Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (4 page)

Lord Fairchild shook his head. “I don’t expect to after the way we parted. Jasper has seen her, but he refuses to say if she is well. She’s Bagshot’s wife and there’s nothing now to be done, but I worry for her. I know almost nothing of the man she’s chosen. I’ve driven out twice to Suffolk, but never made it all the way to Bagshot’s door.”
 

“She was determined to have him,” Alistair said carefully. Confiding his suspicions of Bagshot’s perfidy to Jasper was a simple matter, but he wasn’t certain he could mention them to his uncle. Jasper might deceive most with his sophisticated airs, but Alistair knew the jealously guarded secret of his cousin’s private convictions. He might ogle bosoms and flirt and tell warm stories, but if Jasper had ever pursued a flirtation to its natural conclusion, Alistair didn’t know of it. Jasper would expect Tom Bagshot to love his sister honestly, but Lord Fairchild’s example suggested he would be satisfied with kindness and circumspection. Indeed, their world expected nothing more from husbands, who frequently got away with even less.
 

“He’s indecently wealthy. Nothing to complain of, I suppose, though it all smells of the shop. I hear rumors of mills in dockside taverns though. Fellow’s a real bruiser, apparently.” Lord Fairchild’s forehead creased and he stared with bleak eyes at the ugly landscape hanging on the opposite wall. “A violent man. Suppose one day he hits her?”
 

Alistair swallowed. It wasn’t something anyone liked to speak about. “Would you take her, if she came back?”
 

“God, yes.”
 

Shamed by his own feelings—hadn’t he taken secret pleasure at the prospect of shattering Sophy’s illusions, of paying her in kind for the pain she’d given him?—Alistair spoke. “I’ve seen him on occasion. Once with a dark-haired woman. The wrong sort, of course, but she seemed more affected than he. It was a chance meeting, one I’d temporarily forgotten. I was about to find Jasper, to tell him of it.”
 

His uncle’s face closed, hiding distress that seemed all the greater for being buried out of sight. “When was this?” he asked.
 

“Earlier in the season, the night Sophy and I went with Lord and Lady Arundel to the masquerade ball,” Alistair admitted, loath to mention that mistake. If he hadn’t agreed to escort Sophy and her older, legitimate sister to that vulgar spectacle, Sophy would never have crossed paths again with Tom Bagshot, and none of this would have happened.
 

“Fairly recently then.” Lord Fairchild rubbed his cheek. “I can scarce get Jasper to speak to me. You’ll tell him? See what you can find? There’s little we can do, but if Sophy needs help—”

“I’ll speak to him,” Alistair promised.
 

Lord Fairchild’s lips twitched but they were incapable of forming a smile. “I seem to always be thanking you of late. You’ve been terribly decent about all this. I wish you knew how sorry I am.”
 

“It’s nothing,” Alistair said, uncomfortable with undeserved gratitude. He hid behind a quick swallow of brandy, forgetting it was vile.
 

“Tastes like horse piss, doesn’t it?” Lord Fairchild said, as Alistair grimaced.
 

Alistair could only nod, glad he was spared the indignity of blushing. The economies forced on the family by his eldest brother were becoming even more shameful.
 

“Cyril’s a careless fellow,” his uncle said, neutrally, like he was commenting on the weather. “Another reason my wife liked the match. You were always her favorite nephew. She worries about your future.”
 

“She needn’t,” Alistair said.
 

Lord Fairchild leaned back in his chair, carefully preparing his words. Alistair braced himself. A charitable offer was coming. He could feel it.
 

“I could help. Buy your next commission or help you find a place in the foreign service if you’re tired of the army.” Lord Fairchild looked up from his steepled fingers to meet Alistair’s eyes. “You held up your side of the bargain. I owe you something.”
 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alistair said. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was pity.
 

“Think about it,” his uncle said.
 

He ought to. Now that he’d lost Sophy and her comfortable portion, he needed some plan for his future. Even if the war did last forever, he wouldn’t be so lucky.
 

“I couldn’t. And there’s no need,” he said.
 

Uncle William looked at Alistair’s glass. He set it down, annoyed. “I shall be quite all right, I assure you,” he lied. The longer he stayed in England the more he realized his family was in trouble. Despite his mother’s prophecies of disaster, no one had seriously attempted to check his brother. How could they? Their father was ailing and Cyril was nearly at the point of stepping into his shoes. There would be no gainsaying him then, and he knew it.
 

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” Lord Fairchild stood, reaching for his hat and gloves, still reposing on the sofa cushion. “If you could make time to call on my wife in the next day or two, I’d be grateful. She misses you.” No doubt Aunt Georgiana felt guilty.
 

Well, he might not mind commiserating with her. They’d always been in tune, and unlike Jasper, her loyalties were with him. Alistair promised to make a point of it. His uncle left and a minute later so did he, setting out to find Jasper, more depressed about his errand than before. He cared for Sophy. Truly. He always had, warming to her elusive light and her laughter, not just the comfortable life she promised. But his face didn’t look like her father’s, worn and without hope and weary, which told him a sad thing: he cared, but not nearly enough. Sophy, with all her talk of hearts—filled and lost and breaking—had surely known.
 

Of course Jasper could never be found when he was needed. It was true to his nature, Alistair supposed: self-indulgent and thoroughly annoying. Returning home, late and unsuccessful, Alistair committed himself to more aggressive tactics and told Griggs to make sure to wake him before nine.
 

A circuit round the park on his black gelding the next morning also failed to turn up his cousin, so Alistair rode directly to St. James Street. Jasper, the lucky dog, had sufficient means to keep his own rooms there. Dividing his time between London, a hunting box in the country, various jaunts to Newmarket, and—just the once—a walking tour in Scotland, Jasper managed to spend very little time within sight of his parents, a policy he’d pursued since first being sent to school. Alistair sympathized. A career in the army did much the same thing for him, but without setting up his parents’ backs.
 

He found his cousin presiding over a magnificent breakfast, just as a gentleman of leisure should: ale in one hand, the racing form in the other, and a plate piled with sliced beef in between.

“Look at this,” Jasper said, forgetting yesterday’s quarrel and jabbing a finger at the paper beside him. “Fancy Piece beat Gordon’s Zephyr by a length—a length, I tell you!”

Alistair paused before taking the proffered chair. “I’m glad to see you. Yesterday—”

“All forgotten,” Jasper said, with an impatient wave. “But this upset! Wish I had seen it. Williams will be flying high—and Gordon ready to chew nails. We’ll see them both at the club today, if Gordon can stand to watch Williams gloat.”

“I doubt he has the choler for it,” Alistair said.

“Pity. ’Twould be amusing.” Jasper glanced up at Alistair and realized he had something on his mind more important than horses. Or horses belonging to other people, at least. He took a fortifying gulp of ale. “It isn’t nice to come so early on serious matters,” he complained.

“I’m afraid it’s important,” Alistair said. “The woman with the boy who saw us yesterday. I’ve seen her before.”

“Hmmn.” Jasper was only mildly interested. “Fine looking lady, I admit, but no hope for either of us. Unless she felled you with that disgusted glance, I don’t see any problem—hey, aren’t you still in love with my sister?”

Sometimes talking to Jasper was like walking through heavy brush. You couldn’t take a step without picking up irritating burrs. “That’s not why I came.”

“It would be a good thing for you to fix your attentions elsewhere,” Jasper said, pulling a pencil from behind his ear to circle the name of a horse.

“I dare say.” Alistair glanced across the table at the paper. It wasn’t a horse. The listing was promoting a cockfight.

“Well, who is she?” Jasper finally asked.

“A chère-amie of Bagshot’s.”

Jasper froze, his ale halfway to his mouth, frown lines gouging his forehead. Silently he set down his glass. “Can’t be,” he said. “Bagshot’s too much of a reforming bent for that. Methodist. You know the type.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a good Christian got his feet dirty,” Alistair said.
 

“I don’t believe it,” Jasper said. “What makes you think so?”

“I saw him.” Alistair told him about the masquerade, and the proprietary way she had spoken of Tom.

Jasper fidgeted with the paper. “Too late to do anything now, even if he was mixed up with her,” he said. “Sophy’s stuck with him, and he knows better than to carry on with prime articles now. New one for you to come out all prunes and prisms. Would you have told Sophy of your Spanish beauties?”
 

“That’s different. I haven’t gotten any children,” Alistair said. “And you know I haven’t done more than dance with another female since Sophy came to town.” Jasper’s gaze didn’t soften, so Alistair added, “I would have told her, when the time was right.” It was an uncomfortable, ridiculous notion, but it was only fair.

“How do you know Bagshot didn’t? Dalliance doesn’t seem his style, but I suppose it’s possible,” Jasper said, his intense study failing to char the meat remaining on his plate. He shook his head. “No. Sophy wouldn’t fall for a dirty dish like that.”
 

“She’s very young,” Alistair said gently. “He can’t have told her—she’d have raised a hell of a dust.”
 

Jasper flicked him a skeptical glance.
 

“The boy in the park?” Alistair prompted, knowing this was the crux of the matter. Tom Bagshot probably had given up his mistress—he seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely the night of the masquerade. Mrs. Morris—if that was her name—was probably pensioned off, dismissed. But Sophy wouldn’t stand for Tom hiding a child from her. She knew the plight of illegitimate children too well.
 

Jasper understood at once, but he struggled with himself, not wanting to admit it. “Just because an incognita was marking Tom doesn’t mean he let himself get caught. You sure she’s in the game?”

“I spoke to her. She’s a lightskirt. I’m sure of it.” He couldn’t say which of them had turned the conversation down shady paths, but she hadn’t pulled back. She’d matched him, step for step.
 

Jasper picked up his fork, turning it in his hand so the light from the window danced across the walls as his face darkened. A thought came to him, clearing his countenance. “Normally I’d believe you. You’re a good judge of these things. But this one can’t be. Lightskirts don’t parade their brats around the park. Whatever she is, I’d lay money she isn’t that.”

Alistair clenched his teeth. “How much?” he demanded, unwilling to back down.

“A pony,” Jasper said.

Alistair snorted. “You can’t be that sure then.” Twenty five pounds was a paltry stake.

“I don’t steal from my relatives.” Jasper gave him a steady look. “You’re taking Sophy’s rejection too hard. Not thinking straight. Have some breakfast.” He got up and went to the sideboard for a plate.
 

Alistair waved it away. “You named your stake. Let’s settle this thing. If it’s true, Sophy ought to know.”
 

Jasper thought for some moments, drumming his fingers on the side of his thigh. “All right then. Haven’t anything better to do.”
 

He waited, all easy complacence, provoking Alistair to snap, “It won’t be easy. I doubt Morris is her real name.”
 

Jasper shook his head, breezily confident. “We’ll know the truth by luncheon. And when I relieve you of your money, you can thank me I didn’t take more.” He met Alistair’s look with a grin. “Come on. I expect Bagshot’s mother knows the lady and this is all a mare’s nest. Sophy loves Tom and she’s a right one. She wouldn’t fall for a man who wasn’t of solid worth.”

“We’ll see,” Alistair said, picking up his gloves. Yesterday’s fist fight was more than enough. He must keep his temper, no matter how pressed.
 

 
“Well, he must be something, if she preferred him to you.”

It required self-control of heroic proportions, but Alistair limited himself to a single muttered curse. Of course Jasper only laughed.
 

*****

Of all the things Jasper might have anticipated today, paying a morning call on Mrs. Bagshot was not one of them.

He had been to the house on Russell Square before. Both the address and the style of furnishing shouted that the family was new money, but Bagshot’s mother surprised him today. They found her in the drawing room, bundled into the corner of a green brocade sofa. Instead of obscuring her dumpy figure with an invention of silk, lace, and ribbon, she wore a calico gown suitable for a housemaid. Unnerved, Jasper paused on the threshold. If she wasn’t prepared for company, she shouldn’t have let her servant show them up.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Do we find you indisposed?”

Her cheeks flamed and she jumped to her feet, curtsied and took her seat again, weak apology and stout defiance warring across her face. Jasper held back a laugh. She was vibrating between the two like his mother’s dinner gong.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I am being comfortable today. I didn’t expect visitors.” She was clearly incapable of unkindness; a species of woman he had heard existed, but never chanced across. For a half-second, Jasper wished he could introduce her to his own mother. Useless, that. Lady Fairchild would never see past such eagerness to please, or that shabby cap.