Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  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.

  Rugby had nothing on this. Would he be able to wash this shame from his skin? He feared it was tattooed across his forehead. Dupe. Climber. Fool.

  “Wait!” It was Jasper, running after him, half-in and half-out of his greatcoat. “Don’t leave, Tom.”

  Turning up his collar, Tom kept walking. Jasper followed at his heels.

  “Wait, man. There must be a reason.”

  Tom froze, glaring at the hand Jasper laid on his arm until it was delicately withdrawn. “I will not make more sport for you, for your cousin, or for your sister. Good night.”

  “I did not know. I would not have insulted you for the world,” Jasper spread his hands wide. “But I must know. Have you been meeting my sister?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Jasper stiffened. “I will trust that in other respects, you have behaved the gentleman?”

  “Perfectly,” Tom snarled, increasing his pace until Jasper had to trot beside him.

  “Did she tell you she was a Rushford?”

  “Yes.”

  Jasper swore. “I don’t know what the little fool was thinking, but she wouldn’t have meant to embarrass you. She’s no end of trouble, but she’s not a snob. Think man! Why would she be? She’s spent half her life tiptoeing around my mother. She knows exactly where she stands—tolerated on the fringes of our family.”

  “She’s a lying jade!” Tom spat, curling a fist menacingly. “Condescending to my mother with her grand manners! Mocking me like I’m some kind of bloody climber!”

  Jasper rocked back on his heels. His mouth hardened as he looked away, brushing the sleeve of his coat. When he spoke, his voice was cold. “It appears we cannot be friends. I suggest we part.”

  “Agreed. I’m not interested in friendships with useless muck-a-mucks or their lying sisters. Honest folk are good enough for me.”

  Leaving Jasper fuming, he stormed off down the street, heedless of puddles and filth, anger threatening to explode out his fists. He could not reason or be still, so he walked instead, frightening strangers out of his path.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In the Basket

  A hand seized Sophy’s shoulder. Plummeting from clouded dreams, she awoke in her own bed.

  “What?” she gasped, jerking upright and clutching her bedcovers. Was it fire? Flinching away from the dazzling light beside her, she blinked until her room materialized and the light became a flickering candle, held aloft in Lady Fairchild’s sculpted marble hand. Her face made Sophy’s heart seize.

  “What’s wrong?” Sophy croaked.

  Lady Fairchild’s voice caught. “Is it true? Did you tell them you were my daughter?"

  Sinking steadily into trouble’s dark waters, Sophy felt cold waves lap over her head. She couldn’t breathe.

  Lady Fairchild closed her eyes and exhaled. “Heaven help us. You did.”

  Sophy squirmed but couldn’t make a sound. Lady Fairchild’s chest
rose and fell, each breath louder and deeper.

  “I did not teach you to lie and sneak.” Her voice was like her best china, splintered into shards. “I can only speculate which of your parents gave you that ability. Nor can I hope to comprehend how you could be so foolish. Such a lie, Sophy! And to such a man! It’s a miracle the story hasn’t infected all London.

  “Alistair swore it was true, but I could not believe him. If he doesn’t take you and if the story gets out, no one else will.” Swallowing, she seized Sophy’s wrist with her free hand. “You must tell me what happened when you met this man.”

  “Nothing! I swear there was nothing untoward.”

  Lady Fairchild’s shoulders sagged like a tired doll’s. She released Sophy’s wrist, weaving her fingers between Sophy’s own, lifting their joined hands to place a kiss on Sophy’s thumb. “Thank God. We can save you yet. Come, we must tell your father.”

  Wrapping herself in a shawl, Sophy followed Lady Fairchild into the corridor, her bare feet curling away from the cold floor when she stepped between the carpets. Her heart raced like scrambling mouse feet. Her throat felt full of sand.

  She followed Lady Fairchild into the library. Her father was waiting for her, turning over a paperweight of Venetian glass in his hands.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Not beyond repair,” Lady Fairchild said.

  “Of course it isn’t!” Sophy said, stung. “Tom never even tried to kiss me—not like Alistair.”

  “And what has he done?” Lord Fairchild demanded, thumping the paperweight onto the desk. Sophy jumped.

  “Kissed me,” she said, her voice small. “That is all.” Unable to meet Lord Fairchild’s eyes, she fixed her eyes on the paperweight. Green waves swirled within clear glass flecked with gold. It might have held a genie in its depths, but he was trapped as surely as she.

  Lord Fairchild straightened his waistcoat. “Why were you meeting this man?”

  “It was a chance meeting at first. Henrietta and Percy took me to a masquerade ball. Alistair came with us. I found Tom by accident, but seeing him made me so happy, I had to see him again.” She looked up at her father, beseeching. “I met him at the library when I went to exchange my books, and sometimes saw him from a distance in the park. That is all.”

  “You shall not be permitted so much license in the future. Do I make myself clear?”

  “She can have none at all,” Lady Fairchild interjected. “Society is not forgiving. She and Alistair can marry at Cordell, spend the winter in Suffolk and make an appearance in London next year. If any rumors have leaked out, they will be forgotten by then.”

  “You think he will not object?”

  Lady Fairchild stared at him coldly. “He is not such a fool.”

  “Must I—” she had to speak now, before she suffocated. “Must I marry Alistair?”

  They fixed her with identical stares. “Certainly,” Lady Fairchild said.

  “But I love Tom. I have considered marriage with Alistair, and I do not think I can do it.” Her careful reasons for obeying were scorched and gone, leaving only ash. She simply could not.

  “Pfft.” Lady Fairchild stepped up to Sophy, tucking her shawl around her shoulders. “Real life is not made of such candy floss. It is made of duty, family and honor. You cannot be such a child.”

  Sophy could take no more. Tears spilled down her cheeks. It was too late now, but if she had spoken the truth, it should have been possible. It would have made no difference to Tom. He would have loved his neighbor’s bastard as well as the legitimate daughter of the house. Surely it was her lies, and not her birth, that were freezing his heart. She could have been happy with Tom, had she not been such a fool.

  “We will explain matters to Alistair,” her father said. “Wait here. He will wish to speak to you himself.”

  He was at the door, holding it open for his wife when the words broke free. “No, father. Please. Please don’t make me.”

  He glanced back, but said nothing, continuing out the door.

  *****

  William stood with his hand on the closed door, trying not to see his daughter’s streaked face. He was not good with teary pleading. The delicate and unpleasant conversation he must have with his wife’s nephew would be infinitely worse with Sophy’s eyes haunting him. His hand tightened on the knob. For an instant he would have gone back to wrap his arms around her and let her cry out her broken heart. She could whistle away Alistair, if it made her happy.

  A choked sound from Georgiana’s throat brought his feet back to earth. “What?” he asked. She spun away from him, her nightdress billowing out like a cloud, her ankles flashing as she ran down the hall. He had never seen her run. If anyone had asked, he'd have said she didn't know how.

  “Georgiana?” he whispered, already too late. She didn’t stop. Hell. Breaking into a run, he followed after, taking the stairs two at a time. In the upstairs corridor, he caught her by the arm.

  “Let me go!” she hissed, endeavoring to shake him off.

  “Georgiana!” He kept his voice to a whisper, mindful of the sleeping house. The servants mustn’t know tonight’s business. “What is it?”

  Her face was twisted, her skin blotched red. She quivered in his grasp, avoiding his eyes.

  “We need a word. Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course.” His wildest guesses would never have predicted distress like this; it covered him like frost pictures creeping over a windowpane, turning him cold. She needed something, but he did not know what. If he tried to help, he was just as likely to set the charges of the mined ground between them.

  “You’re weak,” she spat. “I can see it. You’ll let her have that rascal, just to please her. She’ll love you then, no doubt.”

  “You think so? I doubt it.” Reason had taken hold of him now. “I do not foresee approving an alliance with Mr. Bagshot. He hasn’t asked my permission for any such thing, so I am disinclined to favor his suit, should marriage be his actual intent.”

  Hope gleamed in her eyes, quickly concealed. “You think him an adventurer?”

  “I see little evidence to the contrary.” Sophy was too young and raw to know the difference. Even a plebe like Bagshot knew the proper course to take, if his intentions had been honorable. A quick marriage was probably best. Alistair was a smooth fellow and would know how to turn Sophy’s wounded heart in his favor.

  “I’m upset too, Georgy,” The old name slipped out, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Sophy’s mistake is serious and unkind to you. But I cannot understand this response. You said yourself we can mend this.”

  She refused to answer, gathering her skirts. Tightening his hold on her arm, he moved to block her path.

  “Let me by,” she demanded.

  “After you tell me why you are so upset.”

  “You have no right to my thoughts.”

  “True. But I ask you to share them, so I may help if I can.”

  She turned her face aside, her words coming forth haltingly. “It must be Alistair. Without Sophy I have no one. I’ll be alone.”

  She shut her eyes, waiting for him to speak, but he had no words.

  Silence was a mistake. Lashed into a fury, Georgiana spat, “You’ll give her what she wants. She’ll take your heart and walk away with it, just like her mother, that little bi—”

  “Stop.”

  Taking advantage of his shock, she ripped her arm free. “You defend her to me? Still?”

  “I am the one you should blame.”

  “Believe me, I do.” Shouldering past him, she swept down the corridor.

  “Georgiana.” He did not trouble to whisper now. She stopped, but did not turn around. “You needn’t worry. I will not see you left alone.”

  *****

  Sophy refused to show Alistair a tear-stained face. Because she had no handkerchief, she dried her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress and held the backs of her cold hands to her hot cheeks. />
  Her father should understand. He had known love. Her mother’s painting, hung so he could see it from his desk, made that very plain. If he cared for her he would not be impervious to her pleas.

  It was a lovely painting, executed with tenderness and skill, but it was not the real thing. Had her mother known the difference? Had she left her lover determined or despairing? Tonight her father was ordering her into another kind of counterfeit life and giving her no choice at all. Then again, what kind of choice had her mother’s been? Sophy turned away from the picture, wondering what had driven her mother. Did she have enough hope of her own?

  The door clicked. It was her father, bringing Alistair and Jasper with him, Jasper hanging back like a shadow. She looked Alistair in the eye.

  “Did my father tell you why?” He would not wed her if he knew she loved Tom, whatever Lady Fairchild said.

  “I did not ask,” he said, his cool outplaying her belligerence. “Making sport of the Bourgeois made perfect sense to me. I shall not soon forget his face changing color as he realized the truth. It was rather gratifying.”

  Of course, Sophy thought numbly. He feared no rival now. She’d been a complete fool, leaving herself open.

  “You’ve framed our difficulty exactly,” her father said, frowning at Alistair and Jasper. “If he is as angry as you say, how can we hope for his silence?”

  Alistair smiled faintly. “You worry too much, uncle. Who would he tell? More to the point, who would listen? You may trust me with Sophy’s honor. I shall not permit anyone to use her name lightly.”

  That she could believe. Alistair was known for his marksmanship.

  “Obliged to you.” Her father looked pleased.

  “May I see Sophy alone?” Alistair asked.

  Her father wouldn’t permit that. Not with her in her nightdress, her toes naked and exposed.

  “I’ve rung a peal over Sophy already, Alistair. She looks tired.”

  “You mistake my intent, sir,” Alistair said. “I wish only to reassure her. This situation might have been avoided, had she not been so apprehensive. I ought to have done more to relieve her anxiety.”