Fairchild

by Jaima Fixsen

  Tom, blast him, seemed almost pleased that Betty had discovered them. He’d won Jasper over; no doubt he planned to do his best with the rest of her family.

  “I hope to have the honor of calling on you in the next few days,” he said, ignoring her desperate looks. He bowed and walked back down the hill.

  When he was gone, Sophy looked sideways at Betty. “I do not want anyone to know about Mr. Bagshot,” she said flatly. “What will your silence cost me?”

  Betty hugged the drawing tablet close and smirked. “I have my duty to consider, you know. Lady Fairchild would not like me keeping secrets from her.”

  Sophy sighed. Betty would be expensive.

  They settled on three pounds, a pair of silk stockings and a Chinese fan, with a pound to follow each month for Betty’s continued discretion. An exorbitant price, but Sophy didn’t plan on giving Betty the extra money. Once Tom knew the truth and she was safely married, it wouldn’t matter what Betty had seen.

  Returning to Rushford House, they climbed the stairs to Sophy’s room. Betty entered first, her nose in the air.

  “Here you are,” Sophy said, setting the money and trinkets onto the dressing table. Betty seized them with eager fingers, making them disappear like magic.

  “I need my blue riding habit,” Sophy said. “Please have it ready in five minutes.” Alistair would be arriving shortly.

  She left. Her room did not feel like her own anymore. The only way to get the truth to Tom was in another letter and she couldn’t write that under Betty’s eye. Descending to the first floor, she closeted herself in her father’s library.

  Her mother’s garden sketch of Cordell was framed on the wall. Ignoring it as she always did, she moved to the desk and extracted a heavy sheet of gilt edged paper.

  Mr. Bagshot— she wrote, then crossed it out.

  Tom,

  I planned to confess in person, but Betty returned before I could finish. Now I have no choice but to write it down in bald words. I’m sorry, more than I can say.

  When I was your guest at Chippenstone, I lied to you. I am not Lord Fairchild’s daughter. Not his legitimate one, anyways. Your mother mistook me for the real thing and foolishly, I pretended that I was. The chance to play at being the person I will never be proved too tempting. There can be no excuse for my deceit; all I can offer in defense is that I began it as a joke, without malice.

  You and your mother were most kind to me, which makes my own actions so much worse. Because I admired you, I could not bear for you to know the truth. I should have known it could not be helped.

  I ask your forgiveness, but do not expect it. However, there is one favor I must beg. Please conceal my wickedness from my brother Jasper. If my father or Lady Fairchild should hear of it, they would never forgive me. Though I cannot, with justice, claim your compassion, I beg it anyways.

  I am so very sorry,

  Sophy Prescott

  Folding over the paper before she could reread it, she sealed it with a wafer and went to find Jenkins. He was in the pantry, decanting wine.

  “Will you deliver this letter for me?” she asked. “To the house in Russell Square?” No matter where Tom spent his afternoon, he would have to return home to change before going out with Jasper. Her letter could not miss him.

  Jenkins set down the bottle without making a sound, regarding her solemnly from his deep set eyes. “Is this the last one?”

  She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. After this message, there would be nothing more to say.

  “Then I will do it. You’ll do yourself no good my dear, going on as you are. If Mr. Beaumaris should find out, I do not think he would like it.”

  One side of her mouth lifted and fell. “Probably not. Thank you, Jenkins.”

  He straightened his cuffs and picked up the bottle again.

  “I’m happy to be of service, Miss Sophy. You’d best change. Aren’t we expecting your young man this afternoon?”

  “Indeed we are.”

  “You’ll look fine indeed on that pretty horse of yours. You’ll make us proud.”

  With Jenkins’ tender smile stiffening her resolve, she went to make herself ready. When Alistair collected her, she was quiet and composed. They found his mother in the park, riding in a barouche with a faded looking companion. Her toothy smile made Sophy want to squirm in the saddle, but she imposed an iron self control worthy of her step-mother. They returned to Rushford house in silence, Sophy counting out the minutes remaining.

  Exactly as she imagined, Alistair swung off his horse and escorted her up the stairs. Jenkins took their hats and gloves. Sophy walked into the drawing room without looking back, knowing Alistair was behind her.

  He cleared his throat. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  “Yes.” Turning away from the window, she held him off by extending her hand. He planted upon it the requisite kiss. “Thank you, Alistair. If you will allow me to tell Lady Fairchild?”

  “Of course.”

  Sophy climbed the stairs, thinking of summers at Cordell and how the fish she caught felt in her hands when she unpacked them from her basket, laying them on the kitchen table for Cook, eviscerated, limp and staring. She made it to the landing before she had to lean against the wall, biting her knuckle hard to stop herself from crying. She did not let out a sound.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Getting Scorched

  Tom arrived home late. It had been a strange day. In the early afternoon, he heard the first rumors of an American declaration of war. His firm had a ship ready to sail, but if war was igniting the Americas it might be better to refit her and send her east. He had chased through the city all afternoon looking for official news, but found none. Nothing more could be done until he knew the truth of the matter.

  His thoughts strayed again, as they tended to do. He wondered how his meeting with Sophy would have ended had they not been caught by her maid. With a kiss, he hoped. Tonight he would tell her brother all, so he could pursue her with a clear conscience. Society and her family might censure her, and she had been reared to conform, but he had seen her kick over the traces often enough. Given the chance, wouldn’t she choose to follow her heart? She would not suffer. He had money enough to give her all she could want.

  Mr. Rushford’s hat was lying on the table in the hall when he let himself in the front door. There was a letter too, with Tom’s name curling across the front in Sophy’s well-trained script. No time to read it now. Had Rushford seen it? For a second Tom debated whether he should turn the letter over. No, he decided. He was finished with concealment. If Sophy would have him, he would take her with or without her family’s consent. If she wouldn’t . . . Well, with luck it wouldn’t come to that.

  “How long has Rushford been waiting?” Tom called to his butler from halfway up the stairs.

  “Ten minutes, sir,” the man said, his face tight with disapproval.

  “Tell him I’ll be down in five,” Tom returned, shocking the butler still more.

  In fact, it took seven minutes for him to dress because his valet would not fasten his cravat while he brushed his teeth.

  “Impossible, sir!” he gasped. “You’ll crease it, or dribble!”

  Tom clattered downstairs, knowing his simply knotted cravat would draw no admiring stares, but that it was crisp and neat. He’d allowed his valet to stick a ruby pin in the folds since this was something of an occasion. Following the dictates of the polite world, his linen was spotless white, his coat absurdly snug and a sober black. His tousled, uncombed hair would pass as the popular windblown look. He would concede no more.

  Flinging into the library, he found Mr. Rushford turning over the trinkets littering his desk.

  “My sincere apologies. I’m afraid I was detained in the city. Rumors of war with the Americans. You may have heard.”

  Rushford did not look up. “Mmm, yes. I dare say it will come to nothing. Liverpool has repealed the Orders in Council. War shouldn’t be necessary n
ow he has decided to mollify them.”

  “Let us hope,” Tom said, less sanguine.

  “Something of a traveler, are you?” Rushford set down a stone arrowhead and picked up a fringed leather pouch, turning it over to inspect the intricate beading. “Afraid I can’t risk snooping. This one is interesting. What is it?”

  “An Indian artifact, from the Canadian colonies,” Tom explained. “They make these to carry the umbilical cords of their children.”

  Jasper dropped the pouch as if it had caught fire. “Delightful.” Rubbing the fingers that had handled the pouch together, he raised his quizzing glass with his unsullied hand and gave Tom a long look.

  “Am I bearable?” Tom asked, with a shadowy grin. “Or will I humiliate you utterly?”

  “You’ll do,” Mr. Rushford said. “Though you won’t draw any attention, mind. My man has an excellent way with boots. If you like, I can have him send yours the recipe.” Tom held back a laugh, sensible of the honor Rushford thought he was bestowing. He guessed the valet would be furious with his master for offering to divulge the secret to perfectly glossed boots.

  With light fingers, Rushford affected an infinitesimal adjustment to his own cravat, a rather magnificent example of the nigh-impossible Trone d’Amour. “Shall we?”

  Once settled in the carriage, Tom stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat.

  “You don’t have to do this, Rushford. My father tried to turn me into a gentleman, but it didn’t take. He gave up the second time I ran away from Rugby.”

  “Didn’t know you went there,” Rushford said, lifting his eyebrows in surprise. He paused, inspecting his manicured fingers.

  “I have no concerns bringing you with me to White’s,” he lied. “In fact, I should like to nominate you for membership. You would certainly be accepted. My word is good enough that I could nominate an ass and they would take it.” He tapped his lip with his quizzing glass. “That might be something to try, you know. I shall have to have an animal sent from Cordell.”

  “You wouldn’t purchase one here?” Tom asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Certainly not. Couldn’t vouch for its character then, could I?”

  Tom choked on a laugh. “I don’t know that I should be flattered by tonight’s invitation.”

  “Dear fellow,” Rushford smiled. “I thought we’d agreed between us that I was the ass.”

  Tom laughed. “Had we? I’d nearly forgotten.”

  “Rode with my sister today,” Rushford said, his fingers idly drumming against the side of the coach. “I expect she’d want to be remembered to you.”

  “Give her my best regards, Rushford,” Tom said. So she had not confided in her brother, nor had her maid exposed her. He should tell Rushford. Better here, in the privacy of the carriage. He could not imagine him receiving the news with perfect equanimity.

  “You may as well call me Jasper,” Rushford said, taking Tom by surprise.

  “I’m honored. You must call me Tom of course.”

  The hackney jerked to a stop. Too late. Tom disembarked with a rueful glance at the hallowed edifice. His father had never secured an invitation here, but Tom’s hopes were not for the connections and prestige he would garner, rubbing shoulders with the upper crust. He thought of the tenderness in Sophy’s eyes as she had looked at him that afternoon. Friendship with Jasper would make his suit acceptable. He would wait for a private moment to confide the truth.

  “Evening Dawes,” Jasper said to the porter. “I’ve brought my friend Bagshot this evening.”

  “Very good, sir,” the porter said, relieving them of hats and greatcoats. “This way.” He ushered them into a salon as rich and heavy as Christmas pudding. Unfortunately, he did not lead them to an empty table.

  “I’d like to introduce you to my cousin and my friend,” Jasper said, smiling. “Alistair, Andre, allow me to present Tom Bagshot. Alistair Beaumaris is my cousin,” he added, gesturing to the dark haired one. “Andre Protheroe, my good friend," he said, indicating the other. "Andre, you have seen Tom before, but I dare say you don't remember."

  "Yes I do," Protheroe said. "Foxed or no, I don't forget a leveler like that. Where'd you learn to box?"

  "Here and there," said Tom, concealing his chagrin. No doubt Jasper considered this part of the favor, introducing him to society.

  He had seen Alistair at the masquerade, and again, whispering into Sophy’s ear at the theatre. Jealous sot that he was, he had even made inquiries. Unlike the others (he had ferreted out the background of any man she happened to mention) he hadn’t considered Beaumaris a serious threat until Sophy's revelation earlier today. True, Alistair had tried to kiss her, but she’d been furious at him for that. Moreover, Captain Beaumaris was a third son without a fortune. Tom could understand an ambitious marriage—it was what he expected of the Rushfords’ ilk—but Alistair Beaumaris was not a brilliant match for Sophy, despite his looks. He’d expected Lady Fairchild to look higher for her daughter.

  “Heard anything about the Americans?” Jasper asked as they took their seats.

  Mr. Protheroe shrugged. “Haven’t asked.”

  The waiter came and poured. Tom drained his glass, hating Alistair from his sleek black hair to his tasseled boots.

  “Are you back to the peninsula soon?” he asked.

  “No, I’m selling out and settling down,” he said, with a flick of his eyes and a flash of a smile at Jasper. Jasper merely tidied his cuffs.

  They ate a surprisingly uninspired meal, subject to the curious looks of the other members who came, singly and in pairs, allowing Jasper to present his friend. Tom was too busy hating Alistair to be gratified by Jasper’s introductions. The only bright note was when Lord Harvey stepped into the room. Still tall and whip thin with a fencer’s grace, his nose was at an entirely new angle. He locked eyes with Tom, slowly turned scarlet, then spun on his heel and walked out.

  “I say,” Andre said. “Does Lord Harvey know you?”

  “We met at Rugby,” Tom replied. “But I’m afraid we were never friends.”

  When the dishes were removed, Jasper sent for a deck of cards and a bottle of burgundy.

  Alistair suggested a game of whist, which wasn’t Tom’s game. It took only one hand to discover that he had none of the devoted fatalism of his companions and only a fraction of their skill. At least he could afford to lose. Still, he didn’t like it.

  After three hands, Jasper didn’t appear to like it either, tilting his head this way and that, as if to loosen his cravat. Alistair suggested raising the stakes. Tom did not demur, and Jasper’s ears turned pink.

  Afraid I’ll think he’s brought me to the vultures to be picked clean, no doubt.

  Alistair cleared the table again, smiling wolfishly at Tom. Leaning back in his chair, Tom vowed that guineas were the only things he would ever lose to this fellow. Someday, he might even pity him. For now, he ought to pity Protheroe, forced to partner him across the table.

  “You know, I think I may have seen you about town,” Alistair said, expertly dealing out the cards.

  “It’s quite possible,” Tom returned, not yielding.

  “At the Theatre Royal,” Alistair continued, his voice definite. “You were exchanging glances with my cousin.”

  Jasper laughed. “Not with Sophy?” Tom took a swallow of wine.

  “Yes.” Alistair laid the last card with unnecessary precision.

  Jasper lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “You know, Alistair, warning away Tom is still my prerogative and I assure you it isn’t necessary. Sophy knows Tom quite legitimately. He’s our neighbor. Did her a service when she was thrown from her horse near Cordell this spring.” His bland tone advised him to dismiss the matter, but Alistair didn’t listen.

  “Didn’t I see you dancing with her at Covent Garden? A grey domino and mask?”

  Jasper was immediately attentive.

  Tom consulted his cards, playing for time. “It may have been me,” he hedged. “All the world seems to
have been there. You take a remarkable interest in your cousin.”

  “I think I have reason. She and I are to be married.”

  “That’s very well, Alistair,” said Jasper, making placating motions. “But I don’t care to have my sister talked about. If you will kindly—”

  But Tom’s temper had slipped its leash. He set down his cards. “I understand you hope to marry the lady, but I do not think it will happen.”

  “Why should it not?” Jasper asked, affronted.

  Alistair snorted. “You think to have her instead? Lady Fairchild would never dream of letting you—”

  Jasper threw out a warning hand, which they both ignored.

  “I am aware my birth is below hers,” interrupted Tom, carving out each icy word. “But I do not believe your aspirations are more presumptuous than mine. Do you think Lord Fairchild will accept your meagre competence for Miss Rushford? Family or no—”

  Jasper’s hands closed into fists. Alistair rose halfway from his chair. It was Protheroe who opened his hands in confusion. “What’s this all about? Who is Miss Rushford?”

  “I am referring, of course, to Jasper’s sister,” Tom said in exasperated tones.

  Jasper’s face bled white. Alistair blinked once, but then a cunning smile stole across his face. “Do you mean Miss Sophy . . . Rushford?”

  “Yes,” Tom said, truly angry now.

  Alistair looked expectantly at Jasper, who swallowed, groping desperately for his quizzing glass. He coughed. “There is no Miss Rushford. She is my—my natural sister. Sophy Prescott.”

  Silence fell, broken only by the clinking of china from nearby tables and the blood thumping in Tom's ears. He fastened his lips shut. She was a bastard. Not Lady Fairchild’s daughter. Probably not even an heiress.

  “We’ve said far too much already,” Jasper said. “This is not the place. Cease this discussion now or I’ll call you both out.”

  Tom scarcely heard. She was a half-caste. This is what she had meant to tell him. Without a word, he pushed away from the table. Abandoning his stake, he left the club, not stopping for his greatcoat or his hat. It was cool, out on the street in the dark. Here no man could see his face.