Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (10 page)

The market was closed, the stalls cleared away. Orange sellers lingered on, selling fruit and flesh. The link boy waved at a flock of boys busy leaping and turning cartwheels in hopes of winning a chance coin. William kept his purse shut. Encouraging the children’s antics would only lead to broken limbs and carriage accidents. His guide’s face fell just a little as they passed—no doubt he was paid a portion of any take that came from the men he led by. On Bow Street, the Royal Opera House loomed on his right, gleaming in the smoky dark. It was still new, only a few years old, the last one having been burned in a fire.

He paid the boy, who’d slowed his patter, interspersing it with muttered comments since William had neglected to bestow largesse on the lad’s acrobatic friends. The offered coin redeemed him. In the blink of an eye, the boy snatched it and darted away, blessing William loud enough for all to hear.

Share if you want, but better to save for your next pair of shoes.

The second act was well begun when William entered his box. It was empty. Disappointed, William deposited himself in a chair—a welcome relief after the hurly burly in the streets outside. True, it carried on in the theatre too, but up here he didn’t have to smell it quite so strongly. He could sit back and enjoy the drama on stage, though the scenes played among the spectators were often more amusing than the show. Even the best actors were occasionally upstaged by the crowd, especially those along fop’s alley, where dandies and still more whores strutted up and down between the rows of benches. The women parading below were better packaged than the ones outside, but still not as brilliantly plumed as the high fliers perched in the boxes, trying to look like Quality. Of course, the Quality had their own drama, too. If he wasn’t careful, he and Georgiana might be it.
 

Where was she, though? The heat from the crowd in the pit, the candles, and the oil lamps made it stuffy, even in his almost empty box. At least when Georgiana arrived, she’d be carrying a fan. It was always best to seat yourself next to a female for that reason, if for nothing else.
 

The second act ended and the curtain fell, but he resisted the urge to wander during the interval, though the performing dogs on stage did not interest him. Two of his friends stopped by to exchange brief greetings and then Jasper appeared, coming up from the pit, looking a little worse for wear.

“Here? Alone? Father, what is the world coming to?”

“I expect your mother will arrive shortly.”

“And you came to see her. How charming. I’m touched.”

“In the upper works, perhaps.”

Jasper grinned, but it lasted only a moment. “I almost think I should help you home and call for the doctor. You’re not getting caught in her web, are you?”

William sent his son a warning look.

“A harmless inquiry. I like to know the lay of the land before I venture into it,” Jasper said, raising his hands appeasingly.

“You haven’t come to the house since Sophy left.”

“No, I haven’t come by since the wedding. I thought I should give you and mama time to reconsider your decision.”

A muscle jumped in William’s cheek. “She’s made her bed—”

“And as Alistair so kindly reminded me, she’s probably lying in it. Give over, father. She’s happy. Be happy for her.”

William glanced at the dog twisting through hoops on the stage, then looked back at his son. “I’d like to. But I worry. I know nothing of her husband. And your mother—”

“Yes, she’s known to hold a grudge, but that needn’t stop you from apologizing. You shouldn’t have done that to Sophy.”

William hesitated. He wanted to, but knew Georgiana would see it as another betrayal. He couldn’t afford that. And if Jasper learned he was trying to smooth things over with his wife—well, Jasper would laugh first, then tell his friends, and next thing he knew they’d be wagering on it in the club’s betting book. That would be considerably off-putting, never mind the fire and brimstone that would descend on him if Georgiana ever found out. No, matters between him and his wife were none of his son’s concern.

Jasper liked to pretend his mother was incapable of feeling, but William knew better. She couldn’t have hated him this many years if she hadn’t a heart to wound. More fool him, for injuring her so deeply. But she was lonely since Sophy’s defection and there was a chance, however slight, that she might be vulnerable enough to turn to him.

“Why are you here?” he asked Jasper.

“An actress. She’s playing Lydia. Chestnut curls and lovely elbows.”

“I didn’t notice,” Lord Fairchild said.

“Pity. Well, mostly it’s just a game to cut out Protheroe. I don’t really want to catch her so much as prevent him from doing it. Boz bet me a monkey I couldn’t.”

William looked at his son with growing irritation. Jasper had never lost his head over anyone or anything, or showed any sign of possessing a serious nature. His affection for his sisters might be deeper than the desultory interest he affected for appearances, but even then . . . he was indolent all the way through. William almost wished his son had a blazing infatuation for this actress, instead of a merely sporting interest—it would change him from this slippery creature into something human.

There was motion at the back of the box. William turned his head. His wife had arrived at last. Her hand was on Alistair’s arm, a smile frozen to her lips. His presence wasn’t expected, or welcome, apparently.

Both he and Jasper rose and bowed.

“Good evening,” William said, stretching out his hand. “I’d hoped to find you here this evening.” He must begin as he meant to go on if there was to be any hope of peace between them. She didn’t refuse her hand, but it took just a moment too long for her to bestow it, enough that any interested watchers would see her reluctance.

She’s just saving face, he told himself. Things would go better in private.

“Pouring balm into my cousin’s wounds?” Jasper asked her. “Or has he been attending to yours? I hear an injury to one’s vanity can be crippling.”

Ignoring sharp looks from both his parents, Jasper made to leave, but Georgiana stopped him with a question. “Do you hear from Sophy?”

“Yes.”

“How is she?”

Jasper’s face turned colder still. “Ask her yourself.” Bowing once more, he exited the box.

In the loud silence that followed, William quickly settled Georgiana in the chair at his side before she could think to resist. No doubt she had many friends who would be glad to offer her a seat for the remainder of the evening—a ploy she had used before, though not for a good many years. Still, William wasn’t going to take unnecessary risks.

Alistair took the chair on Georgiana’s left. “A pleasant surprise to find you here, uncle.” He waited for an answering nod before continuing, more slowly than before. “Jasper mentioned in my hearing that Mrs. Bagshot was doing well.”

It took a moment for William to realize that by Mrs. Bagshot, Alistair meant Sophy. It sounded utterly wrong.

“What a dreadful name,” Georgiana shuddered, apparently feeling the same.
 

Alistair gave him a guarded look. “I’ve looked in to that matter we recently discussed. It appears I was mistaken in my reading of Bagshot’s character. The connection I thought was unsavory appears to be entirely innocuous.”
 

Georgiana looked curious, but William wasn’t about to go into that conversation here. “I’m glad of it.” One less worry—a significant one—but he still had many.
 

They sat in paralyzed silence for some time, pretending to watch the stage. The next act began, but as none of them knew who any of the characters were, or what the preceding action had been, it was more labour than it was worth to reconstruct the tangled story. The types were there: a villain, a foolish maiden, a pair of vulgar comics—he thought they were supposed to be husband and wife, but couldn’t say for certain.

“I’m ready to go home,” Georgiana said, “I don’t feel up to waiting for the farce.”

“I’ll join you,” William said, rising.

She paused, her fan halfway into her reticule.

“I left no instructions for my coachman,” he added. “If I don’t go with you, I’ll have to take a hackney.”

Acquiescing with a faint lift of her shoulder, she followed Alistair from the box, William behind. Inside the carriage, she and Alistair kept up a gossipy conversation about one Frederick Morris, whom she had happened to see across the theatre. He seemed an unpleasant fellow, from their talk. They dropped Alistair at his family’s townhouse, where he thanked them for the evening and the convivial company, managing not to sound sarcastic. “Do you ride tomorrow, sir?” he asked.

“I’m not certain. Probably.”

“I’ll hope to see you in the park,” Alistair said, and turned away.

The footman shut the door with a snap and the carriage shrank to half its size.

“Am I crowding you?” he couldn’t help asking.

“A little,” she said, so he moved to the seat opposite. A regrettable move, but it did thin the air that had congealed around them.

“Why the interest in Frederick Morris?” he asked.

“I’m not certain,” she said. “Alistair was curious about him.” She confided nothing more.

“You look lovely this evening,” he ventured.

“Thank you.”

They turned the corner—not quickly, but she reached for the strap nonetheless.

“Sophy would have liked the play,” he said.

“Yes, she would.” Georgiana turned her head to the window, though it was too dark to see anything. The small lantern inside reflected her face off the glass back to him. Her expression was familiar—unhappy.

“Do you ever think,” he began slowly, “that we may have been wrong?”

“I don’t think about it,” she lied, and set to work straightening her long evening gloves. Her cloak fell open as she moved. Beneath its dark velvet, the silk folds of her gown shone in the dim light.
 

“I’m considering the idea,” he admitted. “Not that it’s a new one. I have been wrong so many times before.” He watched her, hoping she’d take the offered opening.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she said.

“Georgy.” She didn’t frown at the use of his old nickname, so he went on. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s an easy thing to say, when it comes too late.”

His throat tightened. “Is it?”

She didn’t answer, just knotted her fingers together. The carriage halted. He’d been leaning forward, but the sudden stop swung him back into the padded seat. He heard the footman jump down onto the pavement.

“Not just yet,” he called. “Drive us round Grosvenor Square and back.” That would give him a little more time. He’d need it, he realized, countering Georgiana’s outraged stare.

“Do you have any idea what they might think?”

“Not particularly. I don’t propose to care either. I expect they think we have something to say to each other.”

“I don’t know why. We never do.” The carriage swayed as the footman climbed into his seat. Georgiana’s hand found the strap again.

“It has often been borne on me, over the years, that I haven’t been the husband you might have wished.”

She snorted. Good. He was getting somewhere. She might be preparing to verbally eviscerate him, but at least she wasn’t doing it yet.

“I would like to change that,” he finished.

They rolled on in silence. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she said at last.

“Whatever you like,” he encouraged. Just not some polite nothing, for God’s sake. Form had always been one of her strongest weapons. “The children are gone. It’s just the two of us now. If we don’t try, think how hellish it will be.”

She flinched, and he knew he should have chosen the word wretched instead.

“What makes you think,” she said carefully, “that it hasn’t been hellish for me already?”

Her thrust went home, sliding right through him. He grappled for words, knowing it was too late for a defensive parry. “You haven’t seemed unhappy. Until recently, I mean.”

“Because I had Sophy.” Her voice turned reedy, her control as crumbly as a fragment of chalk. Facing the elopement was hard for them both, but Georgiana’s grief only grew stronger as the days passed. “I thought she and I—I thought she cared.”

“I’m sure she does. Much more than she ever cared for me.” It was the truth. Only recently had he found a way past Sophy’s guard. He’d been watching Sophy and Georgiana with their heads bent together, planning wardrobes and dinners and goodness knows what else for years.

“She didn’t care enough,” Georgiana said. He had no answer for that. It was true. She’d chosen Bagshot in the face of both their displeasure.

He leaned forward, his hands clasped together in the space between them, his elbows on his knees. “Perhaps, in time—”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” she said. From under her hood, she sent him a freezing glare. “I don’t know why you trouble yourself. Surely it can’t be that hard to buy congenial company.”

He reminded himself he deserved that. “Don’t want it,” he said. “I only want yours. Congenial, or otherwise.”

“Really,” she said, her face skeptical.

“Why don’t you take me on trial?”

She wasn’t smiling, but the sound that slipped out might have been a laugh. “Of all the—we are already married. I can’t get rid of you, which I’ve often found a great pity.” She sobered. “I can’t refuse you either.”

“Haven’t you, though? For years and years?”

“You haven’t asked,” she countered.

“I am now.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I have to think about it.”

William leaned back in his seat. “Do.” And for the remainder of the drive, he rested his eyes upon her. He felt it might be a good sign, the way she fled into the house.

There was no harm done indulging a little curiosity, Alistair decided the next morning. He was awake anyway.
 

“No, not riding dress,” he said, when Griggs brought him his clothes. “I’ll wear my uniform.”
 

The sight of a hussar’s jacket was said to soften female hearts so Alistair thought he would give it a try. With Mrs. Morris, he needed every advantage he could get.