Mrs. Bagshot offered refreshment, which they both declined. Then Mrs. Bagshot remembered someone’s advice and straightened her back, moving to the edge of her settee. The room was still, so heavy with green velvet and mahogany Jasper feared he would soon be growing moss. It was time for some words, quickly. He’d get lost in this jungle without them.
“Have you heard from Tom?” he asked.
“Only a note saying they were safely arrived. Has your sister written?”
“Briefly.” Sophy had dashed off a letter, thanking him for his help in obtaining the marriage license, followed by several anxious queries about his parents—would they ever forgive her? Had they spoken of her at all? He had no happy answers.
Seeing Jasper’s reluctance to share the contents of Sophy’s missive, Mrs. Bagshot turned her eyes to Alistair. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I missed the connection between you two.”
“Captain Beaumaris is my cousin,” Jasper filled in.
“And his sister’s discarded fiancé,” Alistair added, ignoring Jasper’s glare.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Bagshot murmured, her needles jerking to a stop.
Stupid ass. Jasper hastened to smooth things over. “But we both realize it’s for the best. To stand in the way of a couple in love—”
“True. Not to be thought of,” Alistair interrupted. “Sophy will make a wonderful addition to your family. You must be very happy.”
“Ye-ess,” Mrs. Bagshot said, her eyes flicking between them both. “She loves my boy, and he—well, he was taken with her from the start.”
“So spirited,” Alistair said, and Mrs. Bagshot untwisted her knitting and raised her spectacles.
“She’s young,” she said firmly, after measuring Alistair with a glance. “But she chose well in the end. It sounds like she would have tried your patience.”
Jasper’s shoulders softened and he smiled at Mrs. Bagshot unguardedly. She might have reservations about Sophy, but she would stand between her and all comers, it seemed. This pleased him, even though he suspected she took Sophy’s part more out of love for her son. Sophy was a clever minx. It wouldn’t take long for her to cajole her way into her mother-in-law’s heart.
“True enough, true enough,” Alistair acknowledged, unruffled. “Her larks have thrown me into temper—oh, once or twice. Pray tell me, does she try yours?”
Jasper frowned at his cousin. That detestable face let him get away with all kinds of impertinence. Jasper had spent a lifetime watching Alistair charm his way around the weaker sex, and today he was heartily sick of it. Good for Sophy! Jilting Alistair was a kick in the head that had been too long in coming.
“I might have been vexed with her, if she wasn’t such an engaging scrap,” Mrs. Bagshot said, her smile telling Alistair she was prepared to include him in this description. “For one thing, I don’t hold with lying. The whole affair could have been managed better. It’s a sad day when parents see fit to throw off a child, and a broken engagement is no nice thing either. But all’s well as ends well, and the less said about it the better.”
“An excellent notion,” Jasper said, looking hard at Alistair.
Mrs. Bagshot lowered her spectacles onto her nose to inspect her work, counting stitches under her breath. Having reached a satisfactory total, she resumed knitting, the needles’ steady chatter filling the room. The piece was too broad to be a stocking, too small to be of use for anything else, but it was clearly meant for something—a neat stack of the things were folded next to the balls of yarn in her basket.
“So why did you come then?” she asked without looking up, before Jasper could inquire after the purpose of her diminutive project. Jasper hesitated a moment too long. He couldn’t say they were here to settle a bet.
“Vulgar curiosity, I’m afraid,” Alistair, said, his smile taking the sting out of the words.
Mrs. Bagshot chortled, answering in kind. “Came to see what you lost out to?”
“Exactly.” Alistair looked around the room. “You must forgive me.”
“I suppose no man likes to be second best,” she said.
Alistair laughed smoothly, not revealing anything. “Oh, I’m well down on the list, ma’am. Sophy much prefers her brother to me, and probably her horse too. We won’t injure my vanity by following that line.”
The anger behind yesterday’s fistfight might never have happened, but Jasper couldn’t ignore the reminder of his tender bottom lip, still a little swollen, even after the lengthy application of an oozing beefsteak. He listened warily. By all appearances, Alistair and Tom’s mother were getting along like a house on fire, but this made Jasper more nervous, not less. All week he’d been waiting for Alistair to laugh off his broken engagement. He hadn’t imagined it happening like this. Alistair was ever one for evening the score, and though Mrs. Bagshot showed a fine sense of humor for a pudding-faced biddy, there was a glitter in Alistair’s eye he could not like.
“He’s a good man, my Tom,” Mrs. Bagshot said.
“Indeed. I think I may have met an acquaintance of his the other day,” Alistair said. “Mrs. Morris? I saw her once with your son and then again in the park, with a little boy.”
Mrs. Bagshot sighed and because she was turning her knitting, she didn’t notice their waiting breath, their watching eyes. Too late, Jasper realized this wager was for much more than twenty-five pounds. If he was wrong . . . .
“That would be Anna,” Mrs. Bagshot said. “Anna Fulham, as she used to be.” Relief broke over Jasper with startling intensity and a genuine smile spread across his face. Of course he was right. If Tom had ever trifled with loose women, he wouldn’t have made them known to his mother. Whoever Anna Morris might be, she was no impediment to Sophy’s happiness.
Mrs. Bagshot’s eyes flicked up to Alistair. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Alistair nodded woodenly, apparently having swallowed his tongue. Jasper tried to contain his triumph behind a malicious smile, but couldn’t resist mouthing, “Twenty-five pounds!”
Alistair didn’t notice. He looked almost sick, or maybe that was just an effect of the upholstery. “A widow, is she?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes. Our families are old friends. Thought she might do for my Tom, but that didn’t turn out so well.”
“What happened?” Alistair asked.
“He crossed paths again with your sister,” she said, nodding at Jasper. “I don’t think he really saw anyone else after meeting her. I wish he could have handled it better. I’m afraid Tom was a trifle thoughtless and Anna was hurt. I daren’t speak to her mother.”
“You’ve known them a long time then?” Jasper asked. It wasn’t nice to bait a defeated man, but he couldn’t resist. No real harm in it. He was the one who would have to nurse Alistair out of this sulk, after all. And he’d do it cheerfully, now he knew Sophy’s peace was assured.
“Ages, yes. Known the Fulhams forever and Anna herself since she was a wee thing.” Mrs. Bagshot smiled apologetically. “Never saw a child with such a nasty temper, so perhaps it’s just as well Tom never took to her.”
“She is widowed,” Alistair said again, gone deaf or stupid with surprise. “With a son?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bagshot patiently. “Terrible shame. Been a couple of years now. I never met her husband. Well, naturally that wouldn’t have happened. I gather the Morrises were none too pleased with her family.” She looked pointedly at Jasper. “It’s a bad business, you know, weighing down a man and wife with family censure.”
“I am all agreement. Sophy is pleased with Tom, and that is good enough for me,” Jasper hastened to assure her. He cast about for a new subject, since Alistair sat paralyzed on the couch. “What is that you are making?” His mother never did anything so common (or practical) as worsted work.
“You cannot tell?” Mrs. Bagshot leaned over to the basket at her feet and unfolded one of the little squares. “See, it’s a little jacket. I’ve made caps too, to go with them. And covers to go over the nappies.”
“Only seven, so far. I’m only starting. Babies go through so many changes a day.”
Just one, or was she expecting a whole litter of them?
“Who are the Morrises? Where can I find them?” Alistair said, breaking Jasper’s stunned silence.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Bagshot said, smiling apologetically. “But Anna and her parents live in Hans Town. On Basil Street.”
“Do you know the Morrises?” Alistair asked, turning to Jasper.
He tore his gaze from the basket. “Well, there are the Warwickshire Morrises and some other ones, who claim a connection to Penderwick. Don’t know those ones. But the Warwickshire lot have a house on Mount Street.” These kind of details stuck in his head like barnacles. Pity his memory for Latin wasn’t nearly so good. He turned to Mrs. Bagshot. “Are they the right ones?”
Mrs. Bagshot shrugged.
“Anthony Morris died in a carriage accident, I think, but there’s a younger brother,” Jasper prompted, searching his memory for anything else that might cue her.
“Might be the ones,” Mrs. Bagshot said. “I heard Anna’s husband died in an accident, but I don’t know what kind.”
Alistair nodded once—a sharp movement of decision—and bounced up from the sofa as if his knees were springs. “Thank you, Madam, for sparing me your time,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Bagshot. In another instant he was nearly out the door. “Forgive me, Jasper. I’ve some business to attend to.”
Jasper settled back into the sofa. Might as well, since he was being abandoned. Besides, Mrs. Bagshot might take it as permission to let herself be comfortable. Jasper suddenly had a burning desire to find out everything she’d heard from Tom. He brought out his most engaging smile.
“Between you and me,” he said to Mrs. Bagshot, after the reverberations of the front door had stilled, “I think Sophy had a narrow escape.”
She smiled at him. “I can’t persuade you to take tea?”
Why not? Jasper accepted her invitation and set to work gently prying—few could do it better—while inwardly composing the letter he must dispatch to his sister. Hopefully it wouldn’t arrive too late. He might lack experience in the matter, but he’d absorbed enough to write a treatise on the subject. Vanquishing the urge to squirm—it was entirely wretched, having to mention these things to a sister—he accepted Mrs. Bagshot’s offered cup, refusing to look at that hideous basket. He must tell Sophy every thing he knew about preventing conception.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alistair rushed from the house, cursing himself for a complete dolt. How had he mistaken Mrs. Morris for a lightskirt? He thought he understood women.
Better hope she didn’t understand you.
But of course she had. Beneath the barbs, there had been that teasing pull of invisible spider threads between them, the way he had looked at her sideways and smiled suggestively, and—Heavens, what had he said? Not what one was supposed to say to a respectable woman, at any rate.
Alistair hailed a hackney, ordering it to set him down in Basil Street. He didn’t know the right house, but after being misdirected by a drippy-nosed kitchen maid, he was pointed to the right one by a baker’s boy.
“I’ve come to call on Mrs. Morris,” he said, handing his card to the shy housemaid who came to the door. She turned it round in her hand like she didn’t know what to do with it.
“She isn’t here,” the maid said.
“Please tell her I called,” Alistair said.
Alistair went home. His own pistol was clean, so he took care of his brother’s handsome dueling pistols, nestled inside their mahogany case. They hadn’t been cleaned (or touched) in an age. No doubt Cyril had purchased them because of their gleaming barrels and the way they balanced sweetly in the hand, tried them once or twice, discovered he wasn’t able to culp a wafer on the first go and decided to buy himself fishing tackle instead. Or a new horse. Either way, he seemed to have forgotten the pistols, which was fortunate, since the last thing the family needed was for Cyril to challenge someone while in his cups.
Tucking the pistols into the case with one last caress, Alistair restored them to the cupboard under the library window, pushing the case back into the shadows, wishing he hadn’t left his card with Anna Morris’s maid. Avoiding her for the rest of his life would be much easier than cobbling together an adequate apology, but it was too late to change his mind now. Consciences were tiresome things.
The next morning, there was a note waiting for him at the breakfast table. It wasn’t from Jasper. Inside the folded paper was his card.
You’ve made a mistake. I am certain we are not acquainted.
The blunt hostility took him by surprise, but he supposed there was something to be said for going straight to the point. He kept his reply similarly brief.
Perhaps not acquainted, but when you see me, I think you will know who I am. May I see you?
The answer came two days later, addressed forcefully in thick black ink, resting beneath another letter from his colonel. Alistair opened the colonel’s letter first—it was his marching orders. No surprise there. Anna’s reply, though, was unexpected. Her letter had only three sharp words, gouged into the paper:
No. Go away.
She’d probably ruined her pen. Alistair tapped his lip thoughtfully with the folded paper. He’d tried. Really, there was little point in forcing himself upon her notice, and every reason to forget the matter entirely. Except he could not. Why was she living in a shabby genteel part of town instead of with the Morrises? And why did she refuse to meet him?
“Who’s that letter from?’ Cyril asked from across the table.
“A lady.”
Cyril hooted softly, but Alistair didn’t notice. He read the three word message again and downed the last of his coffee. He’d tried conventional means. It was time for something different. Forgetting his toast, Alistair plowed out of the dining room.
Cyril set down his fork, staring at the empty door long after his brother was gone. “Lucky sod,” he muttered.
*****
Hans Town was south of Mayfair, and it was a presumptuous kind of place. Nice enough, but it wasn’t the best, no matter how it tried. The house on Basil Street was a three story brick building, as like to its neighbors as a row of uniformed soldiers: warm brick, thick white trim, a bow window on the second floor. The only thing different about this one was that it had no topiary on the steps.
Alistair stationed himself across the street. A swirly iron railing belted the house beside him, like a bad waistcoat on a man carrying too much flesh. The railing had too many embellishments for his taste, but it looked clean, so he settled against it to wait. In the peninsula, one made up for the terrifying rush of thunder and blood with twenty times the waiting, so he was used to passing time. He took out his Horace.
He read without interruption for an hour or so, until a maid from one of the houses tried plying him with questions. He gave her a smile that made pink erupt in her cheeks. Losing courage, she scurried inside. Silly thing. She’d get into trouble if she wasn’t more careful.
His legs grew stiff and his shoulder complained, but he kept his post, one eye on his book and one on the door of the house where Mrs. Morris lived. Occasionally he noticed the passers-by: a nursemaid towing a trio of fair-haired boys, and a kite big enough to fly away with at least one of them, two ladies confiding in the shade beneath their parasols, a grocer’s man pushing a wheelbarrow with carrot tops sticking from beneath a ragged tarp. A natty looking tilbury rattled by, earning a longer look. If he could, he would buy one just that blue color.
Still no movement from the house. He shifted again, debating whether he ought to try knocking. Perhaps she didn’t intend to go out today, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why one would choose to stay penned inside on a warm day like this. Drawing his flask from his pocket, he
took a long swallow. His hopes lifted when a shiny carriage drawn by a nondescript pair of black horses rolled up, but it stopped in front of the house next door, which opened to admit a portly man in a striped coat, his old fashioned wig dusting his shoulders with hair powder. Alistair started forward as the door to her house finally opened, but again was disappointed. The woman who issued forth wasn’t Mrs. Morris. She was a tall, bracket-faced woman buttoned into a sober pelisse and wearing dark gloves.
“Anna!” she called, and Alistair straightened from the railing.
Anna Morris stepped outside, almost a mirror image of the woman who must be her mother. Her gown was so plain she might have vanished into the brick work, her face hidden by a close fitting bonnet trimmed with a single wide ribbon in an uninspiring rust color. The low heeled boots she wore slapped against the steps as only sensible shoes can, nothing like the clipping of the pretty red heels she had worn the week before.
“Mrs. Morris,” he called, hastening across the street, dodging a dust-covered landau in need of a wash. If he didn’t move fast he would miss his chance. “Mrs. Morris!”
She heard him the second time and turned her head. Under the brim of her bonnet, that lovely mouth was almost invisible in her bleached face. Her eyes were twice the size he remembered. For a moment he thought she was about to faint. Her hand shot out to halt his approach, but then she seemed to recover, turning to her mother with a straightened spine.
“This is an old friend of Mr. Morris,” she lied without blinking. “Well, sir, what brings you this morning?” There was nothing welcoming in her face or words—unsurprising, given their previous meetings. He’d expected disdain, but this wasn’t that. It was fear.
“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked.
“You can see we are just going out,” she said, tugging on her gloves, which was hardly necessary. The York tan fit as closely as her own skin.
Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) Page 4