by Jaima Fixsen
Lord Fairchild’s lips twitched but they were incapable of forming a smile. “I seem to always be thanking you of late. You’ve been terribly decent about all this. I wish you knew how sorry I am.”
“It’s nothing,” Alistair said, uncomfortable with undeserved gratitude. He hid behind a quick swallow of brandy, forgetting it was vile.
“Tastes like horse piss, doesn’t it?” Lord Fairchild said, as Alistair grimaced.
Alistair could only nod, glad he was spared the indignity of blushing. The economies forced on the family by his eldest brother were becoming even more shameful.
“Cyril’s a careless fellow,” his uncle said, neutrally, like he was commenting on the weather. “Another reason my wife liked the match. You were always her favorite nephew. She worries about your future.”
“She needn’t,” Alistair said.
Lord Fairchild leaned back in his chair, carefully preparing his words. Alistair braced himself. A charitable offer was coming. He could feel it.
“I could help. Buy your next commission or help you find a place in the foreign service if you’re tired of the army.” Lord Fairchild looked up from his steepled fingers to meet Alistair’s eyes. “You held up your side of the bargain. I owe you something.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair said. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was pity.
“Think about it,” his uncle said.
He ought to. Now that he’d lost Sophy and her comfortable portion, he needed some plan for his future. Even if the war did last forever, he wouldn’t be so lucky.
“I couldn’t. And there’s no need,” he said.
Uncle William looked at Alistair’s glass. He set it down, annoyed. “I shall be quite all right, I assure you,” he lied. The longer he stayed in England the more he realized his family was in trouble. Despite his mother’s prophecies of disaster, no one had seriously attempted to check his brother. How could they? Their father was ailing and Cyril was nearly at the point of stepping into his shoes. There would be no gainsaying him then, and he knew it.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” Lord Fairchild stood, reaching for his hat and gloves, still reposing on the sofa cushion. “If you could make time to call on my wife in the next day or two, I’d be grateful. She misses you.” No doubt Aunt Georgiana felt guilty.
Well, he might not mind commiserating with her. They’d always been in tune, and unlike Jasper, her loyalties were with him. Alistair promised to make a point of it. His uncle left and a minute later so did he, setting out to find Jasper, more depressed about his errand than before. He cared for Sophy. Truly. He always had, warming to her elusive light and her laughter, not just the comfortable life she promised. But his face didn’t look like her father’s, worn and without hope and weary, which told him a sad thing: he cared, but not nearly enough. Sophy, with all her talk of hearts—filled and lost and breaking—had surely known.
Chapter Four
A Friend, or a Thorn in the Side?
Of course Jasper could never be found when he was needed. It was true to his nature, Alistair supposed: self-indulgent and thoroughly annoying. Returning home, late and unsuccessful, Alistair committed himself to more aggressive tactics and told Griggs to make sure to wake him before nine.
A circuit round the park on his black gelding the next morning also failed to turn up his cousin, so Alistair rode directly to St. James Street. Jasper, the lucky dog, had sufficient means to keep his own rooms there. Dividing his time between London, a hunting box in the country, various jaunts to Newmarket, and—just the once—a walking tour in Scotland, Jasper managed to spend very little time within sight of his parents, a policy he’d pursued since first being sent to school. Alistair sympathized. A career in the army did much the same thing for him, but without setting up his parents’ backs.
He found his cousin presiding over a magnificent breakfast, just as a gentleman of leisure should: ale in one hand, the racing form in the other, and a plate piled with sliced beef in between.
“Look at this,” Jasper said, forgetting yesterday’s quarrel and jabbing a finger at the paper beside him. “Fancy Piece beat Gordon’s Zephyr by a length—a length, I tell you!”
Alistair paused before taking the proffered chair. “I’m glad to see you. Yesterday—”
“All forgotten,” Jasper said, with an impatient wave. “But this upset! Wish I had seen it. Williams will be flying high—and Gordon ready to chew nails. We’ll see them both at the club today, if Gordon can stand to watch Williams gloat.”
“I doubt he has the choler for it,” Alistair said.
“Pity. ’Twould be amusing.” Jasper glanced up at Alistair and realized he had something on his mind more important than horses. Or horses belonging to other people, at least. He took a fortifying gulp of ale. “It isn’t nice to come so early on serious matters,” he complained.
“I’m afraid it’s important,” Alistair said. “The woman with the boy who saw us yesterday. I’ve seen her before.”
“Hmmn.” Jasper was only mildly interested. “Fine looking lady, I admit, but no hope for either of us. Unless she felled you with that disgusted glance, I don’t see any problem—hey, aren’t you still in love with my sister?”
Sometimes talking to Jasper was like walking through heavy brush. You couldn’t take a step without picking up irritating burrs. “That’s not why I came.”
“It would be a good thing for you to fix your attentions elsewhere,” Jasper said, pulling a pencil from behind his ear to circle the name of a horse.
“I dare say.” Alistair glanced across the table at the paper. It wasn’t a horse. The listing was promoting a cockfight.
“Well, who is she?” Jasper finally asked.
“A chère-amie of Bagshot’s.”
Jasper froze, his ale halfway to his mouth, frown lines gouging his forehead. Silently he set down his glass. “Can’t be,” he said. “Bagshot’s too much of a reforming bent for that. Methodist. You know the type.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a good Christian got his feet dirty,” Alistair said.
“I don’t believe it,” Jasper said. “What makes you think so?”
“I saw him.” Alistair told him about the masquerade, and the proprietary way she had spoken of Tom.
Jasper fidgeted with the paper. “Too late to do anything now, even if he was mixed up with her,” he said. “Sophy’s stuck with him, and he knows better than to carry on with prime articles now. New one for you to come out all prunes and prisms. Would you have told Sophy of your Spanish beauties?”
“That’s different. I haven’t gotten any children,” Alistair said. “And you know I haven’t done more than dance with another female since Sophy came to town.” Jasper’s gaze didn’t soften, so Alistair added, “I would have told her, when the time was right.” It was an uncomfortable, ridiculous notion, but it was only fair.
“How do you know Bagshot didn’t? Dalliance doesn’t seem his style, but I suppose it’s possible,” Jasper said, his intense study failing to char the meat remaining on his plate. He shook his head. “No. Sophy wouldn’t fall for a dirty dish like that.”
“She’s very young,” Alistair said gently. “He can’t have told her—she’d have raised a hell of a dust.”
Jasper flicked him a skeptical glance.
“The boy in the park?” Alistair prompted, knowing this was the crux of the matter. Tom Bagshot probably had given up his mistress—he seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely the night of the masquerade. Mrs. Morris—if that was her name—was probably pensioned off, dismissed. But Sophy wouldn’t stand for Tom hiding a child from her. She knew the plight of illegitimate children too well.
Jasper understood at once, but he struggled with himself, not wanting to admit it. “Just because an incognita was marking Tom doesn’t mean he let himself get caught. You sure she’s in the game?”
“I spoke to her. She’s a lightskirt. I’m sure of it.” He couldn�
��t say which of them had turned the conversation down shady paths, but she hadn’t pulled back. She’d matched him, step for step.
Jasper picked up his fork, turning it in his hand so the light from the window danced across the walls as his face darkened. A thought came to him, clearing his countenance. “Normally I’d believe you. You’re a good judge of these things. But this one can’t be. Lightskirts don’t parade their brats around the park. Whatever she is, I’d lay money she isn’t that.”
Alistair clenched his teeth. “How much?” he demanded, unwilling to back down.
“A pony,” Jasper said.
Alistair snorted. “You can’t be that sure then.” Twenty five pounds was a paltry stake.
“I don’t steal from my relatives.” Jasper gave him a steady look. “You’re taking Sophy’s rejection too hard. Not thinking straight. Have some breakfast.” He got up and went to the sideboard for a plate.
Alistair waved it away. “You named your stake. Let’s settle this thing. If it’s true, Sophy ought to know.”
Jasper thought for some moments, drumming his fingers on the side of his thigh. “All right then. Haven’t anything better to do.”
He waited, all easy complacence, provoking Alistair to snap, “It won’t be easy. I doubt Morris is her real name.”
Jasper shook his head, breezily confident. “We’ll know the truth by luncheon. And when I relieve you of your money, you can thank me I didn’t take more.” He met Alistair’s look with a grin. “Come on. I expect Bagshot’s mother knows the lady and this is all a mare’s nest. Sophy loves Tom and she’s a right one. She wouldn’t fall for a man who wasn’t of solid worth.”
“We’ll see,” Alistair said, picking up his gloves. Yesterday’s fist fight was more than enough. He must keep his temper, no matter how pressed.
“Well, he must be something, if she preferred him to you.”
It required self-control of heroic proportions, but Alistair limited himself to a single muttered curse. Of course Jasper only laughed.
*****
Of all the things Jasper might have anticipated today, paying a morning call on Mrs. Bagshot was not one of them.
He had been to the house on Russell Square before. Both the address and the style of furnishing shouted that the family was new money, but Bagshot’s mother surprised him today. They found her in the drawing room, bundled into the corner of a green brocade sofa. Instead of obscuring her dumpy figure with an invention of silk, lace, and ribbon, she wore a calico gown suitable for a housemaid. Unnerved, Jasper paused on the threshold. If she wasn’t prepared for company, she shouldn’t have let her servant show them up.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Do we find you indisposed?”
Her cheeks flamed and she jumped to her feet, curtsied and took her seat again, weak apology and stout defiance warring across her face. Jasper held back a laugh. She was vibrating between the two like his mother’s dinner gong.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I am being comfortable today. I didn’t expect visitors.” She was clearly incapable of unkindness; a species of woman he had heard existed, but never chanced across. For a half-second, Jasper wished he could introduce her to his own mother. Useless, that. Lady Fairchild would never see past such eagerness to please, or that shabby cap.
“Do not let us trespass then,” Jasper said, preparing to remove himself as delicately as he could.
“You’re here already,” she said, picking up her knitting from the cushion beside her. “You may as well say your piece.” With a pudgy finger she pushed her gold spectacles off her forehead and onto her nose.
“You are too kind, ma’am,” Alistair said, swiftly crossing the room and taking a seat. “Jasper, would you be kind enough to present me?”
Jasper made careful introductions, realizing it would have been better if he’d come alone. Alistair was still angry and that made him liable to act snappish, beneath the most exquisite manners of course. Mrs. Bagshot, a simple soul, might not detect—no, a vain hope that. When Alistair meant to slight, his targets felt it. Damn. There was going to be trouble.
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!”