“She hasn’t ever been before.” Lady Valéry stopped on the bottom step and watched Miss Fairchild enter the carriage. “I wonder what brought that on.”
Sebastian glanced at Lady Valéry’s thin, upright figure. By God, she was the opponent of every man in England. A power-dealer, knowing more about the government and its works than most of Parliament and knowing, too, how to direct the course of legislation. He had to get that diary, not just to protect Lady Valéry’s privacy, but to halt the spread of her sedition through all of the British Empire. If other women discovered it was possible to rule, and wisely, too, what use would they have for men?
He handed her into the carriage and stepped away, knowing the ladies would need time to arrange themselves and their belongings before he could join them. With a meticulous eye for detail, he studied the three vehicles. The wheel hubs shone from the labor of the wheelwright. Beside each coachman on his high seat sat a footman armed with pistols—highwaymen were always a problem. And each carriage carried an extra footman, his own or Lady Valéry’s, in case of accident or in case the horses, excellent animals all, needed tending. The two lady’s maids rode in the second carriage while his very efficient valet supervised the servants from the last.
Even now, a well-bundled Gerald strode along the length of the procession, doing his own last-minute check, and when he came abreast of Sebastian, Sebastian said, “We should reach London within the fortnight, God grant us good weather.”
When the man turned his head toward him, Sebastian realized his mistake, and wondered why he’d made it. This fellow wore rough wool, not elegant broadcloth, and the muffler that covered his head and mouth had clearly been knitted by some granny in the hills. Gerald would never have been caught dead committing such a sartorial sin, yet this man—this footman?—had the same air of command that distinguished the upper servants from the lower.
But when he spoke, he used English well leavened with a Scottish accent. “God’ll grant us good weather until we leave Scotland, m’lord,” he said, “but after that we’ll be in the Devil’s hands.”
“A proper Scottish sentiment.” Sebastian couldn’t help it; he grinned. Such a defiant spirit amused him. “Why are you going, if you find England so repugnant?”
“Someone has to go along to watch Miss Fairchild.”
Normally, such impertinence would only amuse Sebastian more, but something about the way those blue eyes watched him wiped the smirk from his lips. The fellow was confronting Sebastian, man to man, and Sebastian didn’t care for the challenge. “She’ll be fine, I assure you.”
“Nay, I assure you,” the fellow said. “And that’s why I should continue inspecting the procession.”
“You’re a footman?” Sebastian asked.
“The ostler.”
And did this ostler imagine himself a suitor to Guinevere Mary Fairchild, descendent of a noble English line? “What’s your name?”
“Haley, m’lord.”
Sebastian hesitated. He should dismiss the man, tell him he’d lost the right to care for his beloved Miss Fairchild by his effrontery, but something about the way Haley stood—shoulders back, hands on hips—told Sebastian he would be wasting his breath.
“Very well,” he said. “Watch over Miss Fairchild if you wish, and do that by making sure our journey is a smooth one.”
“To that end, my lord.” Striding to the back of Lady Valéry’s carriage, Haley eased a large wash pan from beneath the ropes that held it. “Take this.”
Sebastian gingerly took the banged-up old thing between two fingers. “What is it for?”
Now Haley was grinning. Sebastian could tell by the crinkles of merriment around his eyes.
“It’s for Miss Fairchild,” Haley said. “She is not a good traveler.”
Chapter 6
Blearily Mary lifted her head from the pillow. The carriage had stopped swaying, the wheels had stopped their eternal clamor, and the door opened to let in a draft of fresh air.
“Sit up, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield said.
“Oh, now what?” Miserably aware that her appearance must be as wretched as her constitution, she groped on the floor for her bonnet.
“We have arrived.”
The significant tone of his voice brought her erect as nothing else could do. She clutched the edge of the narrow padded seat that had been her bed for too many days. “At Fairchild Manor?”
“Come.” His hand, marked by that forbidding scar, appeared beneath her nose. “I’ll carry you.”
“I don’t want you to,” she muttered as she tied the bonnet under her chin.
“You never want me to,” he answered. “But I doubt you wish to pitch forward onto your nose.” He paused for a beat. “As you did before.”
He wouldn’t let her forget it, either. That first night on the road from Scotland had not been one of her brighter moments, true, but a gentleman would have simply offered his services without constantly harping on one wretched incident in that filthy inn.
Resentfully she put her hand in his and let him pull her off the seat. As she had every evening on the journey from Scotland to London, then again on this ride to Fairchild Manor, she balanced herself with her hands on his shoulders while he eased her through the door. Without ever letting her feet touch the ground, he picked her up with an arm beneath her back and one beneath her knees.
She hated this. She hated being touched, especially by him, especially now. On the way to London, she’d been protected by layers and layers of thick wool cloth. She hadn’t liked being handled, but she’d been sick enough to be resigned.
Then they’d stopped in London for a whirlwind buying tour. Lord Whitfield had insisted, and Lady Valéry agreed, that Mary be outfitted with garments from the inside out. The new styles, the modiste had explained, eschewed whalebone corsets and petticoats. Instead, Mary wore a high-waisted satin and velvet gown over nothing more than a chemise and underpetticoat. Worse, as they’d traveled south into Sussex, the weather had grown warmer and she’d had to discard her pelisse.
Now Lord Whitfield’s fingers pressed into her ribs, his palm rested on her thigh, and the contact she’d been scrupulous about avoiding, that of flesh against flesh, was sensuous reality. When the material slipped, he touched her in a new place. When he adjusted her in his arms, he violated another portion of her skin. With each breath, his chest moved against her and she clasped one hand over her stomach to ease the anguish. This wasn’t traveling sickness, but the sickness of a woman so accustomed to loneliness, she’d forgotten the comforts of human touch.
Lord Whitfield reminded her of that too forcibly as he carelessly stripped the cushion of time and distance away, and she feared that when he finished with her, she would once more be needy, dependent Guinevere Fairchild.
Worse, he would know, and revel in it. She had no illusions about Lord Whitfield. He would use her, and if he hurt her in the process, he would consider that a bonus.
She’d met a man like him before. She’d killed a man like him before.
“I don’t mind if you look sick,” Lord Whitfield said in an undertone. “But do you have to look frightened, too?”
“I am frightened.” Not of the Fairchilds, as he imagined, but of him.
“Do you want them to know?”
“Of course I don’t want them to know.” He made her so angry. “I don’t want them to know anything about me. But you’ve taken care of that, haven’t you?”
A small grin tugged at his mouth. “Now you look incensed. That’s better, I suspect.” He rejoiced, she knew, in his role of conqueror, returned from battle with his spoils. With her. If he’d planned it, he couldn’t have created a better scene than this.
“Have you got her?” Lady Valéry leaned on the cane she seldom used, giving the impression—false, as Mary well knew—of fragility. “Poor dear,” she said to Mary. “I’ll wager this is not how you pictured your return.”
“I never pictured my return at all,” Mary answered, and
it was true. Imagining Fairchild Manor and all its inhabitants crushed by her magnificence had been one of the many satisfying fantasies she’d not allowed herself.
“We’re here now,” Lady Valéry said. “The worst is over. You won’t have to travel again.”
“Until we leave.” As miserable as Mary had been during travel, she still hoped they would leave soon. Now would be even better.
“Let us complete our mission.” Lord Whitfield swept an austere glance about them. “Then we’ll discuss escape.”
What was it he saw that put that expression of disgust on his face?
Cautiously she lifted her gaze to the facade of her ancestral home.
She had hoped that her youthful fancy had created a structure bigger and brighter than it really was, but no. The gleaming white marble edifice hadn’t shrunk in the intervening years. The mansion still swallowed the sky with its height and spread like a bloated belly across the Sussex plain. Each finial, each cupola, each balcony, had been chosen with care to create an overall impression of wealth. Fabulous, overwhelming, consumptive wealth.
Emotions buffeted her. She wanted to shrivel with shame. She wanted to scream with rage. She wanted to own part of, be part of, the Fairchild legacy.
Yet she hated the house, the legacy, and the Fairchilds, and nothing could change that. Nothing, no matter how long she lived.
And Lord Whitfield, she saw, hated them, too. Hated all of them. Even her, the woman he brought as an offering, the woman he would pretend to love.
Perhaps the anguish he created when he touched her wasn’t merely the collapse of isolation. Maybe it was hate, burning through his soul and touching hers.
She glanced longingly toward Lady Valéry’s carriages and escape. The Scottish servants were already unloading the trunks, and the ostler was speaking to the horses, rubbing their noses, telling them they were almost done. Mary wondered why he still wore a roughly knit scarf tucked around his face and a cap pulled over his ears.
Then he turned and looked at her.
She blinked in astonishment, and looked again.
It wasn’t Hadden. The man was old and stooped, and he limped as he turned his back and walked toward the next team of horses. She simply missed her brother, and saw what she wished to see.
“Pay attention.” Lord Whitfield squeezed her. “The show is about to begin.”
Servants lined the walk between the carriage and the door. Some of the younger maids and footmen poked each other and giggled. Female guests didn’t arrive carried in a man’s arms, as Mary well knew, and as well as she could, she tried to appear dignified. After all, she’d been a housekeeper, in charge of youngsters like this.
Then a burly footman stepped out of the crowd and bowed. “M’lord, would you like me to carry the lady?”
“No one is allowed to touch my precious Miss Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield said. “She is mine, and mine alone.”
Mary clenched her jaw to contain the words that wanted to boil forth. He mocked her and claimed her in one brilliant stroke, for this bold declaration had reached the nobleman who stood staring from the top of the broad stairway.
She strained to see. It wasn’t Ian, her dark-haired rescuer of yore. She relaxed. Praise God it wasn’t Ian. She wasn’t ready to meet him yet. “Who is that?”
“Bubb Fairchild, the new marquess of Smithwick.” Lord Whitfield smiled broadly and nodded up at Bubb. “The head of your family.”
“My God!” Bubb started down the stairs. “Is that you, Whitfield?”
“Your eyes don’t deceive you,” Lord Whitfield agreed. “I’ve come to attend your house party—should you wish to extend me an invitation.”
As Bubb neared, she could see he looked like a Fairchild. Like her. Like Hadden. Only richer. He fairly reeked of money. A tailor had worked for days on the frock coat he wore so carelessly. A barber had styled his blond curly hair so it curved around his round cheeks. A valet had shaved his strong chin without a nick. He embodied the skill of a battalion of servants, and at the same time, he was flawless in himself. In his fifties, he was tall, well formed, and handsome enough to send women’s hearts fluttering. If ever a man was built in the image of God, then God must look like Bubb.
He batted his brilliant blue eyes. Incongruously dark lashes lent him an innocent appeal, but his smile was different from Mary’s. He smiled as if he meant it.
“Good God, man, of course you’re welcome to my house party!” He extended an arm as if he would give Lord Whitfield a manly hug.
Mary felt Lord Whitfield stiffen.
Bubb must have seen, for smoothly he changed his gesture and clapped him on the back, instead. “If you hadn’t ignored so many invitations before, I would have sent another one this time. And you brought…?” He smiled at Lady Valéry, and she smiled back.
“My godmother, duchess of Valéry.” Lord Whitfield introduced them, his gaze never leaving Bubb.
As unself-conscious as a babe in arms, Bubb beamed a welcome at the older woman. “It is an honor to have you in our home.”
Lady Valéry inclined her head gracefully, accepting his words, and Mary heard Lord Whitfield suppress a sigh. He’d hoped for some indication of guilt, then, and failed to find it.
Then Bubb transferred his attention to Mary. His gaze inspected her from head to foot, and she gripped Lord Whitfield tightly as Bubb inventoried the same similarities she had noted.
He beamed and waggled his head in what surely must have been an imitation of delight. “Is this who I think it is? I know where all the rest of the relatives are—at least all the legitimate ones.” He stepped closer and bent so he smirked right into her face. “Is this Guinevere Mary Fairchild?”
His singsong tone made Mary’s already unsettled stomach even more rebellious, but she answered as civilly as she knew how. “Yes, I am.”
“Guinevere Mary Fairchild.” Bubb almost cooed. “Guinevere Mary Fairchild. We’ve been looking for you across the length and breadth of England.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute, and she let her skepticism show in her voice. “Why?”
Bubb clapped his hands together. “You’re jesting.”
She just stared at him.
Bubb stared back. “You’re not?” He spoke to Lord Whitfield. “Didn’t you tell her?”
Lord Whitfield smiled so pleasantly, Mary knew instinctively he was annoyed. “I left that privilege for you, Fairchild.”
“Tell me what?” Mary was fed up with people talking about her as if she weren’t there.
Bubb’s sumptuous blue eyes grew wide, and he sucked in his breath. “Tell you…tell you that you, Guinevere Mary Fairchild, are an heiress. My father left the entire unentailed Fairchild fortune to you.”
Chapter 7
“Send for my wife!” Bubb led the way to his massive study, shouting all the way. “We need Lady Smithwick. Nora will know what to do. Put my dear niece there on the couch.” He jerked on the bell rope. “Has she been ill long?”
Lady Valéry walked at Sebastian’s side and held Mary’s limp hand in her own. “The poor dear, coming here is such a profound experience for her. She’s simply overwhelmed.” Overwhelmed by the news she was an heiress, Lady Valéry thought sourly. Why had Sebastian kept that a secret?
Seeing the scornful look he cast around Bubb’s exquisitely appointed study, she answered the question herself.
Because he feared should Mary know of her good fortune, she would refuse to come to Fairchild Manor, and he needed her here. As a distraction, she was already proving her worth.
Sebastian laid her on the couch, then sat beside her. He was worried, Lady Valéry could tell. He hadn’t supposed that Mary would faint. Lady Valéry had been a little surprised herself, but unlike Sebastian, she realized Mary’s debility was more a result of traveling sickness combined with shock rather than any actual physical weakness. Besides, she suspected Mary was parlaying a mild swoon into the time she needed to collect her composure. A housekeeper didn’t find o
ut she was an heiress every day.
Bubb grabbed the footman who answered the ring of the bell. “Send for my wife. We need her now.”
The footman was evidently used to Bubb’s outbursts, for he spoke calmly. “Lady Smithwick is on her way, m’lord. Would you like me to pour some spirits?”
“Spirits? Spirits?” Bubb’s voice got louder and louder. “Spirits for a poor crushed flower of womanhood?”
Lady Valéry settled into a chair and with her cane moved the ottoman close enough to put under her feet. “I’ll take some spirits. A little brandy, if you please.”
Bubb cast her a wild glance, but her stern aspect recalled him to his duty as host. “Of course, Lady Valéry. And Whitfield, would you care for—”
“Yes, brandy.” Sebastian had unwrapped Mary’s frivolous bit of a hat and was involved in removing her crespin. For some reason, he’d taken a dislike to that crespin and had spent their whole time in London trying to convince Mary to discard it.
His insistence surprised Lady Valéry. After all, the netting kept Mary’s curly mass of hair under control, but then…maybe Sebastian didn’t want it under control.
Lady Valéry watched as he spread her hair across the hard square pillow under Mary’s head. No, Sebastian wanted Mary under control, but not her hair.
Mary’s hand came up and grasped Sebastian’s wrist, and she said something—“Stop,” it looked like—but her voice was too soft to carry across the large chamber. Sebastian leaned close to Mary and spoke gently, and he had to be charmed by the picture Mary presented.
She wore clothes well. Even Lady Valéry, as discerning as she prided herself on being, had been surprised when Mary had clothed herself in the first of the new gowns. The pale blue velvet bodice accented Mary’s lavish blue eyes, and the midnight blue satin skirt wrapped around Mary’s legs when she walked, releasing hints of the charms beneath to the discerning watcher.
Sebastian had ever been a discerning watcher, and he knew, if Mary did not, that together they made a striking couple. In fact, Lady Valéry mused, if they’d only been nude, the two of them could have been models for a naughty miniature the Danish ambassador had given her during his last visit.
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