Fairchild (19 page)

Hirondelle sidled, betraying Sophy’s anxiety. Lord Fairchild—no, her father—lifted an eyebrow. “I’m fine,” she lied.

Jasper turned toward them. “Father, may I introduce my friends to Sophy?”

Lord Fairchild nodded his assent and Jasper nudged his horse forward, his friends following. “Sophy, may I present Mr. George DeClerc and Mr. Andre Protheroe. Gentlemen, this is Sophy Prescott, my father’s ward.”

“I think you and I have met before,” Sophy said to Mr. DeClerc, who she remembered as Jasper’s friend Boz. “But I don’t think I ever heard the name George.”
 

He coughed into his hand. “No, I don’t use that handle much. How are you, Miss Prescott? Jasper says your arm is mending?”

“It is indeed. I am very well.” Her nervousness was making Hirondelle restless, so Sophy let her walk, expecting Mr. DeClerc to fall in beside her. Instead he held back, answering a question from Mr. Protheroe, and Sophy ended up ambling beside Mr. Beaumaris instead.

Unlucky
, she sighed. It would have been comfortable, riding beside the empty headed and amiable Boz. She didn’t know what to do with Mr. Beaumaris, besides try not to stare. He was far too handsome for her to think of anything to say.
 

“The hair I recognize,” he said, studying her with a raised eyebrow. It was the kind of glance designed to elicit blushes. Pressing her lips together—they felt suddenly dry—she conjured up an airy laugh she was far from feeling. She felt young, gauche, and eleven years old.
 

“I wouldn’t have expected you to recognize me at all. It’s been ages since you came to Cordell. Except for the snake in my cupboard, I hardly saw you.”

“As I recall, the snake didn’t distress you,” he smiled. “But what about the subsequent neglect?”
 

Sophy turned her eyes to the path ahead, raising her chin. Females more sophisticated than she had melted for his velvet brown eyes, she was certain. It was unfair of him to use them on her. “Believe me, I was glad of it. If you and Jasper had troubled with me, I’m sure it would have been only to throw me into the lake.”

Alistair laughed. “Maybe so. But if you are ever threatened with such a fate again, you must allow me to defend you.”
 

“I doubt you will be required,” she said, scanning the park.
 

“Pity.”
 

“Since anyone with such ill intent would have to catch me first, I would hardly need you,” Sophy added, for good measure.
 

“True. You’re a capital rider. I wasn’t sure you could live up to Jasper’s boasts.”

“He’s a good teacher.”
 

“So I see.”
 

She’d applied her whip a little too freely, and now she and Alistair were some distance ahead of the rest of the party. She leaned back in the saddle, so that they would be overtaken. She felt out of her depth bantering with him. “What brings you to town, Mr. Beaumaris?” Sophy asked, filling the silence.
 

“So formal?” he asked. “We are nearly cousins. You must call me Alistair, because I fully intend to call you Sophy.”
 

Goodness, he was beautiful. Like the corsair in—Oh, stop, Sophy told herself. He must do this to everyone. How could he help it, with those looks? She drew a breath. “I could call you what your mother calls you. I see her letters to Lady Fairchild, you know,” she said, unable to entirely suppress the smile that tugged at her mouth.
 

He was as cool as ever. “And that is?”

“A no-good jackanapes who never writes.”

“I’d prefer to hear you say Alistair,” he smiled. Sophy looked away again.

“Very well.”
 

The others caught up, but remained just behind them, caught up in a conversation about Lord Byron’s defense of the Luddites. Sophy listened for an opening, but there was none.
 

“You haven’t said it,” Alistair said.

He was talking about his name, she realized. “I haven’t had occasion to, yet. Are you going to tell me why you came to town?”

“Invalided from Cadiz,” he said.

Sophy turned to him in surprise. He didn’t look wounded. He sat easily on his horse, managing to look bored and dashing at the same time.
 

“I hope you are recovering,” she stammered.

“Quite nicely, thank-you. I hope to rejoin my regiment before winter.” These were rote responses. He must be bored.
 

“You don’t care for London?” she asked.
 

“No, I like it very much.” He was looking past her, to a trio of ornamental ladies walking round a pond. “Excuse me, Sophy. I must speak to some friends.” Nodding, touching the brim of his hat, he rode off.
 

She had been eager to escape his company, but not this way, casually dismissed. Tight-lipped, she turned to Jasper, but he was still engrossed in his own discussion, so she fell in beside Lord Fairchild.
 

The park grew busier. Her father presented a bewildering array of gentlemen to her, all of them lean and sharing his equine religion. They were carefully polite, probably only for her father and brother’s sake. Certainly that was the case with Mr. Beaumaris. He’d dropped her as soon as he’d spied another female.
 
All in all, Sophy was inclined to disagree with Lady Fairchild’s assessment of her chances.
 

*****

Across the park, Tom swore. She was lovelier than he remembered. Under her hat, her hair gleamed like a new penny. Beneath a useless wisp of lace, her expression was just as he remembered, impish and imperious by turn as she conversed with the fellow riding beside her. Tom hated him immediately.
 

Five days he’d been in London. Every morning and afternoon he’d walked the park, hoping for a glimpse of her, certain that sighting her would cure him. Instead, he couldn’t help staring at her, warmth spreading from his belly to the tips of his fingers. It felt good to look at her, even with his mind insisting she was trouble. She knew horses, despite her accident, skillfully managing a grey even he could tell was frisky.
 

Tom watched her companion ride off with a nod. They were all doing that: nodding, smiling, amused no doubt, by their own witty little quips. His usual contempt for her kind had a keener edge today.
 

As she moved to her father’s side, Tom saw the brother, Jasper. Their eyes met and held for an instant before Jasper Rushford looked away, laughing at the jest of the man beside him, pretending not to have seen.
 

Scowling, Tom looked away, lest his stare draw the attention of the others. His hand clenched around the silver headed walking stick his mother had thrust into his hand as he walked out the door. She had given it to him for Christmas, saying it gave him a distinguished look. He thought it made him look like a fop.
 

Well, what had he expected? This was what she was here for, to see and be seen, to catch one of them—stupid, useless popinjays who spent their days mixing snuff, tying their cravats into absurd shapes and then giving them names, betting on anything their bored minds could conceive. She would make one of them a fine wife. Hadn’t he seen her, directing his servants and pouring out tea? Her preciseness completing that little ritual had told him exactly what she was.
 

But she was more. He could not forget how she had breathed the air in his gardens and drawn close to his paintings to see the invisible brush strokes making up a wisp of cloud. Or how her absurd acting had amused his mother. When her brother had come for her, she had thrown herself at him with fierce affection. She would be wasted on a husband who did not love her the way she was capable of loving, with such exuberant joy. His own emotion threatened to choke him and he quickened his stride.
 

He could not banish her from his mind’s eye. She was still there, circled by men in sober coats. He did not believe any of them would love her; knew with sinking despair that he did. It hardly mattered. Her brother’s hastily averted eyes told him he would never be allowed into her world. What’s more, he had promised himself years ago that he would never want to try.
 

Mrs. Thorpe could be pleased with the attendance at her musicale, Lady Fairchild decided. The rooms were gratifyingly full for an event this early in the season offering such tepid entertainment. The string quartet was good, but she would have hired a soprano. The expense was greater, of course, but so was the drama. Still, this was the right place to test Sophy’s wings.
 

If this evening was a sign of things to come, Sophy would take well. Lady Milford had already congratulated her on her husband’s pretty ward, without a hint of irony. The compliment would not persuade her to smooth the path for Lady Milford’s impecunious sons, but Lady Fairchild valued the tribute nevertheless.
 

Sophy was nervous, but hid it well. No one who did not know her intimately would have noticed. Her contributions to conversation throughout dinner had been small, but sparkling.
 
Now she appeared completely focused on the music, but there was tension in her carefully constructed smile. Poor girl. The first party was always the hardest. Reaching over, she laid her hand atop Sophy’s own, giving her a reassuring squeeze.
 

“A definite success,” she whispered. True, the minor sensation helped. Her husband had never made a secret of Sophy, but her existence had not been widely known. Her resemblance to William made it unnecessary to speculate on their exact connection, delighting the gossips, who gasped behind their fans and exchanged knowing looks. They had to wonder how she could be so fond of the girl, but Lady Fairchild didn’t mind. If well used, the notoriety could help Sophy. If not—well, Lady Fairchild did not intend to fail.
 

The music ended and they rose to circulate through the rooms.
 

“We won’t stay much longer,” Lady Fairchild whispered. “We want people to wonder.”
 

Sophy swallowed. “I’m sure they’ll do that, ma’am.”
 

Joining the tide of stiff guests leaving the music room—the pieces had been rather long—Lady Fairchild steered Sophy to the centre of the adjoining salon. It wouldn’t do to cower in the corner. Immediately they were accosted by Mr. Franklin. His waistcoat was worse than usual; a blemish on the face of taste, but as he requested an introduction to Sophy, the waistcoat could be overlooked. He conversed with them for some minutes, assessing Sophy in a way that would have made other girls fluster. Sophy, bless her, was cool and polite.
 
Miss Thorpe approached next, and then Lord Finglass. Drawn into conversation about the new production of Hamlet at the Theatre Royal, Lady Fairchild momentarily forgot Sophy, until she realized she was no longer beside her. She’d been drawn aside by Amabel Lowell, who was walking with her to the far side of the room.
 

“Excuse me,” Lady Fairchild said. She could not follow after. It would look as if Sophy couldn’t hold her own. But she could not abandon her long to Amabel’s company. She was well acquainted with Amabel and her mother, and knew for a certainty the girl had some malicious motive. Swiftly, Lady Fairchild plotted her course around the room. She’d nod to Mr. Greenbough and greet the Allens, then speak to the Dowager Countess of St. Irvin. That would put her in Sophy’s vicinity again. It would take some time, but she would be close if she was needed. With any luck, Miss Lowell only intended to drop Sophy in the corner, where she could no longer draw eyes from all across the room.
   

Sophy and Miss Lowell were still talking when Lady Fairchild halted in front of the Allens. A crimson stain was creeping up Sophy’s neck. Where was her courage? Surely a girl who sailed over fences as lightheartedly as Sophy wouldn’t quail in the drawing room. Mentally urging her on, Lady Fairchild responded to Mrs. Allen, not hesitating even a heartbeat.
 

“How fortunate. I shall have to try the vapor baths myself. So far I am untroubled by rheumatism, but if they are as good as you say, they must be efficacious as a preventative measure,” she said.
 

“And so good for the nerves,” Mrs. Allen added.
 

When Miss Lowell swanned off on the arm of Lord Upshaw, Lady Fairchild didn’t blink, though Sophy was left standing alone. She was making a valiant attempt at unconcern, but she couldn’t be comfortable, with only a few acquaintances present, and those met only this evening. If she could just maintain her poise for a few moments, someone would surely come speak to her. Retreating alone to the ladies withdrawing room or the refreshment table would be admitting defeat before the campaign even started. Sophy held her ground, coolly inspecting the sticks of her fan. Lady Fairchild nearly sighed with relief when Sir Edmund Fowler spotted her and crossed the room. They exchanged pleasantries and a moment later he was offering his arm and conducting her to a vacant sofa. It was a clever bit of work, though Sophy could not know it. Sir Edmund was a widower particularly hard-pressed by the demands of his four children. She would happily see Sophy married to Sir Edmund—if he didn’t happen to live in Kent. It was such a distance, after all.
 

Lady Fairchild knew that once a girl captured the attention of one gentleman, others would follow. She waited until three of them stood around Sophy before gliding in to claim her.
 

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” she said. “I must take Sophy home.” With an insincere smile of apology, she whisked Sophy away.
 

“You handled Miss Lowell very well,” she said, once they were in the carriage heading home.

Sophy made a face.
 

“What did she say?” Lady Fairchild asked.
 

“Nothing that bears repeating.”

“She’s rather good at the barbed comment, but you mustn’t mind her,” Lady Fairchild said. “In a way, it’s flattering that she singled you out instead of just ignoring you. She had a very successful Season last year, but everyone knows she’s hunting for a title.”