by Jaima Fixsen
“What are you doing here?” she asked, provoked into rudeness.
“Avoiding my mother. She lives there.” He pointed backward with his stick through fields and gardens to a faraway house. Even at this distance it was imposing.
“What about your sister?” Laura asked. He was supposed to be with her.
“She’s inside. Weeping, no doubt, all over the Mater. It’s just what she wanted. Suppose I should be happy for her.” But he didn’t lighten his scowl.
“I didn’t realize this was the way to your house,” Laura said.
He stepped forward, stopping her retreat. “How would you? No one said. Please don’t run off. I’ll lose the bad temper. I’m nearly always put out, you know, after conversations with my mother.” He forced a smile.
Laura’s throat went tight. “I’d give the world for five minutes’ speech with mine.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer. “She’s dead?”
“Last winter,” Laura said. She’d promised Jack Maman would live until spring, when he’d at least have a chance of coming home. It was stretching the truth, but they’d both wanted to believe it.
“You miss her,” he said.
Laura didn’t answer. He sighed. “I do seem to step wrong whenever we come across each other. I doubt you’ll believe me, but I’m not usually such a clod. If I promise to mend my ways may I bear you company?”
He looked repentant, if you ignored the glint in his eye, a token of malice or mischief. Laura didn’t care for either. Best to avoid him. “I prefer to be alone.”
“It’s nearly afternoon. Rest your feet a little. Won’t you come into the garden?” He gestured to the grounds behind him. “I should like my flowers to see you.”
She sniffed in spite of herself. “Sheridan again? Haven’t you any words of your own?”
“He puts it better,” Rushford said. “Come walk with me.”
Laura didn’t move. “It’s roses, you know, not flowers. And I’m supposed to carry this one home for your sister. You should go back to her. And speak to your mother,” Laura added.
He made a face. “Must I?”
Laura nodded.
“My valor is certainly going,” he began, quoting again. “It is sneaking off! I feel it oozing out as it were—” he paused, searching for the next words, so she helped him finish.
“Out the palms of your hands? Yes, I know that one too. You must be quite an admirer of Mr. Sheridan.”
He glanced at her sideways. “And Mr. Goldsmith too. You?”
“I don’t read plays,” Laura lied. “But if I did I wouldn’t trouble with those silly ones.”
“Never? Are you sure?”
“Didn’t you say you were going?”
He sighed. “Too cowardly. I can’t help myself.”
“Nor can I, I’m afraid. Good day, Mr. Rushford.”
She stalked away before he could get a better look inside her bonnet.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he called after her.
Not tonight, Laura told herself as she stepped over a rut in the road. She was inventing a headache.
*****
Sophy’s father, William Rushford, Lord Fairchild, hastened across the grass. Any faster and he’d break into a run. His breath was quick, his heart bursting against the confines of his chest. All thoughts of his promising new yearling, the owls taking up residence in the old dovecote, the tall corn ripening in the south pasture were gone. Jogging around the corner of the house he barely noticed his son Jasper exiting the rose arbor and heading for the lake. William checked but didn’t take the chase. Sophy was here; if his son wished to be present, he’d have stayed indoors. The cordial skirmish that would inevitably break out between them could wait. William rushed through the house but stopped outside the drawing room door to wipe away the nervous sweat seeping from his palms. He’d imagined this so many times it scarcely felt real.
“What have we here?” He pushed open the door. The instant before they looked up Sophy’s bright head bent close to his wife’s blonde one produced a disorienting wave of déjà vu. William wasn’t sure if he’d walked into his drawing room or a memory. He crossed the room too startled to perform the formalities.
“You’ve grown,” he said after a good look at his daughter. He’d seen her from a distance back in the spring, when he used to trail behind her horse out of sight. Pregnancy put an end to her exercise and she’d kept to her own gardens after that. He hadn’t seen her up close or heard her speak in more than a year.
“A trifle,” she said, glancing down at her swollen belly.
“It suits you,” he said. “You look well.” Her face, though a little fuller than he remembered, suffused with her familiar lightening blush. Her shoulders still looked too small and finely spun to keep her together. “Come, give me a kiss,” he said, holding out his hands and presenting his cheek.
She complied, dutifully, still a little wide-eyed for his liking, wary as a child with a wolf-hound.
“How is your husband?” William asked. Bagshot wasn’t here, but William assumed he must have consented to this visit. “He won’t object if I should call on him?”
“I suppose that depends on what you have to say,” Sophy said, her chin high as a flag pinned to a mast.
“My apologies, to start.” William wished they were familiar enough for him to laugh regretfully and chuck his daughter under the chin. “I imagine those are a necessary foundation to any friendship between him and I. And I hope there will be. I’ve missed you too much.”
It was all too much. His wife’s eyelashes already clung in spiky points and a trembling heartbeat pulsed beneath the soft web of skin strung across his daughter’s collarbones. They weren’t accustomed to each other’s unveiled emotions and their moment together had probably exhausted them. Georgiana, his wife, was drawn from worry and lack of sleep, and though it had been many years, he recalled something of the emotional storms that broke on expectant mothers. He must be tender with these two loves; he must not push them.
Inserting himself at Georgiana’s side, though it meant they had to share a single cushion, he turned the subject, asking Sophy if the baby was likely to be as long-shanked as his father. Bagshot in his stocking feet was taller than anyone ought to be. He told her about his horses and only smiled, instead of breaking into a grin, when he learned she’d kept herself apprised of their progress in the racing newspapers.
“Have you bred Hirondelle?” he asked, because it seemed gentler to leave her be and inquire after her horse.
Sophy grimaced. “I’m not sure if I can inflict this state on any creature I care about.”
“Horses make a great deal less fuss,” William argued.
“Maybe, but this feels ghastly.”
Georgiana jogged his elbow. William left it at that and asked Sophy about her garden instead. He could tease his wife about prudery later.
Chapter Nine
Malcontents
Jasper wasn’t going to speak to his mother. His temper had cooled—mysterious Miss Edwards was an excellent diversion—but saying what he wanted to say to Lady Fairchild would ruin the day for Sophy. So he rambled about the gardens, checked his watch, and wished he’d asked Sophy how long she wanted to stay. Thinking about her didn’t help, nor did the knowledge that she had more right to grudges than he. Before his scowl could set in again he quickened his pace.
The lake looked pleasing in the sunshine. Beyond that, past the welcome shadows of the woods in the tiny churchyard, the flowers he’d sown back in the spring were blooming. Jasper bent to twist off a few withered blossoms and scrape off a bit of moss creeping over the name on the headstone. Julius Francis Rushford, Beloved Son, it read above a pitiful span of years. His little brother.
The small mound was well-tended and the sight of the flowers growing over it soothed him as it always did. Fortified, he returned to the house and collected his sister, reminding her she’d promised to return home in good time. He was more polite t
han usual to his mother, blandly civil to his father, and didn’t interrupt Sophy’s contented silence on the drive home.
He brought her inside and left her in her husband’s arms. Escaping Sophy’s warbling treble—more squeak than speak—and the uncomfortable sight of her shedding tears all over Tom’s waistcoat, he sought sanctuary again, feeling increasingly restless. He was glad Sophy was happy and yet…
A quarter of an hour pacing the terrace only made him more fractious, so Jasper gave up prowling and went inside. Tom’s library was generally an interesting place. Most of the unread classics had been boxed away, making room for Tom’s oddities on the shelves: weirdly-shaped rocks, fringed leather shoes brought back from the Americas, a bit of iron machinery, and a tarnished silver cup commemorating a boxing match. Stacks of half-finished newspapers littered the tables and a pile of correspondence was sorted in a wire organizer on the desk. Made Jasper tired just looking at it, but Tom enjoyed the workings of his business, inexplicable as it seemed. Jasper pulled down a book or two and inspected the lettering on the silver cup, but couldn’t settle.
He strolled down the gallery, trying to interest himself in the pictures; he sought out Mrs. Bagshot, but learned she was again resting in her room. That worried him, her tiring so frequently. He wrote a letter to Henrietta, then tore it up because every word of it was odious and sat with his chin in his hand, staring out the window, almost sighing with relief when his attention was summoned by the click of the latch.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy.” Miss Edwards was already half out the door, a black boot heel and a swish of green muslin skirt.
Excellent. He hadn’t expected this pleasure until dinner. He had a whole store of quotes to throw at her and see if she blushed. “You aren’t intruding. Interruption was never so welcome. I’ve been brooding and that’s not healthy.” Jasper rose and started after her. “Allow me to walk you to—where is it you’re going?”
“I’m…there’s really no need.”
Maybe not for her, but he had questions. She wasn’t getting away this time. “Were you looking for a book? A pen? Writing paper?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Would you care for a walk to the village then, or the church? There are some nice windows and it’s the resting place of some painter I probably ought to remember.”
“I couldn’t impose.” The words were politeness itself, but there was no mistaking the rebuff in her face. Fine. He didn’t need to play nice. Jasper looked over the severely dressed hair, the roughened hands, the blunt fingernails trimmed right to the quick. She ducked her head, avoiding his gaze, but he could pinpoint each little deception: compressed mouth, lines etched over the cheeks, flattened, thickened brows. She was the right height. Smudges aside, she had almost the right coloring. There was the profile she’d guarded so carefully this afternoon. He could see it plainly now. That, she couldn’t change. And she knew her Sheridan.
Jasper leaned back against the doorframe. “This subterfuge is quite unnecessary,” he said in the placid voice his family was so wary of. It had been a trying day and he had kept quiet in front of Sophy, destroyed his acid letter to Henrietta. Nastiness couldn’t be constrained indefinitely. He knew her secret and she’d given him no reason to be kind with it. “Miss Holyrood, it has been amusing, but let’s not pretend we aren’t old acquaintances. Your other face is much more charming.”
She stiffened at his side, her eyes fixed on the damask-lined walls.
“Does your brother know?” he asked.
“Of course he does! Right from the beginning!” she said, stung into answering.
Jasper relaxed into a slow smile. “Does he approve?”
“That’s no concern of yours,” she snapped.
“Is Edwards your real name? I’d never have guessed.” She was uncomfortable, tensing like she wanted to flee. He realized he didn’t want her to. It might be diverting to goad her, but if he didn’t pull back the game might end right here. A sad waste, that. He could manage this better and spin it out into something truly entertaining. There were numerous possibilities…besides, already his mood was considerably lighter. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. I’ll call you that if you like. But I think this visit will be much more interesting if you soften Miss Edwards’ attitudes a little.”
Her glance heaped scorn on him. “How much money do you have riding on me?” she asked.
It took some effort, but he absorbed the jolt into a single cough. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your wager. In the betting book at White’s. I heard you and your friends laid down quite a sum over me.”
Never mind how she knew—there were ways to winkle out the goings-on in that haunt of gamblers and gossips. Perhaps she’d bribed a waiter? No matter. Jasper feared he was blushing. Thinking about it only increased the heat rising to his forehead.
“Well, none of us have had to pay up yet,” he temporized.
“Nor like to,” she smiled sweetly. “An entertaining band of rattles, certainly, but I’m afraid none of you meet my standards.” She’d returned to her green-room manner with a vengeance.
“Pity.” He sighed. “I can’t say I ever expected to do more than swoon at your feet.”
“Don’t.”
“How about after dinner?”
“Certainly not.”
“If you insist.” He smirked. “Well, could I get you to promise not to take Protheroe or DeClerc? If I can’t win at least I won’t lose.”
She glanced down the hall but nothing moved. They were alone. “I’d never—” she began in a whisper, breaking off to study him. “Actually your friend Protheroe is rather dashing.”
He’d always admired how delicately she used her claws. “He drinks too much,” Jasper said. “And I would buy you prettier horses.”
“Oh well then. Horses. Why didn’t you say?”
Yes. He’d envisioned it all, her driving a dashing phaeton with match greys in the park. Fearing his face might slip into transparency, Jasper told himself he wasn’t seriously hoping, just making a good attempt at it, playing along, following her cues.
She warned him off, unwilling to let hope run away with him. “No, darling. I’m afraid not. Are you forgetting Brother Jack?”
“Yes.” There was that. How troublesome. Jasper studied her through narrowed eyes and chewed the inside of his lip. “Your mystery lover.” It was gratifying, how the blood tainted her cheeks. “You write yourself some fascinating scripts.”
“I improvised,” she said. “I didn’t expect—well, when the papers first got wind of him, it seemed wise to make the best use I could of it. Even if I’d offered the truth no one would believe it. There’s nothing exciting about an actress and her brother.”
“You certainly caused a flurry of speculation. Just think—I could lighten despair in so many hearts if I told the truth,” Jasper said.
She tapped her lip with a cruelly abbreviated fingernail. “You won’t,” she said confidently. “You like secrets too much.”
True. They were one of his favorite indulgences. He wouldn’t give this one away, not if it could buy him something better. No need to play that card now, however. The game was just beginning. Better to wait. “Your retinue was devastated to hear you’d decamped from London.”
“Were you? I thought the story was that I was ill.”
“Yes, in the country recuperating. If they could see you now they’d—”
“Yes,” she interrupted him. “I’m not quite in my best looks.”
“Not at all I’m afraid. I think you should change.”
The brows flew up, approximating their usual curve. “Why should I do that, pray?”
“Because,” Jasper explained patiently, “I’m going to walk you to see the windows in the church. Dull stuff I know, but it’s what one does in the country. I’d hate for my magnificence to put you to shame.” He made a show of flicking invisible lint from his sleeve. “Besides I’m tired of looking at you
with that stuff on your face.”
Surprise, chagrin, irritation: they flew across her face like swallows in the sky.
“My sister won’t like it if her guests are neglected,” Jasper said to forestall her acid retort before more than the fumes could reach him. “And I’ve had as much of my family today as I can stand.” It was the truth, slipping out without the usual varnish. “Please? I’ll even make up some history about the windows.”
She laughed. “Very well. But I’m carrying an umbrella.”
To hit him with presumably. The weather was still fine, a proverbial summer’s day without any cloud.
“Bring an umbrella. Bring a poker if you wish,” Jasper said expansively. “Much better for denting my skull. But come?”
She nodded and promised to meet him downstairs.
Not bad, Jasper thought. And he wasn’t done yet. He might be able to stretch this out for weeks.
Chapter Ten
Gambling
It was folly to be pleased about discarding her disguise, but Laura couldn’t suppress the satisfaction she felt as she sponged the worry lines from her face, restyled her hair and changed her gown. She was in an awkward predicament—but it was exciting.
It was far more pleasant to spar with Mr. Rushford now all was in the open, rather than skulking about with a sour face. She’d always considered his admiration of Gemma Holyrood a compliment, even if he’d only joined her train because it was the fashionable thing to do. There was a fussiness about him she’d never detected in his friends; it was no mean thing to be singled out by a man of such particular tastes though he played court to her in a casual manner. She’d thought him much like the others and underrated him—a mistake. He should be treated cautiously, but she couldn’t seem to force herself to it.
You’re pleased he knows. That you can be something of yourself again.
Laura fixed her mother’s milky pearl drops onto her ears with a smile. She wasn’t a green girl to be bullied about or seduced by smooth words and a handsome face. He was playing some game with her, but she was quick and knew her own rules. If she’d outplayed her uncle for this long she could manage Mr. Rushford.