Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (32 page)

“Not as good a prospect as Sophy,” Lady Fairchild said, with a silent laugh. She raised her fan to shield her face and leaned closer. “Sophy is much more pliant and agreeable. Usually. I expect that when Lady Wincholme does remarry, her husband will not have an easy time of it. Of course, Alistair has considerable powers of persuasion. In a contest between him and our hostess, I would lay my money on him.” She slid her eyes over Anna, appraising her minutely but saying nothing. From Anna, her eyes moved to the crowd, alighting on a slim gentleman with a dark head. Anna recognized that hair. Impossible. She started forward, but then she saw the man’s face. He bore some similarity to his younger brother—clearly drawn by the same hand, but with softer lines and paler tints.
 

Lady Fairchild nodded, acknowledging her nephew. “Cyril, on the other hand . . . . ” Her eyes flew to Lady Wincholme.
 

“Lady Wincholme would boil him down and spread him on toast,” Anna whispered back, pleased they could agree on something.
 

Lady Fairchild stifled a laugh, her shoulders shaking. “Too true. Should we throw them together and see what happens?”
 

There was no time to answer. Cyril was before them, executing an elegant bow, presenting his compliments and asking Anna to dance.

“Enjoy yourselves!” Lady Fairchild said, sending them off with a tinkling wave.
 

Cyril’s hands clung like tentacles. Anna decided that no matter who she married, she would see to it that Lady Wincholme never caught Alistair. She was welcome to take a bite out of Cyril whenever she pleased.
 

*****

Anna was dancing with Cyril before Lord Fairchild reached the door of the card room. It was his usual haunt at entertainments like these, but tonight he didn’t plan to play. He made a circuit of the room, then returned to the ballroom. Georgiana was on the other side of the room, holding a glass of lemonade, nodding seriously (though he doubted she was listening) to everything Mr. Grimpen chose to say. A tireless reformer, Grimpen, with a keen mind. Georgiana probably had ten years on him. William inspected the sleeve of his black coat, flicking away dust that wasn’t there.
 

“Evening, sir.” Jasper appeared beside him. “No games for you this evening?” Even as a child, he’d had that needling smirk.

“Perhaps later,” William said.
 

“Will you be at Cordell for Christmas?” Jasper asked.
 

“Depends,” he said, glancing at Anna, who was dancing a reel with a man who seemed to have no control of his elbows. They flew out from his sides like the angular legs of a crane.
 

“I thought you might be visiting Sophy. I am.”
 

“Your mother and I weren’t invited,” William said stiffly.
 

“I wonder why?”
 

“Give her my regards,” William said.
 

“I’d rather not.” He nodded in the direction of the dancers. “You and mother are taking prodigious care of Alistair’s pretty bird. Haven’t spoken much with her myself.” That was true. He’d dined with them twice since Anna had joined them, but exchanged no more than commonplaces with her.
 

“Lovely, isn’t she?” William said, curious to test Georgiana’s theory, more interested in provoking his son than complimenting the lady.
 

“Appallingly so. Alistair told me the first time he saw her he took her for a high flier.”
 

“Yes, I heard that.” With the really good ones, it was hard to tell the difference. They looked and spoke the same as ladies. Only the reputation differed. Mostly. “How stupid. He’s usually keener than that,” Lord Fairchild said. Of course, Alistair had proven himself not entirely rational when it came to Mrs. Morris. Which wasn’t such a bad thing. William liked her.
 

“Thought she was tangled with Sophy’s Tom. Well, I knew he must be mistaken on Tom’s part, but maybe he was brighter than he knew. I passed Frederick Morris in the club today. He was hinting all kinds of things.”
 

William stiffened. Anna had alluded to an imperfect past, but he respected her confidence, and her efforts to put such things behind her. “I hope you had the sense to silence him.” He didn’t give a farthing if Georgiana’s suspicions about Henry’s parentage were right—he was in no position to judge. They both shared a close acquaintance with regret, which was probably why he liked Anna, and wanted her to be happy with her child. He wanted it to be possible for both of them.
 

“I may have mentioned a foul odor and that I was thinking of giving up the place,” Jasper said idly. “But who knows? If they let Morris in at White’s the others are probably just as bad.”
 

William couldn’t help a half smile. “Talk like that and he’ll call you out.”
 

“I think not. The brother was a fire eater, but Frederick’s a coward. Spluttered and pretended he hadn’t heard me. No danger from him.” Jasper’s lip curled perfectly, an exact imitation of his mother’s. The two of them were like magnets: so alike they repelled.
 

“Do you dislike Alistair’s fiancée?” William asked.
 

“I have no quarrel with Mrs. Morris. Don’t know how I feel about Alistair’s fiancée.”
 

William didn’t know what to say. It was an ill-advised match, but Anna was a hardy soul. The world wouldn’t think her a good prospect, but—

“Mama keeps looking at you,” Jasper said, glancing from one parent to the other, his narrowed eyes asking why.
 

In spite of himself, William grinned. “Yes, she does.” And then he abandoned his son for the refreshment table.

The champagne was good, the food tolerable, the music—well, he wasn’t qualified to judge. William caught Georgiana’s eye, walking past her at supper, and once again, from the edge of the ballroom. She was waltzing with Grimpen, trying not to look bored. She was a lovely dancer, but he ignored the temptation to ask her himself, knowing she wouldn’t stand for it. They didn’t exchange words at parties, only looks. Tonight was duller than usual, especially since he’d decided against the palliative of the card room. He danced with Anna, debating all the while if he should warn her about Frederick Morris’s rumblings. He decided not to. She was uneasy already, and had looked that way all evening. Instead, he set himself to drawing out smiles and handed her off to her next partner looking less troubled. He danced with a few more ladies and his hostess—standing in the ballroom meant he had to be somewhat obliging. Once, years ago, he had thought about kissing Lady Wincholme as they wandered too far from the rest of their party down a shadowy Vauxhall avenue. He was very glad he hadn’t. Lady Wincholme’s angular little chin was as piquant as ever, but he suspected intimacies between them would have been sordid and mutually disappointing. He was of a retiring disposition; Lady Wincholme, exhaustingly manipulative. Blatant about it too. Not for him, her crystal laughter, her over-bright cheeks, the arch manners and disdainful yet hungry smiles. Give him his intent, secretive Penelope. He wanted her painted again. She hadn’t had a portrait done in years.
 

“My Lord, you aren’t attending,” Lady Wincholme said, teasing, but with a predatory showing of teeth.
 

“Forgive me. It’s the music,” he lied.
 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, flashing diamonds at him.

“Lovely rhythm,” he said, failing valiantly. Heavens, let the dance end soon. “Like—like the paces of a good horse.”
 

Lady Wincholme’s parting, at the end of the set, was less warm than her greeting at the start of the evening. No matter. William was searching out his wife, wondering if he could lure her into one of the alcoves.
 

No, this one was taken, and the next was flanked by Jasper and his least favorite nephew. No good. If Georgiana wouldn’t dance with him, she sure as hell wouldn’t follow him into shady corners under their son’s nose. But he did catch her eye over the hair plumes of his waltz partner at the end of the evening. Georgiana’s answering smile was small and quick. Dazzling.
 

So dazzling that he found himself humming inattentively on the carriage ride home. Tunelessly, but that went without saying. Georgiana, who was an expert on all his deficiencies, forbore comment. Anna, of course, was too polite to complain.
 

After hearing the hall clock chime four, Anna decided it was no use and got out of bed. She regretted it instantly. It was December and hours before dawn; her room was blood-sappingly cold. Leaping from one carpet to the next, Anna grabbed a heavy wool dressing gown draped over the folding screen and burrowed into it, adding a shawl for good measure. The fire was dead, nothing but powdery ash, but Anna knew her room well enough to find the armchair without lighting her candle. She’d been here nearly four months. It was time to stop avoiding the issue and find herself a husband. It might take a good six months or so, and she hadn’t even started. She couldn’t stay at Rushford House forever.
 

Anna leaned her head against the wing of the chair and pulled her hands deeper into her sleeves. She was as bad as Henry, balking at this like he did when it was time to brush his teeth. A sigh escaped her, wafting up like a feeble white flag. Her heart wasn’t in this; it had deserted her and gone to Spain. Unfortunate, but not really surprising. Hearts were unruly things. They caused a good deal of trouble.
 

There must be some man out there who was sufficiently kind and passably handsome. No, forget that. Better if he was passable company. She’d danced with a score of gentleman at Lady Wincholme’s ball—surely one of them met this standard. It shouldn’t be this hard to separate their faces and pull up their names. She must forget Alistair. She’d promised to release him. It wasn’t the first time she’d made plans like this in her dark room, but this time, she really would put him away.
 

Anna had enough practice with night-time worries she could make them awake or asleep. She did both, dozing intermittently in her chair. When her maid came early in the morning to light a new fire, Anna lifted her head, smiled blearily, and shuffled back into bed to thaw under the covers and wait until the room warmed. Then she rang and dressed. Tired, but resolved, Anna was surprised to find herself alone at the breakfast table. She considered the wind scouring the street and testing the windows an excellent reason to stay indoors, but Lord Fairchild was seldom deterred from his morning ride by unfavorable weather. No matter how thick the frost, he usually beat her to the table. Not today—a fine piece of luck, Anna realized, spying the letters resting beside her plate. Lord Fairchild didn’t pry, but she’d rather read them unobserved. Forgetting the welcome smells of breakfast and her night time resolutions, Anna reached for the letters with an accelerating heart. There were two: one with battered corners, the direction written in Alistair’s swirling hand, and a second with crisper edges but cruder script. She broke the seal on Alistair’s first, ignoring a twinge of guilt.
 

Dearest Anna,
 

It was how he addressed all his letters, but regular use didn’t lesson her pleasure in the endearment. His next sentence made her pause.
 

I’m a shocking liar. Selfish too.
 

Selfish? No—he was anything but. And lies—well, his imperfections certainly didn’t detract.
 

I can’t stand the thought of you and Mr. Worthy, whoever he might be. When I engaged myself to you, it was because I wished it were true. I wanted you for my own but a partial loan seemed like the best I could get.
 

Something was happening to her breathing—or else the room was losing air.
 

Will you marry me?
 

Of course she would! Yes, and yes again!
 

I’ve nothing to recommend me—

The wonderful idiot. Didn’t he see?

—save that I look well in a uniform and on a horse, but I’m mad enough in love that I’m certain we could find a way. Not maybe a life of wealth and triumphs, but for me anyways, one of happiness.
 

I want you and I want Henry and I want to spend my days collecting your smiles. Would you mind terribly?
 

She devoured the rest of the brief letter, her skin alive with each word, especially his closing:
 

Burning and fervent and possibly half-cracked, but all for love of you,
 

Alistair

Wasn’t she also? Surely there could be no greater joy than this mutual madness. Anna read the letter again, torn between containing this unstoppable torrent of feeling and letting herself dance around the table. The merely tolerable husband of her late-night plans died unnoticed. She would have Alistair.
 

Still no Lord Fairchild. Anna grinned, hugging the letter to herself and sinking back into her chair. She brushed her finger over his signature, and—no one was looking—pressed her lips hard and swift against the paper. Even when she put it away, her hands still yearned for it.
 

She peeked at the door again, composing herself, reaching for marmalade she wasn’t going to eat. She added extra sugar to her coffee and sliced open an orange and then gave up. She read the letter over again, quickly, because she already knew the words by heart, then slipped it out of sight on to her lap. She might not be able to eat, or drink more than a swallow of her syrupy coffee, but she could make a pretense of reading the other letter.
 

She read the first paragraph twice, her heart beating slower and slower as cold inertia overpowered her. Yes, it was from Griggs. She dragged her eyes back up to the top of the page, forcing herself to decode each word, for though the letters were neatly made and spaced, they felt as strange as a foreign alphabet. Almost, she wished they were.