by Julie Beard
"I am not the sort of man to wait around for my relations to expire, Mrs. Cranshaw. My father was a success-
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ful merchant and he believed hard work was good for his son, even though he knew I would one day take my place in the House of Lords." Jack felt a tinge of amusement at painting such a whitewashed—and patently untrue—portrait of his father, but he sensed Mrs. Cranshaw could prove a valuable ally if she could be influenced in his favor.
"My husband will like your thinking very much, young man," Rosalind Cranshaw declared, smiling at him approvingly. "I daresay he shall hire you forewith."
"Father hire Mr. Fairchild?" Liza regarded him more skeptically over the rim of her cup. "I can scarcely imagine the infamous Mr. Fairchild working as a provincial country solicitor."
"Infamous!" Rosalind said with a throaty chuckle. "Liza, my dear, I have never seen you so impertinent."
Jack grinned openly, but wisely said nothing.
"Yes, you have, Mother," Liza returned defiantly. "Many times."
"It's not true," Rosalind hastened to reassure Jack.
"Come, Mama, you will soon have Mr. Fairchild thinking I'm a biddable female." Liza put down her cup, leaned back in a shockingly casual pose, and twiddled her fingers, shaking her head in disbelief. "No, Mama. I simply cannot believe that a man of Mr. Fairchild's worldly experience would ever be happy with rusticating in the country. I should think it's in his best interests to return to London at once."
"Happiness has nothing to do with my decision to live here. I am simply living up to my responsibilities."
"As am I," she said pointedly, arching one brow.
He lifted his chin and smiled teasingly. "Do I detect
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that you are unhappy with my decision to move here, Miss Cranshaw?"
"No, Mr. Fairchild, she feels nothing of the sort," Rosalind Cranshaw hastily denied.
But Liza did not deny him. She sat up and turned her head aside, regarding the tray of delectables as if the task of picking out the perfect crumpet to eat was much more to her liking than looking at the likes of him.
"No, Mr. Fairchild. I would have to care about you in some fashion to be disappointed. I wish you good fortune in what seems to me an impossible task."
"I am greatly heartened."
"It is not my concern if you have gambled away your fortune like the rest of London's bucks."
"Liza!" her mother said reprovingly. "Where are your manners? Am I to assume your first meeting in London was not a pleasant one?"
Jack noticed with satisfaction that Liza's ears turned red. When he could no longer bear her embarrassment, he diverted her mother with a confession he knew would have to come sooner or later.
"I did not gamble away my inheritance. I spent it paying off my father's gambling debts. Forgive me for being so blunt, but I'm quite sure you would have heard rumors soon enough."
Liza set aside her tea cake and turned to face him. "Upon my word, what an honorable thing to do."
"Indeed," agreed her mother. "Mr. Fairchild, all you need to do is find yourself a rich wife and all your troubles will be solved."
"I wish I could, ma'am. But I do not believe that that is a proper reason to marry. A marriage of convenience
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is a crime against nature, don't you agree, Miss Cranshaw?"
He stared hard at her, and her soft wonder turned to sadness. Always with her that bloody sadness, like a weed in a luscious bed of flowers. He wished he could pluck it from her heart.
"Well, Mr. Fairchild," Rosalind Cranshaw said brightly in the awkward silence that followed, redirecting the conversation with all the subtlety of an out-of-control high-perched phaeton, "let me show you the history of our family. I am afraid we're not of noble blood, but I do have my own proud and respectable lineage to boast."
Liza's teacup landed in its saucer with a thud, and a pained expression rippled across her brow. At first Jack thought she might be embarrassed, anticipating that her mother was about to add branches to a meager family tree. Jack was always amused when families turned fourteenth-century horse thief relations into ministers of state. But there was clearly more to it than that.
"What is it, my dear?" her mother gently prodded, touching her back lightly.
Liza willfully wiped the frown from her brow and blinked away her concern. She kissed her mother's cheek, her eyes twinkling with utter devotion. "It's nothing, Mama. Forgive me. I had a stab of pain that was surely indigestion."
"Come, my dear, let us show Mr. Fairchild our history." She rose, guiding him over to the first painting. "This is Mr. Cranshaw's father, a very distinguished justice of the peace in Devonshire."
Jack nodded and raised his brows. "Most impressive, ma'am."
"Surely not to one in your position, Mr. Fairchild," Liza
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said as she reluctantly joined their parade down the gallery.
"As a solicitor I appreciate the importance of running local affairs efficiently and fairly," he replied. "It's one thing to have one's case tried before the King's Bench at Westminster Hall, but often the best hope for justice is in one's own village or town, in the fair interpretation of common law. I am convinced that the law is a citizen's best friend. God save the justices of the peace, I say!" he concluded theatrically, making a joke of his impromptu sermon. Liza regarded him as if he'd gone stark-raving mad. Her mother applauded and laughed.
"Quite so, quite so, Mr. Fairchild." She was smiling as if her entire existence had just been beatified. "I am so glad you are sensible on the subject. I've told Liza how important her forebears were."
"Please, Mama, Mr. Fairchild comes from the aristocracy. How much can he be impressed by our simple lives?"
Rosalind ignored her, listing each family member proudly. When she reached the other side of the gallery— her own side—she positively glowed. It was clear by her reverent tones that she considered herself more gently bred than her husband. When they reached one particularly ostentatious portrait done in dark hues and set in a massive gilded frame, she gestured grandly at the picture of a thoughtful young woman with oval eyes, a long nose, and heart-shaped lips who was donned in velvet and furs and a stylish, sugar-bag cap of a previous century.
"And this," she announced proudly, watching Jack closely for his reaction, "is my relative Maria Clementina Sobieska. She was the wife of the exiled King James III,
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Maria was the granddaughter of King Jan HI of Poland and one of Europe's richest heiresses."
"A very distant relation, Mama," Liza said in a hollow voice.
'Tut, tut, dear, you shouldn't be afraid to boast of your royal blood simply because it is old history. The older the better."
"Very impressive lineage, Mrs. Cranshaw," Jack said, knowing the tour would not end until he'd expressed his praise.
The doors creaked open at the hands of two footmen, and this gave Rosalind cause for even more pride. "Ah, and here comes Lord Barrington! Once our Liza has children with his lordship, the aristocracy won't be so very distant, will it, my dear?"
Jack saw Liza visibly recoil at the sight of Barrington before she rallied. She pulled back her shoulders and tipped up her chin as he had seen her do earlier that morning, and he suspected it was something she'd probably been doing all her life, brave girl that she was.
"Good day, my lord!" Rosalind called to Barrington.
The viscount strode over to them, the beginnings of a scowl on his face. He gave Jack a quick but thorough appraisal and turned to Liza, clearly dismissing Jack as an interloper.
"And who is this?" The viscount waited for an answer, but Liza remained silent.
"My lord," Rosalind offered, "this is Mr. Jack Fairchild, Lord Tutley's grandson."
"Ah, yes," he said, still not smiling, but his eyes lit with interest. "Good to meet you, Fairchild."
"I believe we've played cards at Boodle's together, my lord," Jack said amiably.
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&n
bsp; He looked down his nose at Jack. "Could have been, could have been. Yes, I think I remember it now. Tutley's heir, eh? What brings you to Cranshaw Park?"
"I'm offering my services to Mr. Cranshaw as a solicitor."
Barrington gaped a moment, then threw back his head and howled with laughter. The unpleasant sound echoed off the high ceiling. Liza and Jack exchanged a meaningful look. When Barrington realized no one else had joined in, he stopped and cleared his throat. "Very amusing, Fair-child. Why are you really here?"
"It's true, my lord. I've decided to rusticate and enjoy the pleasures of the country. I'm taking over for Mr. Pedigrew, who has retired. I should be grateful for any work you might throw my way."
The viscount narrowed his cold gray eyes on Jack, as if he still couldn't believe a member of the beau monde would humiliate himself in such a fashion.
"You're serious," he said at last.
"Quite," Jack replied crisply.
Barrington's puggish features turned smug. "Very well. We could use a solicitor now that Pedigrew is retired. Cranshaw has taken me into his business."
"How fortunate for you," Jack said smoothly.
"I'll see to it that Cranshaw hires you in the morning. He trusts my judgment implicitly."
This last statement sounded more like a warning than a boast.
"We'll be a very tightly knit family once Liza and his lordship are married," Rosalind said. "Mr. Fairchild, I still must repay you for rescuing Celia. Will you please join us tomorrow evening? We're having a party for our tenants and neighbors. It will be a small affair. Only seventy
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or so. We would be delighted to have you as our special guest. We will gather for a small meal en famille before the festivities begin. Let us say five o'clock?"
"I would be delighted, ma'am." Jack sketched a half bow, then turned to see the viscount grinning at him with malicious glee.
Jack knew precisely what he was thinking. The viscount was only too happy to humble Jack with employment. It was a way to control him, to make sure that the only other blue blood in Middledale didn't steal the local heiress before Barrington could take her to the altar himself. If the viscount only knew just how financially desperate Jack was he'd be less sanguine about the arrangement. For Jack had little to lose, and he was increasingly willing to do whatever it took to protect Liza Cranshaw from the ignoble nobleman she was determined to marry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
iza wasn't sure whether to gnash her teeth over Jack Fairchild's emergence into her life or to celebrate. He was certainly a wild card, and that at least injected an element of unpredictability into what had heretofore been entirely a losing game. And in spite of his unconventional means of nosing into her affairs, Liza sensed he was concerned for her welfare, although she was unsure of the true reason. Her parents couldn't see Lord Barrington's deficits because Liza had been careful not to expose them. Only Jack Fairchild seemed to know what a wastrel she was about to marry. The only thing he didn't know, and couldn't know, was why.
Jack's willingness to call a spade a spade would create untold complications in her life. But he'd also unwittingly given her a vague hope of reprieve. His comments about the importance of law had her rethinking her advice to a local chandler.
Jacob Davis had lost his home and shop six months
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earlier in a suspicious fire. Liza was convinced that Lord Barrington had something to do with it, though she had no proof and no notion of a possible motive. If she could somehow prove the viscount's guilt in the case, she could free herself from her promise of marriage without threat of retribution.
With that hope in mind, Liza made a herculean effort to see Mr. Davis secretly. She arranged a rendezvous through her abigail and then waited until just before the party to sneak out of the house. Shortly before four, dozens of servants were preparing the great lawn and garden for the outdoor gathering, festooning the area with banners and ribbons and torches. The musicians were gathering on the terrace, and the majordomo was fluttering around giving orders. It was a happy chaos, for this affair was'a cherished event that would be talked about for a twelve-month afterward by the locals.
Liza would be missed as soon as the gentlemen arrived, but in this chaos her mother would be too distracted to care for long. And just in case it took Liza longer to return than she anticipated, she had prepared an excuse to be delivered by Celia, who'd been sworn to secrecy.
Liza made her escape through the kitchen and hurried through the outer edge of the garden unnoticed. The quickest way to reach her destination was over Birch Road, which cut through a hill in the deer park. Though the road was too visible for her comfort, taking that route would save her at least a half hour. With any luck, she'd be back at the house before too long.
Liza walked briskly, careful not to tear the skirt of her evening gown on any brambles, until she reached the road. Pausing to catch her breath, she rushed up the embankment, intending to hurry over the top. Instead, she
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ran straight into the path of an oncoming carriage.
She saw the whites of the coachman's widened eyes as he frantically yanked the reins. "Whoa!" he cried out.
The startled horses whinnied and reared their heads. Liza gasped and wheeled back just in time to miss a whirring spoked wheel. She teetered on the edge of the road for a heart-thumping moment, then fell backward, rolling down the embankment.
"Miss Cranshaw!" a voice cried out. "Stop, for God's sake! Stop the carriage."
"Hold, sir," came another voice. "I'm doing my best. Whoa! I've got it. There, there, steady, steady. Very good, sir."
"Miss Cranshaw!"
From the grassy bottom of the hill, where she'd come to a stop with a rib-rattling thud, Liza recognized Jack Fairchild's voice. Relief coursed through her body when she realized that it could have been Lord Barrington instead. She raised herself up from her cushion of grass just in time to see him hurtling in graceful sidesteps down the hill.
"Good God, Miss Cranshaw. Are you hurt? Were you injured?" he asked once he reached her.
"No," she replied with a short laugh, sitting up and straightening her skewed straw bonnet. "Only my pride. Now we've both suffered embarrassment in one another's presence, haven't we?"
He propped one leg slightly up the hillside to balance, his lean leg taut with the effort. Before taking his proffered hand, she dusted off her gown and glanced at him. He was dressed formally in a dark-green tailed coat with a white quilting Marseilles waistcoat and white kerseymere breeches, white stockings, and black buckled shoes.
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He was elegance personified, but his normally charming demeanor had been shaken.
"Really, Mr. Fairchild, I am not in the least injured." She loved saying that, for no one ever assumed Liza was hurt or in need or in want of anything. She was too damned capable for her own good. Seeing his worried frown warmed her immensely.
"Miss Cranshaw, let me help you."
"If you insist, sir, but I am quite well, I assure you." She straightened her gown over her ankles, then accepted his outstretched hand. His broad palm easily encompassed her blue glove. The now-familiar charge between them flared like one of the fireworks that would be set off later that night at the party. She felt the oomph of explosion in her palm and the tingle echoed in other parts of her body. He pulled her to a stand and they remained close, inches apart. Step back, a voice inside her urged, but she ignored it.
"My coachman did not see you come up on the road. Are you hurt?" he asked, looking her over. Amazingly, her blue silk taffeta gown had not torn in the tumble, protected as it was by her long cloak. "Please, forgive me."
"No, it is I who must beg forgiveness." She rallied all her willpower to pull her hand from his. It was unconscionable that she should be so forward with him under any circumstances, but especially when she was nearly engaged. Worse yet, he would make her late for her appointment. She had to speak with Jacob Davis and didn't want him to leave, thinking
she'd not shown up. "I did not hear your carriage. Do not worry, and please do not mention a word of this at the house. I must be going."
"No, wait." He looked at the manse in the distance.
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"Let me drive you back. It would be my pleasure, a way to repay you for my behavior over the last two days."
She smiled wryly. "I would love to debate the merits of your behavior, Mr. Fairchild, but I am on my way to visit someone in desperate need, and no one must know about it. Please, don't tell a soul."
"Then I will take you in my coach to your destination. No one need know."
"You cannot get there by coach. Go visit with my family, Mr. Fairchild. I will join you soon." She turned to go, but pain shot up her leg like a burning hot poker. "Oh!"
She staggered back, losing her balance, and she nearly collapsed into his arms. She grabbed his arm for purchase and he tightened his hold on her.
"See, you are injured. I can't let you continue alone."
"I do not need your help, sir." She looked up with irritation, then realized how intimate they had become. His fingers on her exposed arm were like twigs of lightning, pulsing some sort of hypnotic rhythm into her flesh. It was so powerful a feeling that she scarcely noticed the pain in her ankle. Realizing just how dangerous a man he was, and just how wanton she would be if given a chance, she carefully extricated herself from his hold and hugged her arms self-consciously.
"I'm perfectly capable of continuing."
She started off again, hobbling with each painful step. But soon she had to stop, for she'd really given her ankle a good twist, and she could no longer deny it.
"Look here, Miss Cranshaw, there is no question that I'm going to help you." He swooped her unceremoniously into his arms.
"Oh, good Lord!" she cried.
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He merely laughed. "I was looking for an excuse to do that."
"Put me down at once!"
"And make you late for your appointment? You'll never get there in time with that ankle. Now why don't you forget that you're a proper young lady and be practical about this. Where are you going?"