Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (16 page)

A polite knock sounded at the front door, a muffled lub-dupp she wouldn’t have heard if her ears weren’t alert for every sound. Flinching from the noise and from the sudden stab of her needle, Anna sprang to her feet, sucking her injured thumb.
 

“Get out!” she said, chasing the cat with flapping hands out the connecting door.
 

“Is that really necessary?” her mother asked.
 

“Yes.” Anna wasn’t going to have Captain Beaumaris looking at damp, chewed up rags or her mother’s thick-legged pet, who was forever hissing at strangers. She gave the door a hard thump, silencing Danny’s yowling.
 

“I don’t like seeing you fretting about appearances again,” her mother said, looking at Anna over the shirt she was hemming, another project for the poor. A diligent seamstress, her mother did not consider Anna’s engagement sufficient reason to alter their schedule, even though Anna’s progress on the garment assigned to her was pitiful. It was so bad, she should probably just give it to Danny. He might smother himself as he clawed it apart.
 

“You are sufficient just as you are. This family has nothing to be ashamed of,” Mrs. Fulham said.
 

“I know,” Anna said, unable to help cataloguing her mother’s calloused hands, the books of sermons spread over the tables and—horror—one of her own garters, half concealed under the couch. She snatched it up and sat down, jamming it between her chair and the cushion. The ribbon, in her favorite shade of red, was ruined. “Why can’t that cat stay out of the laundry?”
 

“I’ll remind Hester to keep the door closed,” her mother said, unruffled. This was probably the twelfth time she’d made such a promise, but Danny’s thievery never stopped. There was no time to argue; Anna could hear Captain Beaumaris in the hall.
 

“Alistair,” her mother said, rising from her chair with a wide smile. Anna followed a second behind. Ignoring the anxious question in her eyes, Alistair addressed himself to her mother with his usual charm. He had her tamed like a puppy. All he needed was a bell. How he managed it, without ever turning weaselly . . . Anna stopped herself, shamed. She never used to be this spiteful. It shouldn’t bother her that people liked him. She should be grateful he was willing to exercise his talents on her behalf.
 

“What does your family say?” Anna interrupted at last, tired of the niceties batted back and forth between her sham-fiancé and her mother. Left to themselves, they’d never stop. If there was bad news to come, she wanted to hear it.
 

“Lady Fairchild is delighted. We’ll dine with them tonight and get you settled there in the morning. Why don’t you set your maid to packing your things while you and I fetch Henry?”
 

Relief hit her like the sea’s cold spray, but before her skin could pebble with the chill, a new worry took hold. Heaven help her. She hadn’t thought about her maid. Hester was yet another of her mother’s projects, a fourteen-year-old orphan of the parish. Anna couldn’t bring her to Rushford House.
 

“I’ll look after it,” her mother said. “You go. Henry must hear the good news.”
 

Her mother’s assistance would probably make things worse, but it was impossible for Anna to feel more rattled than she already was. Henry. She must think of Henry. Running upstairs for a bonnet and gloves, she rejoined Alistair in the hall, tying the ribbons under her chin with clumsy fingers that felt thick and stiff.
 

“Let me,” Alistair said. In a moment’s time, she had a jaunty bow tied under her ear and a kiss dabbed onto her lips. Her mother, standing on the stairs, was smiling.
 

“That kiss doesn’t count, you know,” Alistair explained once they were outside the door. “That was to please your mother, not me.”
 

Anna said nothing, having a good idea of the kind of kiss that might please him, but knowing she would never dare admit it. A carriage was waiting for them on the pavement.
 

“My father’s,” Alistair explained, helping her inside. He took the seat beside her without comment, possessing himself of her hand.
 

“You don’t mind?” he asked, when her fingers twitched involuntarily.
 

“Of course not. I’m just anxious about Henry is all. What if Frederick—”
 

“Leave him to me. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He was smiling, but the laugh had gone from his eyes. “I’m no Tom Bagshot, but I won’t disappoint.”
 

They rounded a corner, causing Anna to sway into Alistair’s shoulder. He didn’t move, but of course he was holding the strap. Anna quickly flung out her free hand to the one hanging on her side of the carriage.
 

“Frederick can be—unpleasant,” she persisted. She didn’t like to think of the things he might say about her to Alistair. Despite telling herself that she would endure anything to have Henry, the idea of Alistair learning the truth wasn’t something she could think of without her stomach dropping a foot lower than it belonged.
 

Alistair was unfazed. “I’m sure his manners are most unpleasant. It needn’t concern you.”
 

They rolled to a stop in front of Morris house, Anna’s heart dancing a faster version of its usual jig.
 

He promised to help, and he will, no matter what Frederick says
, she reminded herself, dizzily climbing the front steps.
 

Alistair rapped on the door. The lag before it opened was much shorter today. Usually the door swung wide so portentously, she felt like she was waiting to be admitted into one of the more undesirable circles of hell.
 

“Madam.” Arden bowed, showing her in.
 

“We’ve come to see Morris,” Alistair said, sweeping her into the hall. “We are expected.”
 

His boots were loud on the shining tiles. Her slippers made no sound. She passed the bronze Hercules on the table without her usual shudder; the hero’s death throes didn’t interest her today. Henry’s bronzes, she thought, straightening her back. Henry’s pictures. Henry’s floor. Even the mice hiding behind the skirting board were Henry’s, and he belonged to her.
 

When they entered the library, Frederick rose from his desk, a courtesy he didn’t usually offer her, but any hope she might have felt was exterminated by the expression on his face. He might as well have been wearing armor with the visor down.
 

“Anna. Captain Beaumaris. Do sit down.”
 

They did. She wished she could do it as easily as Alistair. She felt like a school girl ready to have her palm switched, but he seemed to expand even as he folded himself into his chair, looking as if he were calling on Frederick to fulfill a tedious favor.
 

“Such startling news. You must know,” Frederick said, addressing himself to Alistair, “how strange it is to imagine our Anna marrying again.”
 

“Not strange, surely,” Alistair said. “It has been some years.”
 

“I must congratulate you,” Frederick said. He was still looking at Alistair, but Anna recognized the tone of suppressed anger—it was reserved for her, and uncannily similar to her dead husband’s.
 

Alistair ignored the brittle tone, responding with a nod. He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, glancing meaningfully at the brandy decanter resting on the table between the windows. “Anna love, why don’t you run up and see Henry. I’ll come up in a moment so you can introduce us.”
 

“I—”
 

“Do let us sort this out between ourselves,” Alistair said, overruling her protests. “One gentleman to another.” It was almost frightening how implacable he looked, behind that amiable smile. Anna turned to the door, sure that whatever Frederick said to him, Alistair wouldn’t desert her, not until she had carried Henry from the house. What might come after, she couldn’t say, so she escaped from the room, grateful she needn’t stay to watch her brother-in-law break a molar. His smile was so hard, it looked ready to shatter.
 

*****

Henry was upstairs, sprawled across the braided rug on the nursery floor, throwing pebbles at a rank of tin grenadiers.
 

“Wait until my hand’s clear!” exclaimed his nurse, as a stone bounced off the back of her wrist before flying across the floor.
 

Henry gave a little squirm of delight, then lowered his head, sighting the last three soldiers with one eye winched shut.
 

“Hello, Henry,” Anna said, dropping onto the rug behind the scattered ranks of Henry’s miniature army. “Are you Napoleon today?”
 

His look was blank.
 

“Are you pretending to lead the French?”
 

Still nothing.
 

“Are you a canon?”
 

With a wicked grin, he chucked a pebble at her chest.
 

“Ow!” Too late, she twisted away, her hand clapped to a spot beneath her collar bone. “That’s going to leave a mark!”
 

“Time to put the toys away, Master Henry,” said the nurse, Lucy, raking up fallen soldiers and spent shot with her fingers and dumping them haphazardly into a battered tin. Anna rubbed her skin. No wonder the paint on Henry’s soldiers was so chipped.
 

“Give a kiss to your mama,” Lucy prodded, snapping the lid shut.
 

Henry clambered to his feet, plodded to Anna’s side and leaned in to plant a sulky salute on her cheek. She caught his hand. “How are you?”
 

He didn’t answer. Lucy stowed the war-in-a-box in the cupboard under the window, retreating to the rocking chair and her basket of mending. Anna and Henry eyed each other in silence, hardened scouts assessing the enemy’s defense. “You look well,” Anna said. His dark hair was unruly, but the color in his cheeks was bright. The room, with its starched curtains, sparkling windows and bedcovers drawn tight at the corners, strove for meticulous order, but Henry’s mark was everywhere, random and irrepressible. A pile of pine needles and pebbles were gathered in a corner and a soggy sock peeked out from under Lucy’s footstool. He had smudges on his white ruffled collar and leftover jam beneath his right ear, evidence that he moved faster and pulled harder than the hand with the washcloth.
 

His ferocious scowl was a little off-putting, but Anna slogged on. “I’ve good news,” she said. “I’m getting married, and you are going to come live with me.”
 

Henry only cocked his head. It was Lucy who froze, the motion of her rocking chair arrested mid-swing.
 

“We are going to stay, both of us, with—with my fiancé’s family. You’ll like him,” she added desperately, not that it would matter much. “He’s a captain of hussars.”
 

“The kind on the horses,” Lucy filled in, when Henry looked to her for an explanation.
 

Henry’s eyes lit up, making Anna slightly more wretched. She’d planned to present Alistair to Henry as his new papa, but it felt wrong now.
 

“Is the captain handsome?” Lucy asked.
 

“Very,” said Anna, trying to sound like this pleased her.
 

“Does he wear a sword? Can I see it?” Henry asked.
 

Anna didn’t think that was a good idea.
 

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Lucy said, lifting up a frilled shirt and examining a rent in the collar, as the storm brewing on Henry’s brow blew away. Anna swallowed her chagrin. If Lucy hadn’t spoken, she’d have refused, probably goading Henry into a tantrum.
 

“Should we pack your things?” Anna asked Henry.

Lucy shifted in her chair. “In a few minutes? I’d feel better once we have your uncle’s permission,” she said to Henry, avoiding Anna’s eye. She whispered loudly to Anna, “I shouldn’t like Master Henry to be disappointed if nothing comes of it.” Clearly, she was of the opinion that nothing would.
 

Anna agreed with the best grace she could muster, telling herself that while Lucy might doubt, she hadn’t met Captain Beaumaris. They’d soon be sending for Henry’s trunks.
 

*****

Alistair was silent until the door shut behind Anna and Morris pressed a glass of brandy into his hand.
 

“Nice, this,” he said, letting the flavor uncurl slowly in his mouth. The best brandy, new rugs, new draperies . . . no stinting of Anna’s money in this house.
 

Noting his silent inventory, Morris raised his chin. “You’re not getting the money.”
 

“Of course not. Belongs to Henry, doesn’t it?”
 

Morris nodded uneasily. Bastard was obviously skimming.
 

“Hard to see this all go to your brother’s boy,” Alistair said. “I know. I’m a younger son myself. Still, that’s the way of it.” He stared into his brandy, swirling the glass.
 

“She’s got no right to complain of me,” Morris said, breaking the silence and setting his drink onto the desk. “The faults of her breeding, her character—”
 

“Are no longer any concern of yours,” Alistair interrupted, freezing Morris with a look. Choler rising, Morris pushed back his chair, but Alistair stayed in his seat. Mr. Wart-Morris might be more quick tempered than he’d expected, but this defensive rattling only confirmed his suspicions. “Reasonable men have ways of resolving problems like this,” Alistair said gently.
 

“Do they?” Morris leaned his knuckles on the blotter, hiding from view a ring Alistair thought he quite liked the look of.
 

“Assuredly. A reasonable man in a situation like myself would see a lawyer and get him to audit your accounts. It might take a while—or it might not,” Alistair said, smiling as he gestured with his brandy, “but a good lawyer would find me something to complain of, eventually. A suit would be filed in Chancery Court. I know nothing of such matters, save that they tend to take a devilishly long time to settle.”