The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress

by Victoria Alexander

  “Good day, Miss West,” Phineas said. “What a delightful surprise.”

  She scoffed, then turned her attention to Cam. “And Mr. Fairchild as well. Excellent.” Her eyes narrowed. “It will save me the trouble of running you to ground.”

  “Clara.” A warning sounded in Phineas’s voice. She ignored him.

  “And good day to you too, Miss West,” Cam said.

  Miss West cast him a withering glance. “Do sit down, gentlemen.” She pulled off her gloves. “I have something to say to Mr. Fairchild and I don’t want the two of you looming over me while I do it.”

  As neither man was more than a few inches taller than Miss West, looming seemed impossible. Still, Phineas and Cam exchanged glances, then obediently sat.

  Miss West glanced around the room. “Have you insulted Mrs. Wiggins again, Mr. Chapman?”

  “I would never insult Mrs. Wiggins,” Phineas said indignantly. “But she does have a tendency to be rather thin-skinned. I simply told her there was no longer any need for her to waste her time in this room.”

  “Of course you did.” Clara rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Well, I haven’t the time to waste on you at the moment either. I don’t intend to stay long.”

  “For which you have my undying gratitude.”

  “No doubt.” She settled in the chair behind her desk and turned her attention to Cam. “I shall be brief. I have decided to tell Miss Merryweather the truth. About everything.” She met Cam’s gaze firmly. “I cannot continue to deceive her. It’s simply not right.”

  “I see.” Cam thought for a moment. The truth about everything would include his deception. He couldn’t allow Miss West to reveal that. “And which truth would that be?”

  “What do you mean which truth?” Her brow furrowed. “The truth is the truth. Period.”

  “It’s not quite as cut and dried as that.” He studied her. “You say you cannot continue to deceive her.”

  She nodded. “Nor do I intend to.”

  “Yet, it seems to me you have already told her the truth about your experience as a companion. Have you not?”

  “Well, yes but—”

  Cam continued. “And are you or are you not legitimately employed as her companion?”

  “I am but—”

  “Has anyone else employed you to watch or protect her?”

  Miss West’s gaze shifted to Phineas, then back to Cam. “No, of course not, but—”

  “Does your business relationship with Mr. Chapman, past or present, have anything whatsoever to do with your current employment?”

  She paused. “Other than leading me to the position in the first place, no, not really.”

  “Then I don’t see deception on your part at all.”

  “He’s got you there,” Phineas said.

  “Perhaps you’re right, in some sort of convoluted, morally questionable way,” she said. “But the fact remains that you are deceiving her and I am a party to your deception.”

  “Point to her,” Phineas murmured.

  “I know and I apologize for putting you in that position. And, as much as I hate to admit it, you’re right as well.” Cam heaved a heartfelt sigh. “I am deceiving her and I too have decided it’s not right.”

  Suspicion shaded her tone. “You’ve decided that, have you?”

  Cam nodded. “I have. It has weighed heavier upon my conscience with every passing day.”

  “He was just saying as much before you came in,” Phineas said helpfully.

  “Was he?”

  Cam drew a deep breath. “Are you going to tell her about me?”

  “I fully intended to but . . . the fact that you have a conscience at all is something I didn’t expect.” Miss West drummed her fingers on the desktop. “She likes you, you know.”

  “Does she?”

  “Quite a lot, I suspect.” Miss West blew a frustrated breath. “I would like to tell her but I have no desire to be the one to inform her that this man she regards as honorable and a gentleman is in fact only interested in the stories he can write about her.”

  “That might have been true in the beginning but . . . I like her as well.” Cam shrugged in a helpless manner. “I beg you not to tell her.”

  She studied him closely. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  He met her gaze directly. “Because I should be the one to tell her.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “When you say you like her—”

  “She is the most remarkable woman I have ever met,” he said simply. “She has worked her way into my, well, affections I suppose.”

  “I knew it.” Phineas cast him a smug smile.

  “And I do not want to lose her.” Even as he said the words he realized the truth of them. Blast it all, could he possibly be in love with the maddening American? Surely not. Still, he’d never been in love before and it did explain why he was so determined to save her from herself.

  She stared at him for a long moment, no doubt assessing his sincerity. “I have absolutely no reason to believe you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “And yet . . .” She threw her hands up and sighed in resignation. “It seems I do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me.” She shook her head. “I am the least of your problems. If you don’t think of some brilliant way to get out of this mess, she will never forgive you.”

  “I realize that.” At once it struck him that he would do very nearly anything to prevent that. If this was indeed love, one would think it would be far easier.

  “One can only hope, my lord, one can only hope.”

  “Yes, well—” He stared for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “How long have you known? Did Chapman tell you?”

  “I would never!” Phineas huffed, then stared at Miss West. “How did you know?”

  She cast them both a pitying look. “There was no need for Mr. Chapman to tell me. I discovered your true name and position shortly after I met you. It wasn’t especially difficult.”

  “I told you she was brilliant,” Phineas said in an aside to Cam.

  “Indeed you did,” Cam said under his breath. And she would make a far better ally than enemy. “That’s probably something else I should confess to Miss Merryweather.”

  “I would think so.” She eyed him closely. “As I see it, you need to reveal everything to her as soon as possible, before she finds out some other way. She already realizes you’re not exactly who, or rather what, you say you are. You have my word I will not tell her the truth about you.” Her gaze locked with Cam’s. “But I will not lie to her if she asks me a direct question.”

  “Something like, ‘Do you know Mr. Fairchild is a reporter and the son of a duke?’ you mean?” Phineas asked in a deceptively innocent tone.

  “Sarcasm, Mr. Chapman, is not appreciated.”

  “On the contrary, Miss West. Sarcasm is always appreciated.” Phineas smirked. “At least mine is as it is infused with wit and tempered with wisdom.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head in a long-suffering manner and continued. “You might also wish to reconsider any stories you may be planning to write about her.”

  “Stories I may be planning?” Cam said slowly.

  “You told me at the start of all this you were going to write stories based on Miss Merryweather.” Her brow rose. “Dare I hope you have found a more appropriate subject?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Cam resisted the urge to trade glances with Phineas. Apparently Miss West was not aware that four installments of Daring Exploits had already appeared, including one in today’s Messenger. “Nor would I imagine I could ever do so.”

  “No, Miss Merryweather is indeed unique. And while she hasn’t been especially secretive about her activities, she does not want them shouted to the world either. If you do intend to pursue her affections”—she pinned Cam with a hard look—“I would suggest you find your inspiration elsewhere.”

  “Although he ha
d planned to write his stories strictly as fiction,” Phineas said mildly. “He is surprisingly skilled at his craft, Miss West. I daresay he is good enough to make certain no one would identify Miss Merryweather as the lady in his stories. Should he write them, that is,” he added.

  “I imagine Miss Merryweather would.” Miss West shook her head. “While you may well be able to explain your deception thus far and gain her forgiveness, I doubt that she would ever be able to forgive you using her for your own purposes. She would see it as a betrayal of her trust.”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” Cam said slowly. She was right, of course.

  “Very well then.” Miss West rose to her feet and started toward the door. “One more thing.”

  Cam stood. “Yes?”

  “Do not take my willingness to keep your secrets and allow you to tell her the truth as so much as the slightest encouragement as to some sort of match between you and Miss Merryweather. I still do not trust you. However, as you pointed out”—her assessing gaze slid over him—“you are not substantially worse than any other man, although I do think she could do better. But she is a grown woman and well capable of making her own decisions. And when it comes to affairs of the heart, even the most intelligent among us usually refuses to listen to reason.”

  “The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt Lucy,” Cam said staunchly.

  “What we want does not always reconcile with how things turn out in the end, my lord.” She pulled on her gloves. “You should know she expects you to apologize for your high-handedness last night.”

  “And I fully intend to do so.” Cam nodded. “However, I also reserve the right to tell her the truth when I think the moment is most opportune.”

  “It’s not something he can just blurt out, you know,” Phineas pointed out. “Timing, in a situation like this, is crucial.”

  “Nonetheless, the longer his deception continues, the less likely she is to forgive him.”

  “There is that,” Phineas murmured.

  “Very well then.” She stepped to the door. “I anticipate seeing you soon, my—Mr. Fairchild.”

  Cam nodded.

  “As for you, Mr. Chapman.”

  Phineas got to his feet. “Yes?”

  “Do allow Mrs. Wiggins to tidy up on occasion.” Her tone was firm but a definite twinkle shone in her eye. Hard to believe but there it was. “I would hate to find you swallowed up by disorder upon my return.”

  Phineas bit back a grin. “Faith, Miss West. One must always have faith.”

  “And a broom would be helpful as well.” She opened the door. “Good day, gentlemen.” She took her leave, snapping the door closed behind her.

  “It seems to me,” Phineas began slowly, “that if she is unaware that you have already begun writing and publishing your stories—”

  “Then Lucy is unaware of them as well.” Cam nodded. “That is a relief.”

  “Then do you plan to stop writing them?”

  “Absolutely not.” Cam scoffed. “They’ve been quite well received and were not written by me, after all, but by Mr. Aldrich.”

  “Ah, yes, that makes all the difference.”

  Cam raised a brow. “Miss West was right about sarcasm, you know.”

  “Then appreciate this.” Phineas crossed the room to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of Scottish whisky. “There’s a flaw in your thinking.”

  “I don’t see one.” Cam accepted a glass, Phineas filled it, and both men retook their seats.

  “First of all, and as much as I hate to admit it, Miss West was right.” Phineas took a long sip of his whisky. “Whereas your fictional interpretation of Miss Merryweather might fool the world as a whole, she might be able to identify herself in your stories. I daresay Miss West could as well.”

  “Nonsense.” Cam scoffed. “There are distinct differences between my fictional heiress and Lucy.”

  “They are both American and both are on some sort of quest initiated by a dead relative.”

  “They are entirely different.” Cam waved off the comment. “Mercy is trying to gain her financial independence so that she is not forced to marry a lout who only wants her for her money. Lucy already has financial independence. Her quest is more of a moral obligation.”

  “And in the second installment didn’t our fictional heiress disguise herself as a harem girl and ride a camel to become part of a sultan’s traveling entourage in order to find one piece of the puzzle she is looking for?”

  “A camel and a harem girl are entirely different from an elephant and an Indian princess,” Cam said firmly.

  Phineas’s brow rose.

  “Admittedly, there might be some similarities. . . .”

  “Some?” Phineas snorted. “Parallels is more accurate.”

  Cam ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach. No, Phineas was wrong. Lucy was sufficiently disguised. “Besides, as few people in London know Lucy and fewer still know of her quest, I am confident no one will connect my fictional heiress with Lucy.”

  “Except, of course, Miss Merryweather herself. And very nearly as bad”—Phineas raised his glass—“Miss West.”

  Cam grimaced.

  “So in this confession you intend to make to Miss Merryweather . . .” Phineas studied his friend with barely concealed amusement.

  What kind of friend took pleasure in the dilemmas of another? Cam brushed aside the fact that he would be doing exactly the same thing if their positions were reversed.

  “You’re not going to tell her about the stories?”

  “I don’t see why I would. It would simply be adding fuel to the fire. Telling her my real name and that I’m not an investigator but a writer is enough fuel to deal with already, thank you.”

  “So when it comes to ambition versus affection . . .” Phineas eyed him thoughtfully. “It would appear ambition wins.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.” Although Phineas did have a point.

  “It seems to me if you’re going to eliminate the rather pertinent fact of your stories from your revelation, there is only one thing you can do.”

  “I know.” Cam tossed back the whisky in his glass. “Make sure she never finds out.”

  Chapter Ten

  The butler directed Cam to the conservatory in a tone that should have given Cam pause, but he was far too concerned with rehearsing both his apology and his confession. Neither one was yet to his satisfaction, which was why it had taken until midafternoon before he finally arrived at Channing House. He had already learned to expect the outrageous from Lucy but he had never expected this.

  It took him a moment to realize exactly what he was seeing. The conservatory soared nearly two stories. The outside walls were paneled with glass framed in iron, the floor paved with an intricate pattern of red and blue tiles. Condensation beaded on the glass. Moisture hung heavy in the air, pleasantly warm and scented with the rich smell of earth and the vague sweetness of flowers. Wooden benches here and there bordered a wide pathway leading to a large palm that grew nearly to the ceiling in the center of the room. A myriad of tropical plants competed for space amid lush greenery and exotic blossoms.

  Several feet in front of the palm, slightly off to one side, a tall, dark-haired man stood before an easel, paintbrush in hand. A stool by his side was littered with paints and rags and all sorts of artistic paraphernalia. From the door, it was impossible to see exactly what he was painting.

  Cam stepped into the conservatory and only then saw past the artist.

  Lucy reclined on a blue brocade chaise, her elbow resting on the chaise’s arm, her head turned over her shoulder, her knees bent and stretched out to one side. Her blond hair was loose and drifted in waves to the middle of her back—her naked back.

  “Good God, Miss Merryweather!”

  Her shoulders tensed, then relaxed. “Good day, Mr. Fairchild,” she said brightly. “I would know that outraged, indignant voice anywhere.”

  “Are you mad?�
�� He started toward her.

  “I can hear you approach, Mr. Fairchild. Do not take one more step,” she said in an unyielding tone tinged with what might have been a touch of panic. “As you can see, I am posed quite carefully. I would be most embarrassed should you see more than I would prefer.”

  “I have already seen a great deal!”

  “Then consider yourself fortunate and turn around. At once, Mr. Fairchild!”

  “Very well.” He huffed and turned.

  “Your timing, Mr. Fairchild, is abominable,” she said coolly.

  “My apologies!”

  “Jean-Philippe has taken great pains to get me into this pose—”

  Cam snorted.

  “And I have taken great pains to make certain he did not see more than was necessary. It took longer than I expected, as he is extremely difficult to please for a man who is being paid for a service.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle,” the artist murmured in a heavily accented voice.

  Another Frenchman? Where did she find them?

  “Aside from arranging me to his liking—”

  “No doubt,” Cam muttered. What was the woman thinking?

  “—he rearranged greenery and fiddled with shading and angles and positions for what seemed like forever. I can’t tell you how many times he repositioned this chaise in order to get it just right.”

  “One cannot simply throw paint on a canvas and hope for greatness, mademoiselle,” the artist said absently.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, and Cam could hear the smile in her voice. “I would hate to go through all that again, Mr. Fairchild, simply because you have deigned to make an appearance in a flurry of shock and righteous indignation.”

  Cam clenched his teeth. “Again, my apologies.”

  “Accepted, although you don’t sound the least bit sincere.” She paused. “You may turn around now.”

  “Thank you,” he snapped, and turned.

  Lucy stood in front of the chaise, tightening the sash of what looked like a long men’s dressing gown. The silky fabric was patterned in hues of greens and blues, complementing and blending with the colors of nature in the conservatory. In truth, in that garment with her hair caressing her shoulders, the American looked like some sort of magical forest creature made of shadows and light who would fade into the foliage at any moment and disappear. He realized the robe had been draped low on her back when he had first seen her and had covered most of her legs. Most but not all.