by Mr. Cranshaw's footman. He brought this note."
"Good God! Why didn't you say so?" Jack fairly lunged at his secretary, snatching it from his hands. He broke the seal and scanned it quickly.
"What is it, Mr. Fairchild?" Giles asked, straightening.
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"You look as if you've seen one of your ancestors at midnight in a graveyard."
Jack blinked slowly and crumpled the note, grinding it into a little ball. "I've been invited to Cranshaw Park this weekend. To celebrate the engagement of Liza Cranshaw and Lord Barrington."
"That's an honor," Giles remarked.
"Bloody hell," Jack cursed. "It's a raving insult."
He threw the invitation onto the floor and barked out orders. "Send word round to my cousin, Harding. Tell him I won't be there this afternoon as we had planned. I have other business to attend."
"Where are you going?" the secretary inquired, exchanging a worried look with Giles.
'To see Miss Cranshaw."
“Whatever for?"
"I'm going to ask her to marry me. And she bloody well had better say yes!"
CHAPTER TWENTY
t was a well-known fact that suppositions would be made about a reasonably attractive, unmarried man if he came to call at the home of a reasonably attractive or, failing that, rich, unmarried woman. Therefore, considering that Liza was both, Jack called on Mrs. Bramble instead. Now that he'd raised Barrington's suspicions, he had to be especially careful about appearances. Besides, he suspected he had an ally in Mrs. Bramble, and his instincts proved satisfyingly accurate.
"Good day, Mr. Fairchild," she said when the butler showed her into the drawing room. The doors closed behind her, leaving them alone in the large, pale yellow chamber. The sweet woman, wearing a pretty muslin dress and a white lacy cap, crossed the room with measured steps. "So good to see you again, my dear boy."
"Likewise, ma'am," Jack said loudly.
She stopped in front of him and proffered her gloved hand, which he kissed with special care.
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"My dear lady, what a pleasure to see you again." When he righted himself, her eyes were beaming mischief at him.
"Look here, dear boy, no sense cutting shams with me. I know why you're here. I think if we walk on the south lawn, Liza will see you at full advantage. If we then wander into the garden, it shan't be long before she decides the marigolds need deadheading. Is that an acceptable plan?"
Jack's sculpted cheeks broke with a dimpled grin. "My dear Mrs. Bramble," he said loudly in reply, "am I that transparent?"
"Utterly. And you don't have to shout. I'm not as hard of hearing as you might suppose. I turn my deaf ear when it pleases others, but I'm really quite capable of understanding anything spoken in a normal tone of voice if I turn my head just so. When you are hard of hearing, others assume you've lost your wits as well. As a result you hear the most wonderful conversations."
She smiled charmingly and Jack laughed out loud. "Good heavens, Mrs. Bramble, you are a woman after my own heart. Perhaps I should be courting you instead."
"I daresay you couldn't keep up with me." She grinned with enormous satisfaction, her cheeks wrinkling. "And I am a little old for you, though not for your charming secretary. He looks like a man who could use the companionship of a nice widow."
"Agreed, ma'am."
Her eyes twinkled with satisfaction. "I am glad you think so. It saves me from having a difficult conversation with you. Do be a dear and tell Mr. Harding that I will be at Burford's Coffee House tomorrow at four. If he should, by chance, be there ..."
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"I quite understand, ma'am. I'll see it done."
Her powdered and rouged cheek dimpled with satisfaction. "Then shall we proceed?"
******************
Just as Mrs. Bramble had predicted, it wasn't long before their stroll through the garden attracted the attention of Liza. She walked nonchalantly toward them with a basket of flowers. Jack's first reaction was undisguised joy. A second later a wave of hurt and anger washed over him. He felt as if he'd drunk acid. He'd never before known what it felt like to wait on a woman's whims. Oh, bloody hell. He was beginning to think debtor's prison was preferable to this uncertainty.
"Why, Mr. Fairchild," she called out, "fancy meeting you here."
"Liza! What a surprise." Mrs. Bramble squeezed Jack's arm and they shared a conspiratorial look. "It worked."
"You clever girl," Jack whispered.
"I'm surprised she didn't come sooner," Aunt Patty whispered in reply. When Liza met up with them, Mrs. Bramble turned from them and shooed them like flies. "Run along now, children. I'll take a seat here beneath the elm. If you continue through the arcade it will take you directly into the maze, where you'll be safe from view. I'll make sure no one follows. Your secret is safe with me."
She sat carefully in the shade and lifted her quizzing glass as if she were merely studying butterflies. Jack offered Liza his arm. "Shall we?"
When she slipped her hand into the nook of his arm, it felt like a key fitting into a lock. Still, his raw heart beat unsteadily. There was so much to say. So much to do. And no more places to hide or run.
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"This way, Mr. Fairchild," she said. She led him through the vine-covered arcade in silence, the chirping birds crying out in poignant relief. Sun blazed intermittently through the canopy of dark green triangular leaves, glinting through with heat and light, lulling them into temporary tranquility. He wished he could take her to some sort of no-man's-land, or a deserted island, where they could stroll arm in arm forever.
The long, arched pathway opened into a box maze of eight-foot-high hedges. Liza knew the convoluted way and soon they found themselves in the center of a splendid topiary garden. A half dozen large bushes had been carved into the likenesses of a hare, a squat troll, a dragon, a dove, and other creatures.
Jack and Liza stopped in the middle of the peculiar living sculptures. He'd meant to start with a lecture, to rage against the insult of being invited to the party he'd expected her to delay. But he quickly learned that when one allows feelings into the act of making love, there is no controlling the emotions that follow. When one submits to the sort of innocence that Liza had offered up like a vestal virgin at the sacrificial altar, one could not go away with a hard heart. One would very likely drown in a sea of love.
He looked down at her shining black hair, pinned up in pretty curls, and felt like weeping.
"What have you done to me?" he rasped, pulling her into his arms. He cupped her cheek and searched deep in her eyes for an answer. "What have you done with my heart?"
Tears came into her eyes and spilled from the corners.
"You have it in your hands," he said hoarsely. "You took it from me in your cottage."
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"Did I?"
"What will you do with it?"
She cupped his chee
ks with her hands and pulled his head down until their lips touched. It was a tender kiss, full of feeling. She had never felt closer to him, never felt so equal and so confident.
He pulled back suddenly. "You have to marry me."
She took in a long breath, and let it out slowly. "Jack, we've been through this repeatedly."
"This time I'm not asking. I'm telling you, Liza, you will marry me. You can pretend you don't care, but I know better. I will take you for my wife. I had a most disturbing interview with the viscount last night. So I know what is best for you, and you must do what I say."
"What?" Her jaw dropped. Eight years ago he might have commanded her at his will, but she'd grown up since then. "Since when do you make my decisions for me?"
"We'll go to Gretna Green before your engagement is announced." He started to pace. "Lord Barrington can call me out if he wants, but all he'll get for his trouble is a bullet in the heart. I don't care if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison."
"Jack, this is absurd."
"The matter is settled. In fact, I'll tell your father right now."
"No!"
He started to leave, but stopped suddenly and rubbed his forehead.
"What is it, Jack?"
"Nothing," he answered with a grimace of pain. "I will not accept no for an answer. I..."
His voice faded and he gripped his forehead with both hands, weaving unsteadily.
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"What is it? Jack, are you well? Is something wrong?"
He could scarcely hear her for the sudden pounding that had overtaken him. Damn it to hell, he would do this if it killed him. She needed him now. Marriage was the least he could do for her.
"Nothing is wrong." He tossed back his head and tried to even his wrinkled forehead. "I feel perfectly well. Now, will you be my wife and end this charade, or do I have to carry you to Gretna Green myself?"
His skin grew clammy, and the blood drained from his face. Hot air filled his lungs, and he knew in a moment he would keel over.
"Jack, you look awful. Sit down. Over here on the bench."
He felt her tugging his arm, and he obeyed, grateful for a chance to sit before he embarrassed himself by falling. He sank onto the stone bench and dropped his head into his hands.
