by Julie Beard
Jack shuddered, but willed himself not to show it.
"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered to him. Then more loudly, "My lord, Jack means to make a success of himself in Middledale. Perhaps you have some connections so that Jack might prove himself."
"I need no help, Arthur." Jack rose and put his cup on the table, straightening his trousers and tugging on his waistcoat. "It was as much a pleasure seeing you as ever, my lord. I should have thought that the approach of death would make you reconsider the way you try to strangle all self-determination from those you purport to love. But I see you fear not even death. You will die a lonely old man. And for once I can honestly say I pity you."
He turned abruptly and strode toward the door, his footsteps echoing loudly up to the rafter and shields once born by his too-proud family.
"I don't want your pity! Don't you ever come back here again. Do you hear?"
Jack did indeed. He heard loudly and clearly. This, he was quite sure, would be the last time he would ever see Lord Tutley.
CHAPTER TWELVE
say, Mr. Honeycut," Harding said shortly before three the next day, "would you care to join me at the Sickle and the Boar for a light meal?"
From his desk, Giles looked up with a frown and dipped his quill in his inkpot. "I really must decline, Mr. Harding, I have work to do."
Silence followed this profound declaration. Harding, who'd been shuffling papers, stopped and frowned at him. "Did you say you have work to do? But you've been slaving away all afternoon. I didn't think you had such dedication in you, dear boy."
Giles looked up with uncharacteristic remorse. "All that is going to change, Mr. Harding. You're going to see a new Giles Honeycut from this point forward."
"Really?" Harding rose, tugged on his coat, and sniffed. "What a shame. I was just beginning to think I might enjoy the leisure of country life. You were going to be my shining example of lethargy."
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"Do not jest, sir." Giles carefully blotted his letter. "I am not proud of my work habits. Especially now that I realize what it takes to succeed in life." He frowned. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Harding?"
The secretary's puffy cheeks twitched as if he'd just been struck with indigestion. "Good God, no. I learned long ago that women don't set their caps at fat men with thin pockets. So I gave up any hopes of love early on. I highly recommend such an approach to you. There's less heartache that way. Besides, as you'll soon learn from observing Mr. Fairchild, appealing to the fairer sex carries its own special burden."
Giles nodded sagely. "I believe I understand completely. I'm going to make something of myself, Mr. Harding, and that means I won't have time to indulge in affairs of the heart. But I don't seem to quite have what it takes, do I?"
Harding frowned sympathetically. "All you need is a good tailor. Would you like me to instruct yours on the latest fashions from London?"
Giles's face lit up. "Would you? That just might do it." He grinned and reached for his coat. "I avow, Mr. Fair-child will be pleased if I dress more like a gentleman."
Giles opened the door, his mood as bright as the sun on the pavement. "And since you're going to help me with my clothing, I could teach you a thing or two about charming the ladies."
Harding stood in the doorway and said, "Remember, lad, I've worked for Mr. Fairchild for years. I've seen the best in action, and I assure you, savoir faire is not contagious. I wouldn't be able to charm a bird from a tree."
"Oh, it just takes practice, Mr. Harding." He tipped his chin in the direction of a young woman off in the distance.
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"Look over there. Here comes a lady now. If you turn your calf just so, I avow she'll take notice whether she wants to or not. But watch the eyes. She won't turn her head. It will be just a quick glance."
"Oh, come, Mr. Honeycut, this is absurd."
"Come on, then." Giles squatted down and forced Harding to turn out his foot. He stood up again to approve of his work. "That's it, sir. Now stand here and watch her succumb to your charms."
Harding reddened, but he kept his foot in place. He tugged at his collar and grimaced nervously. "How long do I have to keep my foot twisted in this unnatural position?"
"Until she walks by. Yes, I can almost make her out now. Oh, a comely lady at that." Giles squinted at the approaching figure. "Why she's—" Giles stopped mid-sentence and gulped hard. "Oh, good God, she's Liza Cranshaw."
"What?" Harding yanked his foot back and stared at the object of Giles's horror. Then his heart nearly stopped in his chest when he recognized who she really was. "Oh, sink me!"
"Oh, hide me!" Giles scrambled inside and nearly shut the door in Harding's face.
The secretary hurried after him and closed it with a bang. "That's Miss Cranshaw? Are you quite certain?"
"Yes! And if she sees me she'll put me in the stocks. She'll have me hanging high from Cranshaw Park."
"Good Lord, Mr. Honeycut, whatever did you do?"
"Never you mind, sir," Giles said, looking for a good nook or cranny in which to cram himself. "But Mr. Fair-child knows how much trouble I'll be in if Miss Cranshaw gets me alone in a room."
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"Good Lord! She sounds like a virago. Do you realize, Mr. Honeycut, that the woman coming down the sidewalk now is the same one who nearly ran over us in the carriage? And you're telling me she's Bartholomew Cranshaw's daughter? The one whose letter Mr. Fairchild read?"
"Yes!" Giles began to pace like a caged animal. "How can I escape?"
"Oh, Lord!" Harding lamented. "Mr. Fairchild fell in love with her at first sight. I know it. And now she's coming to see him! That means trouble. It won't be long before she falls in love with him, if she hasn't already. Then Mr. Fairchild will be called out by Lord Barrington and ... oh, what a muddle! He'll be ruined financially ... again!"
Giles stopped his worried pacing and gave the secretary a befuddled look. "What did you say? I didn't quite follow."
"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Harding said irritably, taking up the pacing for him. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Honeycut. I have a way to solve both our predicaments. You go into Mr. Fairchild's inner sanctum right now and tell him you have urgent business. Make something up if you must. Just keep him occupied until I can find a way to get rid of her."
The door began to open and Giles nearly threw himself headlong into Jack's chamber. "Right, then, jolly good, Mr. Harding."
The secretary had just enough time to tug down on his waistcoat, turn, and assume a diplomatic smile when Liza entered, followed by an elderly woman.
"Good day," Harding said amiably. "May I help you, miss?"
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"Yes, you may, good sir. I have come to see Mr. Fairchild about a legal matter."
Harding raised his brows. "Is that so?"
"I'm Miss Cranshaw, and this is my aunt, Mrs. Bramble."
Harding bowed. "A pleasure, I'm sure. But I fear there has been some mistake. Mr. Fairchild is not in. He's—"
"Harding!" Jack barked, poking his head out the door. "What is going on here? Why, Miss Cranshaw, how good to see you."
"Ahem," the secretary muttered, reddening like a suddenly ripe strawberry, adding sheepishly, "I did not realize you were in, sir."
Jack opened the door more fully and crossed his arms, skewering Harding with a look that was only slightly ameliorated by his breathtakingly graceful features. "Is that so?"
Harding smiled lamely at Liza. "Indeed. Miss Cranshaw is here to see you, sir. Would you care for tea, miss?"
"That would be lovely, thank you," Liza replied.
Jack watched his secretary bustle upstairs to ask the housekeeper for tea just as Giles made a hasty exit out the back door. When all the mayhem had ceased, Jack welcomed the ladies into his office. Liza looked stunning as usual. She wore a soft green straw hat tied with a ribbon around her chin and a simple striped green high-waisted gown with a beautiful India shawl over the dress. A soft white ruffle lined her bosom, and she set down her closed para
sol as she helped her aunt settle in a chair.
She was her usual attentive and efficient self, oblivious to her own graceful beauty. The only thing that gave away any unease was the quiver in her eyes whenever he caught
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her gaze. It was as if his looks, his mere presence, was like a stab in her heart. It saddened him, and he wished he could make it up to her somehow. This sadness, this deep sense of cause and effect, troubled him. It was a damned vulnerable feeling, and he didn't like it a bit.
"Mr. Fairchild," she said as she helped Mrs. Bramble into the chair, "how different the place is now that Mr. Pedigrew is gone."
"I hope improved, or at least equal to its past glory. May I fetch you some water? The tea will be along soon."
"No, thank you. The differences are subtle but distinct," Liza said, sitting to her aunt's left. There remained an available chair to Liza's left, and Jack eyed it covetously. He could sit comfortably behind his desk, but she was like the moon drawing the ocean near. Whenever they were together, he felt that unseen tugging, the longing to be near her, especially after their frank confessions by the pond.
"There is more sunlight now." She fixed him with a light smile. "When old Mr. Pedigrew practiced law here, his chambers always smelted of old documents. Now I detect the scent of flowers, and boot polish."
She laughed lightly, and the sound was music to Jack's ears. If she could laugh that sweetly, perhaps he had not entirely ruined her. He sighed, trying not to look as besotted as he felt. He admired her pluck enormously. She showed not a jot of awareness. It was as if they'd never kissed, as if he'd never seen her cry. Had he imagined it? Had he imagined such passion from such a decorous lady?
"And what do you think of the changes in these rooms, Mrs. Bramble?" he asked, trying to keep things carefree.
"What, dear boy?" The silver-haired lady held a hand to her ear.
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"What do you think of Mr. Fairchild's establishment?" Liza repeated loudly near her ear.
"Oh, lovely," she said and eyed Jack impishly. "And such a charming man, that Mr. Fairchild, wouldn't you agree, m'dear?"
Liza's pretty cheeks turned rosy. He looked fully at her and she grinned wryly in spite of her embarrassment. He had the sudden urge to tell her a bit of bawdy humor. She'd probably laugh. She was probably the kind of woman who would be free enough to laugh while making love. He hardened at the thought of it.
While Mrs. Brumble prattled on with generic superlatives about Jack and his law office and his furniture and the weather, Jack admired the beauty of both women, for Aunt Patty had a timeless grace about her. There was no question that the Cranshaw women had a bone-deep elegance.
"Miss Cranshaw," he said when he could finally get a word in edgewise, "what a pleasure to receive you. I hope my secretary wasn't too off-putting."
"Not in the least."
He sat down next to Liza, difficult as it was, considering his state of arousal. When she gave him an intimate look, he glanced surreptitiously at Aunt Patty. She'd begun stitching on a small sampler she'd plucked from her reticule.
"I know what you're thinking," Liza said softly, her sultry voice seeping down his collar. "You needn't worry about my aunt. She can't hear a thing out of her left ear unless you practically shout. As long as she remains to my right, we will have as much privacy as we might expect. I couldn't come without a chaperon."
"Of course not. What can I do to help you?" He half
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turned toward her, propping his right arm on the back of his chair. "I think you know by now that I am willing to go beyond the call of duty."
She sighed, releasing all the nervousness she'd been penting up. "Oh, there is no use pretending with you, Mr. Fairchild. If I don't speak frankly, you'll simply ravish me in public and embarrass me into some new confession of my utmost secrets."
He grinned and studied her lovely lips, wishing he could nibble on them here and now. It was as if their airing their grievances had brought them even closer together.
"I am not that incorrigible, am I?"
She rolled her eyes in his direction and her cheeks dimpled in a tolerant smile. "You do not really want me to answer that, do you?"
He barked out a laugh. "Go on, Miss Cranshaw. I promise I won't interrupt again."
She regarded him warmly. "I scarcely slept all night, and after much thought I have concluded that you are the only one who can help me. You see, I know all about you now."
Uneasy, Jack raised a brow. "I thought you knew all about me already. What else have you heard?"
She twisted in her seat until they were almost face-to-face. He could smell the scent of lavender sweet water. Did her sheets smell of them, too, where her silky skin touched linen? Had she washed her shiny, dark hair in it? Or had she dabbed it behind her ears, at the pulse of her creamy throat, or between her ample, pretty breasts, which stood rounded above her collar?
"I now know how good-hearted you are," she said, something new and disconcerting in her eyes. Good Lord,
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was it admiration? "I've heard about your kindness to those in need. So you are far more than an incorrigible rake."
She gave him a tiny, knowing smile. Jack's mouth rippled with ambivalence. He could tell her compliments were leading somewhere he didn't want to go.
"I see. Well, I am at your service, I assure you. However, I have given up on most of my good works. You are the one I want to help at present, Miss Cranshaw. You alone."
She smiled brightly. "Well, then you will help me. You see, Mr. Fairchild, I am trying to aid a good man who has fallen on hard times. I know you can understand my desire to do so."
Jack folded his hands and frowned. "Go on."
"His name is Jacob Davis. He was the town chandler until his shop was burned intentionally. I am sure it was arson, though he's been unable to prove it. He was able to buy his way out of debtor's prison recently, but he is determined to find justice. Unfortunately, he no longer trusts anyone except for me, because I was a friend to his daughter when we were young. He's afraid of being thrown back into prison."
Jack leaned back and surveyed her with a jaded air. He felt for the man, but he tried not to show it. "I see."
"Will you help him?"
She clutched the arm of her chair with both hands and looked up at him as if he were a miracle worker. The look in her eyes was pure honey. The finest claret. And as addictive as opium. He knew how self-possessed and capable and reluctant to depend on anyone else she was. Therefore, having her look at him with those expectant eyes filled him with pride, made him feel ten feet tail, and
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made him want to go to the ends of the earth to fulfill her every wish. Yes, he wanted to shout. Yes, yes, of course I'll help you.
"No, Miss Cranshaw," he answered instead. "I am afraid I cannot do it."
Her luminescent eyes dulled momentarily. "Why not?"
Jack scratched the side of his cheek where he'd nicked himself shaving that morning. He should have known then that this would be a miserable day. "Let me make an assumption here. You've heard that I will take any and every indigent client from here to the Thames with no thought to the size of my own pocket, is that it?"
She blinked in dismay. "Why, no, I've heard only that you helped men unjustly imprisoned for their debts. I admire that enormously."
'That was in the past." He rose and began to pace. "I came to Middledale to make my fortune. I don't mind admitting my intentions were purely mercenary."
"But there is no one else who can help me as you can. You know how to investigate these sorts of things, since arson makes this a legal matter. You yourself said the law, locally applied, is of the utmost importance. If you take this case, you'll have a professional duty to maintain confidentiality, which means Mr. Davis will trust you. Please, Mr. Fairchild, if you have been moved by tragedy before you can be so moved again."
"But I don't want to be!" he argued querulously. "I—"
; He was cut off by a knock on the door.
"Come in!" he barked, and Harding entered carrying a tea tray. "Put it on the table, pour three cups, please, and go"
Harding assumed a wounded look. "Of course, sir."
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Damned, impertinent secretary, Jack thought. It seemed everyone expected perfect equanimity from him, perfect charm and ease. Everyone wanted a miracle from him. But even he had his limits. If he started taking charity cases again, he'd never earn a farthing. He had to think, think. How could he help her and still help himself?
Harding gave each of them a cup of tea and departed. Jack held his saucer and sipped thoughtfully, staking out the safe territory in front of his desk. As he sipped, he glanced at Liza from the comer of his eye and realized her hopeful gaze had never left him. He felt like a trapped animal. He was trapped. Caged by a good woman's esteem.
"Miss Cranshaw, I do not mean to seem impatient or callous, it is simply that I cannot do this. I don't mind admitting I need to make money or face my own peril."
"Surely not, Mr. Fairchild. You cannot compare your needs to that of this poor chandler."
"No, of course not. Nevertheless—"
"I'll pay you. I'll come up with the money somehow."
"You couldn't possibly pay me enough, I fear. This isn't simply an isolated case. You see, I am determined to change everything about my life. I can no longer afford charity."
She digested this, her eyes darting back and forth between his. "Would it make any difference if I were to tell you that I believe that solving Mr. Davis's problem might very well solve my own?"
He looked up, caught off guard. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "What are you saying?"
"That I believe Lord Barrington may have had something to do with Mr. Davis's demise." She glanced sur-
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reptitiously at her aunt, who was dozing. "I dare not say more until you assess the situation."
Jack felt his resolve and restraint fall off him like scales of armor after a heated battle. She was offering him the one thing he could not resist—proof of wrongdoing against the man he didn't want her to marry. The wily little vixen. He gave her a half smile of grudging admiration.