by Regina Scott
She glanced up quickly, but neither Millicent nor Agatha had noticed her momentary lapse. This was a different sofa. Somehow, he had managed to find an exact duplicate and slip it into the house unseen. She smiled as she envisioned him and Leslie (it would of course be Leslie) hauling the thing about.
“Anne Fairchild, I’m speaking to you!”
Anne jumped and nearly spilled her tea. “I’m sorry, Aunt Agatha.”
“Don’t woolgather, girl. If you spill tea on that sofa, I shall never find a replacement.”
Neither Millicent nor Agatha could understand why she found that remark so delightfully funny.
Chapter Twelve
Chas’ morning started no better. He woke feeling worse than if he had been heavily drinking all night. Rames, in his role as valet, seemed suddenly clumsy, slow, and entirely dim witted. His mother was clearly annoyed by his absence the day before, and the fact that Millicent Fairchild did not arrive for her morning chat did not lessen her petulance. She demanded his attention all morning, forcing him to turn Leslie away with a promise of a late nuncheon. To make matters worse, Malcolm arrived just as he was helping his mother uncover the long-unused piano in the corner of the parlor. He was forced to watch while his mother dropped a deep curtsey, head bowed but eyes shining. “My lord, you honor us,” she said with a smile.
Malcolm’s stern expression softened and he motioned for her to rise. Like a king to a trusted servant, Chas thought wryly.
“You look well, miady,” his brother said. “I trust you are enjoying your London visit.” He spared Chas a quick gaze as if to indicate he had probably had little to do with it if she had.
Lady Prestwick dropped her eyes and fiddled with the burgundy trim on her brown silk day dress. “It has been . . . pleasant.” She looked up, suddenly eager. “Will you stay to tea?”
He smiled at her. “I’m afraid not. But I hope to have the pleasure of your company for dinner.”
She clapped her hands. “Oh marvelous. Isn’t it marvelous, Chas?”
“As you can see, we are overjoyed,” Chas replied, sketching a quick bow to hide the distaste that he was sure must show on his face. When he straightened, he found his brother regarding him with narrowed eyes.
“Chas, may I have a word with you in private?”
He had known it would be coming. He shrugged with far more nonchalance than he felt. His mother’s face puckered as she glanced between the two of them.
“You have been good, Chas, haven’t you?”
Why did those words have the power to cut through his armor like a hot knife through butter? Yet even as he opened his mouth to reassure her, Malcolm answered for him.
“His behavior has been exemplary, miady. It is mine that is lacking.”
Chas stared at him even as his mother hurried to disagree. “That cannot be true! You are everything that is good and kind.”
Chas thought he saw his brother wince before managing a smile at her devotion. “You are too kind, as always. If you will excuse us, we will be back shortly.” Malcolm nodded for Chas to proceed him down the corridor to the library.
Once in the darkly paneled room with the sunlight playing on the gilt lettering of the numerous leather-bound volumes, Malcolm motioned him to one of the four leather arm chairs and took the one opposite him. Chas sat with some misgivings.
“I must apologize to you for my behavior yesterday,” Malcolm began without preamble. “While I cannot like the way young Petersborough handles the reins, I had no business using my dislike of the situation as an excuse to insult a lady. Thank you for forcing me to apologize to her.”
Chas found himself continuing to stare at his brother like a fish caught on a hook. Never had Malcolm apologized, never had he been willing to admit to the least fault in himself for which to apologize. Looking at this brother’s face objectively for the first time in years, he noted that the black hair, which some time ago had gone a dignified grey at the temples, was thinning. The aristocratic profile looked more haggard, with cheeks sunken and eyes puffy. His brother’s immaculately tailored suit sagged in places.
Chas frowned. “Are you ill?”
His brother’s blue eyes widened in surprise, then he rose, covering his surprise with a laugh. “Because I finally admitted to being fallible, you mean? I don’t have to be in my dotage to recognize a lady, you idiot.”
Chas chose to ignore the slur. If his brother refused to confide in him, it was nothing new. He could play the friendly brother as well. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs at the ankles.
“So, what made you realize she was a lady? You aren’t usually ready to rely on my word.”
Malcolm made a study of gazing out the window. “I made inquiries.”
Chas surged to his feet, blood rising. “You what!”
“Oh, sit down,” Malcolm snapped, turning. “You don’t honestly think you can threaten to kill me over a lady’s honor without my making some effort to learn her identity.”
Chas’ temper was too high to allow him to sit. He paced the room instead. “And just what did you learn?”
Malcolm shrugged, returning his gaze to the sunlight. “Miss Fairchild is obviously a lady of good family. I assume your intentions toward her are honorable.”
For a moment, Chas tried not to take umbrage, then, failing he let the temper take him. “I don’t see what business it is of yours what my intentions are. The matter is entirely between the lady and myself.”
Malcolm whirled to face him. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” he sneered. “Take what you please from the lady, and someone else will take care of the consequences. You’re no better than any of the other young bucks, littering the countryside with your bastards.”
Chas threw back his head and laughed, enjoying the look of confusion that crossed Malcolm’s face. “No score, brother. I know the ladies with whom I dally. I have no bastards. Now, let’s see, how many other ways would you like to insult me?”
Malcolm composed his face with difficulty. “I only meant to caution you to treat Miss Fairchild’s reputation with care. She appears to be a proper young lady, and I’m sure you would not want to see her treated otherwise.” He grimaced. “As you made abundantly clear yesterday.”
Chas refused to let him off that easily. “And what if I decide to offer for her?”
He had expected Malcolm to protest. No woman Chas would choose could ever live up to the name of Prestwick. To his surprise, Malcolm shrugged again. “I think she would make you an excellent wife.”
“I warn you,” Chas growled, “if you think you can keep me from her by pretending to like her . . . “.
“Oh, please,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Can we get past this childish posturing? The lady won my grudging admiration, and everything I have learned since has only confirmed it. Now, I have a pressing engagement. I trust I will see you at dinner?”
Chas nodded, still not sure how to take his brother’s attitude. Malcolm nodded in return and strode to the door. Pausing, he glanced back. “I was quite proud of the way you stood up for her. I look forward to getting an opportunity to correct her impression of me.”
Chas could only stare as he left.
Leslie found him at home for nuncheon in the cavernous dining room with drapes drawn and only half of the candles lit. The dark quite suited his mood. He had no idea where he stood--with Malcolm, with Anne, and with himself.
“You’ve been seeing the wrong kind of women, Chas, old boy,” Leslie greeted him, slapping him on the back and retreating only slightly under the returned green glare. “You’ve been spending too much energy on your guardian angel, and look at that gloomy face! Now I saw the most delectable new dancer down at the Garden last night.”
“Spare me. I find I have no interest in opera dancers.”
“What! And this from the infamous Chas Prestwick. You disappointment me.” Leslie looked more closely at his friend’s face, then, frowning, pulled up one of the satin-backed chairs to s
it beside him at the mahogany table. “Damme, Chas, but I’ve never seen you so down. Didn’t Miss Fairchild like the sofa?”
“I have no idea,” Chas replied, sipping his tea. He found himself staring off into the middle distance, wondering again what exactly had happened last night. He forced himself back to the present. “Our conversation went in a different direction, and I never asked.”
Leslie eyed him. “Then why so glum? I say, you didn’t actually propose to the girl? Is that it? You proposed, and she turned you down?”
“Don’t be a clunch,” Chas snapped. “In the first place, Lady Crawford is holding out for a title for Anne, so I haven’t permission to call, let alone propose. In the second place . . .”. He had been about to declare that any girl with Anne’s sense wouldn’t have him, but the memory of her in his arms, her lips salty with tears intruded. “In the second place, I don’t deserve her.”
Leslie looked taken aback. “Here, now, my boy. You’re not believing the tales told about you? The Chas Prestwick I know is generous, good natured . . .”
“ . . . kind to small dogs and children . . .”
“. . . thoughtful to widows and orphans . . .”
“Oh, especially widows.”
“Quite so,” Leslie agreed, nonplused. “In short, you’re the very paragon of manhood. If Miss Fairchild can’t see that, why it’s she who doesn’t deserve you.”
“Cut line, Les. None of this truly matters, as I shall never see the lady again.” He looked up to find Leslie regarding him with crossed arms. “What?”
“When you said that, you said it with the same feeling with which a man might pronounce his own death. You’re in love with the girl, aren’t you? This isn’t a game this time.”
Chas sighed. “No, Leslie, it isn’t a game. Or, if it is, Miss Fairchild has won. I can’t seem to get her out of my mind.”
“And yet you give up.”
Chas shrugged. “I see no other way. I’m in complete agreement with her aunt, you see. She deserves someone far better than me.”
“And what does the lady think?”
“I told you, I have no idea.”
“Hm, and when you say that, you sort of stare off and get a smile at the corner of your mouth.” Leslie grinned at him mischievously. “Methinks the lady finds you acceptable, and you’re too craven to go further.”
“Hang it, Les,” Chas thundered, “I told you to cut line!” He slammed his tea cup to the table with such force that the silver epergne of fruit in the center wobbled.
As Leslie eyed him, Chas steadied the cup sheepishly. “Miss Anne Fairchild is not a subject for conversation in my presence ever again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Oh, perfectly.” Leslie rose calmly and straightened his cravat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a call to make.”
“Oh? The opera dancer?”
“Certainly not.” Leslie said with a sniff, though his dark eyes twinkled merrily. “I’m far too respectable for that. No, I was much taken with a certain young lady about whom you refuse to converse. Being the only son of a lord, and therefore in line for a title, I should find immediate acceptance. I thought I might try where the famous Chas Prestwick failed.”
Chas knew his friend was teasing, but he could not help rising to his feet. “Lay one hand on her and I’ll . . .”.
“Ha!” Leslie shook a finger in his face. “That’s the spirit! Faint heart never won fair lady and all that. Come on, Chas! I’ve never known you to balk at a pair of spinsterly aunts! The girl is perfect for you--your mother and brother would probably even approve of her.”
“Malcolm has already as much as given his blessing,” Chas muttered in agreement.
“Then, what do you lose by asking?” Leslie persisted.
Chas shrugged ruefully at his friend’s enthusiasm. “Only my pride, my sanity, and my self-respect.”
“Fah!” Leslie waved them aside. “The goal is worth the risk, is it not?”
“It is,” Chas agreed and found himself smiling. “It is,” he repeated with conviction. Leslie’s words had given him the first ray of hope all day. Perhaps he could win Anne after all. If she did love him, and some of her actions the previous night indicated that she did, he’d be damned if he’d let a crotchety old termagant like Agatha Crawford stand in the way. He and Anne would elope to Gretna Green in Scotland if they had to.
“Now,” Leslie was saying, “what do you propose to do?”
Chas felt a twinge of doubt returning and fought it down. “Any suggestions?”
“None at all. I provide the enthusiasm; you generally provide the plan.”
“My, aren’t we helpful? Hm, a frontal assault is out of the question--Lady Crawford has me distinctly outgunned. I don’t suppose we could find out where they’ll be the next few nights and get ourselves invited?”
Leslie brightened.
It turned out they could and did. Leslie’s valet was a third cousin to a chap whose sweetheart was the niece of Lady Crawford’s groom, Henry. They were able to find out that two nights hence, the Fairchilds and Lady Crawford were to attend a ball at the home of a woman who had once been fond of Leslie’s uncle. It was merely a matter of paying a call to manage invitations.
The two days sped by rather uneventfully, unhappily for Chas who was unused to such inactivity. He managed dinner with his brother and mother with some success. He even played a duet with his mother on the piano, which obviously pleased her. Mrs. Fairchild did not visit again, and he hoped that he could find a way to break through the wall that seemed to separate the two families.
Unfortunately, he found himself unaccountably jittery as he prepared for the event that night. He had Rames retie his cravat three times before waving his man away and tying it himself. He went through three coats before settling for a black cutaway jacket and black breeches.
What was wrong with him? Was this how true love made a man act? Where was his self confidence, his savoir faire? He popped on his black silk top hat and made a face at himself in the mirror. Ready or not, he had to take the chance.
Leslie had just arrived as Chas came downstairs. Beside his friend stood a footman in the gold and green livery of the House of Prestwick. Chas frowned.
“When did he arrive?”
Leslie shrugged. “The carriage arrived as I did. A summons for your brother, I take it?”
The footman stepped forward and held out a sealed note. “From the Earl, Mr. Charles.”
“Thank you, Beams, isn’t it? Go warm yourself by the fire.” The footman happily complied. Chas broke the seal, wondering why Malcolm hadn’t come himself.
“Charles,” he silently read. “I find I must return to Somersetshire in all haste. Please follow with your mother as soon as possible. There is much we must discuss. Your devoted brother, Malcolm.”
“Not bad news, I hope,” Leslie pressed him.
Chas stared at the note. “My brother wants me to escort mother home. Odd--he’s never written me before, and I’ve never known him to say please as he does in this note. If it weren’t for the seal and the delivery by Beams, I’d say this was a hoax.” He shook himself. “Ah, well, there’s nothing for it. I’ll leave at once.”
Leslie looked crestfallen.
Chas grinned. “After the ball.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anne dressed for the ball with a deep sense of dread. Despite her best attempts, she had been unable to return to her normal routine. Chas Prestwick’s face seemed to interpose itself on the sheets of her music. She heard him call her name as she strolled around St. Mary’s Circle. Worst of all, Bert and Mortimer’s company seemed thin and tiresome. She seemed to have lost the brightness from her life.
Odd, she thought as she combed out her hair. Before she’d met Chas Prestwick, she’d always been able to greet each ball, dinner, or theatre party with excitement and anticipation. She could always hope that this would be the night she would meet a man she would admire and Aunt Agatha would approve. She’d often fantasi
zed what he would be like. Somehow, she’d always thought he’d be older, with grey at his temples and a dignified carriage. He’d be stiffly proper, somewhat like Julian, and she’d marry him with the full expectation of gradually growing fond of him.
Now, even if she found her stiffly formal older gentleman, he could only be found lacking when compared to Chas. Oh, perhaps he would come to appreciate her quiet sensibilities. (There was something to be said for being appreciated for one’s finer qualities.) However, she was sure she would never feel for anyone what she felt for Chas. Somehow, fondness seemed a pale substitute for passion.
And tonight would be particularly trying. The ball was being held in honor of the betrothal of Lord and Lady Baminger’s oldest daughter, Belinda. Anne had met Belinda several times and found her pleasant company; she knew it was selfish of her to want to forego congratulating the girl, but in truth she had no stomach for celebrating someone else’s betrothal. Still, only one hundred or so of the Bamingers’ closest friends had been invited, and Millicent, having gone to school and come out with Belinda’s mother, qualified to be among the number.
Taking herself firmly in hand, Anne dressed for the evening, trying to convince herself all would be well. She chose a white satin gown with a silver net overskirt that brought out the depths in her grey eyes. It had double rows of seed pearls edging the neck, cap sleeves, and hem, a high waist that emphasized her figure, and a graceful drape to the skirt. With her mother’s pearls at her neck, her dark hair held back from her face by a pearl band, and her long gloves, she felt she looked demurely festive.
Her rise in spirits was short-lived, for Agatha, in her usual black silk dress, was already disparaging the evening as they entered the hired carriage. Anne knew that her aunt was disappointed that the ball was being held in the Baminger’s town house, because the establishment boasted only a single small ballroom on the main floor, next to Lady Baminger’s famous music room. Lady Baminger considered herself a patron of the arts; it was not uncommon for those visiting her to come across a quartet of musicians playing in the music room with whatever artist she was sponsoring for the Season sketching a bowl of fruit in the corner of the room. Those who found her hobby excessive were want to say that Lady Baminger sponsored operas, while Lord Baminger sponsored opera dancers. From the size of the Baminger’s family, with all eight children lined up in the foyer outside the ballroom to take part in the introductions, Anne found it hard to believe that Lord Baminger’s interest strayed far from home with any frequency.