by Julie Beard
Jack's fingers seemed to crawl of their own accord across his desk until the letter was safe in his hands. He held it to his nose. Was there still the faintest whiff of perfume, or was he imagining it because Giles had told him the writing had come from a woman's hand?
"Oh, this is absurd." He slid his thumb under the top fold and broke the wafer seal. The paper, which folded in on itself and had thereby served as its own envelope, sprang open, revealing an intricate scrawl, much of which had also bled after getting wet. His gaze combed to the
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bottom of the page, and when he saw that it was signed only with the initials "L. C," he sighed in frustration. He'd have to rely on content to figure out who'd written it.
"Dearest Mrs. Halloway," he read softly to himself with a slight sense of guilt. "I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to inform you of my decision on whether to marry Lord B. I can confide in you alone, for you are the only one who knows the real reason why I am even considering marriage to his lordship."
"Hmmm," Jack said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. So this missive was very much intended for privacy. He shouldn't read any further. But how could he return the letter if he didn't know who'd sent it? He silently read on:
/ have finally come to a fateful conclusion. My inclinations on the subject were decided two days ago when the viscount and 1 were walking in the garden with Aunt Patty. I tripped over a rock the gardener had misplaced, and his lordship merely laughed. And then while Aunt Patty and I did our needlework in the shade of the old oak, he strolled through the rose garden. When I looked up a few minutes later he was fornicating with the new chambermaid, quite literally. Poor girl. Of course, I had to come up with an excuse to let her go, for it was clear that this had been a prearranged rendezvous. It is one thing for a servant to be prevailed upon against her will, but this clearly was not the case. The truly shocking thing about it was that the viscount had timed it for this occasion, when he knew I would be in the garden to watch. And he did so in such a location that
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he knew I was the only one who would see it. Blessedly, I could only see them from the waist up, for the roses impeded my view. What I saw filled me with disgust. They were like two rutting dogs. Forgive my frankness, my dear Mrs. Halloway, but I think it necessary that you fully understand the depths of his lordship's depravity, since you alone have advised me in this matter. Thank heaven Aunt Patty didn 't see it. She was oblivious as usual. Before it was all over, his lordship looked up at me and grinned. I knew what he was about. He was trying to show me the power of his position. He wanted to make sure I understood precisely what sort of marriage he was offering me, and now I most certainly do. I smiled back at him, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of my distress, though you can well imagine how I felt. In light of this incident, I must marry him, for I know he would be willing to go to any lengths to ensure he gets his hands on my dowry; for he has no scruples. I have accepted his offer and Father is proceeding with negotiations for a marriage settlement. I can only hope my decision will benefit Desiree. I know you will understand and agree with my conclusion. Please write when you can and let me know how you are. Give my love to your cousin.
Yours,
L.C.
Jack stared in numb disbelief at the beautiful, deeply slanted script. He felt as if his head had just been twisted backward and everything was topsy-turvy. This letter
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made no sense. It reeked of such apparent grace and maturity that the contrast to the crude events described could hardly be fathomed.
"Why, she can't marry such a jackanapes!" he muttered to himself, then wiped a hand over his weary features. Good God, how many more women would impale themselves on duty, or status, or any number of other misguided notions of what constituted a good reason for marriage? What on earth could possibly make marriage to this cretin nobleman necessary? Jack ached for this girl. And though he did not even know her, he knew what misery was in store for her.
Jack's parents' marriage had been a match made in hell. His father had been the son of a wealthy merchant. Jack's mother had been a blue blood, the daughter of a baron whose finances had temporarily taken a tumble nearly thirty years ago. Lord Tutley had needed an influx of money to restore his personal fortune, as his barony barely provided for itself. So he'd convinced his daughter to marry an untitled but rich man whom she did not love. The handsome settlement from Henry Fairchild had solved Tutley's financial problems and had in fact led to investments that eventually made him very rich.
Jack's father, of course, had been motivated by the opportunity of marrying into the aristocracy, of having a noble son, since Baron Tutley had no other children or grandchildren to inherit the title. There was no thought whatsoever given to affection, much less love, and none had existed in their pragmatic union. No one in the Ton expected love in marriage, but Jack's mother had been unique. Her father had indulged his only child with great affection, and then had foolishly expected her to enter a
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loveless marriage. The rest of her life was an open wound that would not heal. Jack well remembered the emptiness of Fairchild House, the clock ticking endlessly and deafeningly in the sitting room as his mother frowned over her needlework, waiting for her husband to come home from the clubs.
Later, when all pretense of an affectionate marriage had disintegrated, Jack remembered the formal dinners at a table so long that his parents never had to risk eye contact. Jack, who negotiated a peace in the middle of the table, could hear himself chew in the painful silence. The only other sound was that of his father's knife cutting too deep into bloody meat and scraping the fine china with a ticklish squeak. It was a raging, deadening silence born of indifference that had grown from ignorance and disappointed expectations. The discomfort in their home had been so great that as Jack grew older the very notion of marriage gave him the same deadening, sickening feeling he'd had whenever he contemplated his parents' marriage. It wasn't a logical thing, for he knew happy marriages did exist; rather his reaction was instinctive, so deep-rooted it never occurred to him to try to cure the problem.
Jack had simply sworn as a child never to marry for convenience, and since he wasn't intimately acquainted with love matches, the thought of marrying for companionship never presented itself as an option in his mind. Truth was, the very notion of any kind of marriage at all made him physically ill.
And so as he clutched this letter in his hands, picturing what was in store for this poor young lady, perspiration beaded on his upper lip and he grew light-headed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing as he fought for a steadying breath of air. This poor lady. This poor, dear
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girl. She couldn't do this. She simply couldn't.
Giles popped in. "Mr. Fairchild, you'll need to find out—"
"Giles," Jack jumped in, wiping his upper lip, pinning his clerk with a serious frown, "who do you know in this town who bears the initials L. C?"
Giles shrugged. "Why, a few people come to mind."
"Yes, yes! Who?" Jack gripped the edge of his desk.
"There's the rat catcher's son, LiamCarew. And a yeomen's wife named Lu—"
"Someone who might be considering marriage to a viscount," Jack cut in impatiently.
"Oh. That would have to be Miss Liza Cranshaw."
Jack sat up slowly. "Liza?" The image of the woman in the carriage careened in his mind. "Not her. Oh, Lord, surely not her."
"She is the daughter of Mr. Bartholomew Cranshaw."
"Cranshaw?" The significance of the name finally penetrated like a swallow of bad gin. Jack cleared his burning throat. "You mean—?"
"The man you need to hire you as his solicitor. The richest man in town. The only rich man in town, in fact."
"Bartholomew Cranshaw? Of course." Jack let out a bark of mirthless laughter. "Liza Cranshaw is his daughter. Naturally. How could it have been otherwise?"
He leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands t
o his face as he felt himself sinking into a quagmire he could ill afford. The once untouchable Liza Cranshaw had finally decided to marry, and she'd made the worst choice imaginable. If Jack could possibly convince her to forestall her marriage to this contemptible viscount, her father would undoubtedly be furious with him for interfering in
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such an ostensibly good match. Then there would be no way to win Mr. Cranshaw's favor and earn the living Jack so desperately needed.
And yet if Jack let Liza Cranshaw go through with this dreadful plan, he'd never forgive himself. Somehow saving someone else from misery seemed especially important given his tenuous situation. The chances of saving his own arse at this point were painfully slim. But there was a real chance he could spare Liza Cranshaw a life of misery. And if he were clever enough, perhaps he could do it without sabotaging his new life here in Middledale.
He lowered his hands and eyed Giles, who stared at him as if he were mad.
"Is there something amiss, Mr. Fairchild?"
"Yes, Giles, a great deal." He smiled so charmingly that Giles was utterly baffled. "I need to give this letter back to Miss Cranshaw."
"Oh, it's her letter, then? I suppose she didn't want her father to know she was sending it, or she would have had one of his servants take it to Waverly. I'll run it up to Cranshaw Park for you, sir."
Jack tucked the letter in his waistcoat before the clerk could grab it. "No, that won't be necessary. I'll just go visit my cousin and get my letter of introduction to Mr. Cranshaw and take it to Cranshaw Park myself."
"Very good, sir."
Jack leaned forward and said confidentially, "Giles, do you know which viscount Miss Cranshaw is entertaining as a possible match?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Viscount Barrington."
"Barrington," Jack rasped. "Oh, good God." That explained everything. Barrington was a complete ass, a so-called nobleman who didn't have a noble bone in his
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body. He was so bereft of good judgment and good character that Jack felt like washing his hands every time they played cards together at the clubs in Town. How on earth had that scoundrel convinced such a beautiful and rich heiress to accept his suit?
"That settles it, Giles. I must intervene."
"What, sir?"
"Never mind. Look, young man, do not mention this letter to anyone. Do you understand? Especially not to the viscount's servants."
Giles nodded slowly. "Of course. You can trust me, sir."
"Good. For I'm about to cause a great deal of trouble. Don't tell Mr. Harding, will you?"
"What are you going to do, sir? I've heard all about your scandals in London."
Jack gave him a resigned look. "Have you? Word travels fast."
"Are you going to start a scandalous affair?"
Jack could tell by Giles's keen look of mischief that he had a great deal of potential. Jack rose and straightened his waistcoat, donning his mental armor. "I doubt very much that an affair will be effective. But I'm going to do battle, my boy, and if I succeed, I will prevent a young lady from making the worst mistake of her life."
CHAPTER FOUR
hat afternoon Liza declined to walk with her sister through the grounds, which was a way they often passed their idle time before dinner. Instead, she decided to write a letter to Mrs. Halloway. Thoughts burned and rumbled in her mind, and she was eager to express herself to the only confidante she could trust. Though Liza had received no reply to her last missive to Mary Halloway, who was a widow and a longtime family friend, there was so much she wanted to say, and most of it had to do with Jack Fairchild.
Liza settled herself in the luxurious and stately library at her favorite escritoire. The writing desk overlooked the windows exposed to the south lawn. It was a bright day, and the sun beamed warmly through the mullioned, bubble-pocked glass.
As Liza trimmed her quill with a small knife, shaving the ink-stained tip against her thumb, she wondered what she should say about Mr. Fairchild. She tried to picture
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him in her mind's eye. It was easy to do. Her breasts tingled as her memory filled with images of his faintly tanned flesh, of a snugly fitting brown coat and tight doeskin trousers on muscular legs. His white teeth flashed at her in an unhesitating smile, and his eyes crinkled with charming kindness. And yet he had not been kind to her.
One dance with Jack Fairchild had changed her life. One kiss from him had stirred her from youthful ignorance, teasing her with a passion and a seductiveness she knew she could never have. It had been so long since that night that she'd forgotten just how exquisitely beautiful he was. She was now almost numb to the tumultuous feelings he had sparked in her, and the changes in her that had resulted. Yes, he had destroyed her innocence with a single dance, which was testament to his personal power, but she no longer mourned that lost innocence, and the changes in her were now integral to who she was. But while she no longer felt the careening loss she'd felt that fateful night eight years ago, she could not fathom or control the anger, the confusion, and the excitement he elicited in her now.
What was it about Jack Fairchild that stirred her so, then and now? She pictured in her mind his poetic features—brooding yet charmingly ironic eyes, expressive eyebrows, a graceful and strong nose, bold and sensuous lips, a square jaw, high cheeks, wild and handsome hair. A pleasing list, but it was more than looks that conspired to upend her life.
When he wasn't smiling, his powerful eyes seemed to be waiting for something, looking for proof that the world was indeed a better place than he had known it to be. He was holding out for something better, determinedly, even though she suspected that cynicism was a permanent mist
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in his constitution, clouding his natural love of life. It was that hint of cynicism that lured her, that made her want to prove to him something that she did not even believe herself—that the world was good and fair to those who were good and fair in turn.
He was a prophet of love and doom and she his disciple. She wanted to signify his existence, to soothe the rawness she saw chafing just beneath the surface of his skin. Even more, she wanted him to want her. For if someone so difficult to please, so determinedly single, wanted her, then she would be as powerful as she wanted and needed to be. Much more than she knew herself to be.
She dipped her sharpened, featherless peacock quill in a pot of black ink and began to scratch her thoughts on the page.
Dear Mrs. Halloway,
There has been a most interesting development in Middledale since last 1 wrote. I have become reacquainted after a fashion with a most distinguished and notorious gentleman from London. He—
The door creaked open behind her. "Greetings, my dear," came the bored-sounding voice of Lord Barrington.
Liza's hand jerked, and her floundering quill scrawled ink across the page. Every muscle in her body tensed, and she whipped open the left-hand drawer of the escritoire. She slid the letter inside and was about to close it when the viscount reached for the note.
"What is this, my darling? Something you don't want me to see?"
A wave of the viscount's cloying clove-scented sweet
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waters wafted over her shoulder as his shadow fell on the desk. When Liza saw his fingers touch the paper, twin bolts of fury and fear ripped through her, and she slammed the drawer as hard as she could.
"Ow! Damn!" he cursed, pulling his jammed fingers free and shaking the pain from them. "What the devil is wrong with you, Liza?"
She looked up, taking care to smile sweetly. "I am ever so sorry, my lord. I didn't hear you coming up behind me. I shut the drawer unaware that you were reaching for my personal correspondence."
He pressed a bloodied knuckle to his lips and pinned her with his cold gray eyes. "How in hell could you not have heard me? I spoke as clear as a bell."
Liza shrugged and stood, placing herself directly in front of the drawer. "I suppose I wasn't expecting you. I would not imagine that you would ignore all rule
s of propriety and visit me without a chaperone. Then again, you call me by my Christian name without asking my permission. So I suppose I should not wonder."
He crossed his arms and tapped one of his fine black boots on the Aubusson-covered floor as he considered his response. He made no pretense of charm or affection. He rarely smiled for anyone except her father, and that would doubtless cease once he acquired Liza's considerable dowry.
"Your parents don't care if we spend a few moments alone as long as they acquire a titled son-in-law. That's all your merchant father cares about. I've come to tell you that we will announce our engagement in three weeks at a party here at Cranshaw Park. I trust that meets with your approval."
He ran his hand through the limp blond locks that
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would never stay in place and strolled to the French doors, looking out at the lawn. Robert Barrington had always seemed to Liza like a twenty-seven-year-old schoolboy dressed in his father's finest and thoroughly out of his own league. Though he always wore richly cut clothing made from exotic textiles and brandished exquisite jewel-encrusted snuffboxes that would be the envy of the demimonde, Lord Barrington lacked a certain grace. His hands were square, his eyes were cold, his lips were unpleasantly thin, and his hair was the wrong texture. He wasn't unattractive. He simply possessed none of the elusive qualities that could hold together such disparate factors in an agreeable pose. He had none of the savoir faire that made his addiction to gambling seem like a charming eccentricity. He was only happy in the gaming halls, and had gambled his way to ruination. Marrying a rich merchant's daughter would be his only salvation, and to his credit he had conjured enough warmth and charm to convince Liza's father that he was truly interested in the family business. But she knew better.