Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness (2 page)

Rapping on the door, he barely waited before opening it and striding inside.  Clearly he’d surprised the young man draped across the parlor sofa.  “Peter, your unfortunate fashion sense is getting you in trouble once again.  Is it true that you own a pair of those deplorably wide-legged trousers—in blue?”

“Simon!”  The boy struggled to sit up.  “What?  Trousers?  Yes, the most smashing pair.  Not just blue,” he mumbled, subsiding back to stretch out again.  “Cerulean.  Paired with a dark blue waistcoat with silver embroidery.”  His eyes drifted closed.  “Just . . . the . . . thing. .  .”

“What’s this?”  Brodham stared in shock at his nephew’s splinted leg, his pallor, and the unnatural thinness of his face.  He swiveled to face Nestor, Peter’s manservant, as he came from the kitchen, a napkin still tucked at his chin.

“My lord!”  Nestor snatched away the napkin and straightened.

“Nestor, what in creation is going on here?”  He waved a hand in Peter’s direction, but the boy didn’t stir.

“An accident, sir.  Mr. Gardiner has fractured his leg, the doctor says.”

“What?  When?”

“Near three weeks ago, sir.  ‘Twas the merest stumble, but there’s a crack, and it pained him something fierce.”

“Three weeks?  He’s been like this for so long?”  He pulled a chair close and took up Peter’s wrist to check his pulse.  Slow.  Damned slow.  “Does his mother know?  Why was I not informed when I arrived in Town?  Did you not think to notify his family?”

“We’ve got along well enough.”  The servant had the grace to flush at the dark look Brodham shot him. 

The sharp bite of worry made him rough as he shook his nephew again.  “Peter!  Wake up now, sir!”

“Simon?” 

“Peter, what have you done, man?”  He couldn’t keep the edge from his tone. Old fears and older memories swamped him.  He glared at the boy as he blinked up at him and tried to rise on an elbow. 

“Done?  Nothing, to be sure.”  Peter squinted down at the splint.  “Ah, yes, my leg.  Cracked it a good one.”  He lay down again, but then frowned and lifted his head again.  “Were you thinking it was something else, Simon?”  He shook his head.  “No.  Nothing like that.  I promise you.  I just cracked my leg.  Nestor’s been looking after me.”

He sank down again and was asleep almost instantly.

Brodham sat back and looked at the manservant.

Nestor blanched.  “He never asked me to send a message. Not to anyone.”

He picked up one of the bottles resting on the side table.  “I should say not, if you’re pumping this lot down his throat.  Damnation, man.  Have you kept him drugged this entire time?”

Nestor straightened.  “I’ve only followed the doctor’s instructions, sir.”

He held up a blue bottle with a flowered label.  “I’d like to know which doctor recommended Miss Florentine’s Nighttime Elixer for a broken leg.”  He waited.  “Well?”

The servant shifted.  “I might have also consulted the apothocary.”

“On how to best arrange yourself a vacation?  You’ve had an easy time of it, haven’t you, with your master sleeping around the clock?”  He rose.  “How long have you been with Mr. Gardiner?”

“Nigh on three years.”  Nestor paused.  “Sir.”

Long enough to have heard some family secrets, some things he thought he could put to use, it would seem.  Cursing under his breath, Brodham snatched up a waste bin.  He swept the collection of bottles and powders in envelopes into it and thrust it at Nestor.  “You could have killed him with this poisonous mix.  Throw it out.  All of it.  And then get yourself to the coffee shop on the corner and bring back a pot of strong, black coffee.”

“But sir—”

“At once!”

All attempts at indignation fell away with the droop of the man’s shoulders.  He took up the bin and shuffled out.

Brodham went to his young relative and shook him hard by the shoulder.  “Peter!  Wake up now!”

“Simon?”  Peter’s head rolled toward him.  “I thought I dreamed you were here.”

“I’d hope you could come up with better dreams than that.  Now sit up here, man.  Here, prop yourself up with these pillows and try to stay awake.”

“I’m awake.” 

He sighed as Peter batted his hands away and promptly drifted to one side.

“What are you doing back, Simon?” his nephew asked as he hauled him straight again.  He opened his eyes wide and tried to rally.  “Did you return with the contingent of foreign dignitaries?  Saw the lot of them at the Pulteney.  There’s to be no end of parties and celebrations.  I mean to attend some of the events, myself.”

Lips flattened, Brodham told him, “The foreign dignitaries have all gone, man.”

“What?  They’ve only just arrived.  Thought they meant to stay on a bit.”

“They did stay on.  You’ve been out of your head, Peter.”

His young nephew yawned.  “No, I’ve just busted my leg.  The medicine’s made me a bit sleepy, is all.  Took a spill coming down from my phaeton yesterday . . . or was it the day before?”

Nestor returned then and Brodham was happy to find that Peter did revive a little after several cups of black coffee.  He even got him up and walked him around the parlor once, although Peter leaned heavily on his arm and sank gratefully back onto the sofa when they were done.  As his fears for his nephew’s safety eased, he recalled at last his purpose in coming today.  Sending Nestor out to fetch his coachman up to him, he pulled out the article.

“Peter, there’s something else you’ve missed.”  He handed him the paper.  “People are talking, saying that you are the man in blue.  I’ve heard about your damned blue trousers from no less than three people.”  He sighed.  “Please tell me this is not you.”

“I have trousers—cerulean, not blue.”  He paused.  “That reminds me . . . There was something . . .”

Brodham groaned, his doubts—and hopes—beginning to slip away.  “Burn the damned things!”

“Burn them?  Whatever for?”  He gazed at the paper without seeing it.

“Because your unfortunate fashion sense has tripped you up at last.  Your damned blue trousers have blackened your name.”

“Cerulean, not blue—and I don’t know what you’re talking—”  He stuttered to a stop as his eyes widened.  “Cerulean!  Oh, damnation.”  He struggled to rise, but Brodham shook his head.  “You don’t understand.  I think I missed—”

“You did,” He interrupted sourly.  “Look at that notice.  And yes, check the date of the paper.”

Peter read, his alarm growing.  “Good heavens.  That poor, dear girl.” 

He met Brodham’s incredulous look with an annoyed one of his own.  “Don’t give me that face, Simon!  You don’t know how it was.  Or what a dear little thing she is!  The last thing I would wish is to disappoint her.  She must be so distraught.”

“She is obviously so—and has let half of London know it.  They all think that you are the blackguard who seduced and abandoned her.”

“It was not like that—not a bit of it!”

“Nevertheless, you are labeled a cad and a bounder in drawing rooms across Town.”

“I don’t care about that.  My only thought is for . . . Felicity.”  Peter tried to rise again, but fell back, clutching his head.

He sighed.  “Felicity
Who
?  We must find her and put a stop to this.”

His nephew blinked at him, hand still clasped to his brow.  “I . . . I can’t remember!”

Nestor entered before Brodham could respond, bringing his frowning coachman with him.

“Not to worry, Hudson,” he told the driver.  “I won’t keep you from the horses for long.”  He pointed at Nestor.  “You’ve ten minutes to pack your things, then Hudson will take you anywhere in Town that you wish to go.”

The servant’s mouth fell open.  “What?  Sir!  I don’t understand . . .”

Brodham lifted the rough-spun stocking he’d found behind a chair.  “Either you’ve been entertaining while Mr. Gardiner dreamt his drug-fueled dreams, or you’ve left this lay for three weeks.”  He lifted a brow at Peter, who stared, then shook his head. 

“Either way, you are dismissed,” he continued.  “If you go quickly and quietly I will not see you brought up on charges of neglect and attempted poisoning.  If you think to cause a fuss, then Hudson can go and fetch my solicitor back here to see the evidence for himself.”

The servant opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, turned on his heel and left the room.

“Hudson, make a note of where you leave him, then return here to help me get Mr. Gardiner to Brodham House.”

The coachman bowed.  “Very good, sir.  I’ll just wait below with the horses.”

When he’d gone, Brodham reached for his nephew.  “Come, you are slipping to the side again.  Let’s get some more coffee in you.”

“Damn the coffee.  I have to get to Felicity.”

He pressed the cup back into Peter’s hand.  “You are not to fret about it.  You’ve only to rest and heal.  I’ll handle the situation—and then perhaps I think both of us might benefit from a nice rest in Yorkshire.”

Peter waved a dismissive hand.  “Yes, later, perhaps.  But will you take her a message for me?  She needs to understand what’s happened . . .”

“Of course.”

“Simon?”  His nephew must have been alarmed at his lack of expression or enthusiasm.  “Will you?  What do you plan to do?”

“I’ll do what I always do.  I’ll take care of it all,” he answered with grim resignation.  “It will all be settled before we leave London.”

Chapter Two

“I’m so very sorry that I reacted badly yesterday.  It was just such a shock to think that someone had discovered my secret.”

Liberty suppressed a sigh and a retort about not advertising your secrets in the papers.  Truly, Miss Felicity Carmichael, authoress of the fast-becoming-infamous notices, didn’t deserve the rebuke.  She was a stunningly lovely young girl, blonde and beautiful, warm in her manner—and a terrible ninnyhammer.

Actually, Liberty suspected that the girl possessed a sharp enough wit, but found it frequently dulled by an abundance of sensibility.  An excess that had manifested as hysteria yesterday and in an abject apology today.

“I’d never wish for you or anyone to think badly of Mr.—of the gentleman I met that evening—not for the world.”

“Even you must admit, it’s becoming harder not to think harshly of him.”

  Liberty admired again the setting Felicity had chosen for her assignation.  The secret red door was picturesque indeed, set in a stone wall with greenery overflowing from the garden on the other side.  Utter privacy had arisen from some long ago property dispute that had led to an extra parcel of land being taken for this house’s back lot.  The extension of the garden walls had resulted in a narrow lane between the house and its neighbor, one that opened from the mews, turned a corner and ended at this pretty garden door.  Felicity could wait for her erstwhile beau without being seen from the house or from anyone passing in the mews.

“I know it sounds naive.  I’ve only met him once, but I
know
that he hasn’t a dishonorable bone in his body.  He meant to meet me, Miss Baylis, and only something dire has prevented him.  I just know it!”

“Please, call me Liberty.”  She grinned.  “It’s one of my deplorable American habits.”  As was the adoption of causes, according to her mother—and she’d definitely found her latest.  Felicity Carmichael spoke with utter conviction and her eyes had welled with tears and worry for her ‘gentleman of fine airs’, not with concern about her own reputation.  All of that sensibility—focused on concern for the others in her orbit.  It solidified Liberty’s own convictions.  A girl like this deserved a handsome prince and a happily ever after.  She was going to help this girl find her man.  And if it all went to Hades in a handbasket, then she was going to help her pick up the pieces of her heart and start again.

“Think carefully, Felicity.  You’re certain you never heard his last name?”

The girl had the grace to flush.  “I know it isn’t proper—but that was just it, you see.  We had no proper introduction at all.  If only you’d seen . . .”  She sighed.  “It started in the upper hallway at Lord Dayle’s ball—I was so
frightened
.  Three young men they were—only teasing, they said—but there was something ugly in their eyes, too.  They pressed too close and it was only dimly lit up there.  I could smell the alcohol—and their words were harsh.  They said they couldn’t see me sent back North until I’d been thoroughly kissed.” 

Her distress was obvious, even now in the retelling.  “My heart was in palpitations!  They were touching me, pulling my dress.  I called out, but we were far from the ball—and suddenly those rough hands were torn away.  I could only see a flurry of motion as they were pushed and pulled away and then there was only a wall of black superfine before me, protecting me.”

“Your gentleman of fine airs, I presume.”

She nodded and her eyes shone.

“But why did the pair of you not return to the ball once he’d run them off?  Why leave alone and unchaperoned?”

“It was wrong—I know that now.  But my hem was torn and my hair mussed.  I was all atremble.  I could barely raise my eyes to look at him—but when I did . . .”  She stopped, lost for a moment.  “It was  . . . lovely,” she whispered.

Lily shivered.

“He took my breath away.  So tall and intimidating, yet so gentle when he spoke to me.  He took care of everything—sending for my cousin Charlotte, telling her just what to say to my aunt.  I just . . . stared, really.  I let him lead me away to his coach.  And we talked and laughed so comfortably once we were on the way and all the way home.  I felt . . . I don’t know, like I was floating in a warm, lovely bubble.”

Liberty’s chest ached a little.  How could it not?  There was something in Felicity’s tone.  Something so fine and rare and happy—she couldn’t help wanting a bit of it for herself.

“But then we were home and he wanted to make plans to meet again, properly this time.  I told him it was impossible, but he persisted—so we compromised and planned to meet here.”  She waved a hand.

“But I don’t understand.  Why could you not meet him in the regular fashion?  Surely you could have arranged to be at the same event.  An introduction should not be so hard to manage.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t know,” the girl answered miserably.  “I’m only out this Season at my aunt’s insistence.  She convinced my mother that I should get out, see a little of the world before I settle down and marry.  Mother objected, but my aunt bullied her unmercifully until it was agreed I could act as companion to Charlotte.  I’m to accompany my cousin on shopping trips and to the park and on other outdoor excursions—and to any other event that Aunt has no wish to attend.  But on no account am I to flirt or court attention from young gentlemen myself.”

Liberty frowned.  “Why ever not?  I thought that was rather the point of it all.”

“Not for me.”  Her pretty head hung low.  “I’m to go to Mr. Bridlaw.  He’s our neighbor in Cumberland.”

“Oh, that is an obstacle.”  Liberty thought a moment.  “Are you formally engaged, then?”

Felicity shook her head.  “No, but Mr. Bridlaw’s estate is right next door, close enough that I can still help Mother—and she says he is just the man for me, older and steady enough to even out my flighty ways.”

Liberty’s indignant retort was lost as Harris hissed in excitement.  Liberty had posted the maid at the corner, and set her to watching the lane and its intersection with the mews.  “Miss!” she called now.  “A carriage!  It’s very fine and it’s stopped dead on at the end of the lane!”

Felicity paled and leaned against the wall for support, but Liberty was made of sterner stuff.  She hurried to the corner, bade Harris to make room, and peered around. 

Suddenly the wistful ache in her chest bloomed into a full-fledged flare of jealousy.  “Good heavens, Felicity,” she breathed.  “No wonder you forgot Mr. Bridlaw.”

A gentleman had descended from the carriage.  Liberty pressed her lips together tightly.  The museum directors her mother socialized with were forever growing excited over quality items and prime specimens.  She swallowed—and knew she’d become a collector herself if only a girl was permitted to gather tall, broad and handsome samples such as this.  And he only improved as he advanced.  

“There’s two of them,” Harris said.

Liberty tore her gaze away to see another gentleman descend from the coach.  He moved slowly and carefully and leaned on a walking stick.  He was as tall as the first man, but paler in skin tone and hair color.  They both moved toward their vantage point.

Liberty withdrew and pulled Harris away too.  She looked back at Felicity, waiting wide-eyed and trembling, and abruptly crossed to her and took her hands.

“Felicity, speak truly now.  Do you
wish
to marry Mr. Bridlaw?”

The girl shook her head, setting her blonde curls to bouncing.

“Do you wish to see if something . . . romantic . . . might develop with your fine gentleman, if given the chance?”

The girl stared, wide-eyed.

“Well?”

“But—Mother?”

“Don’t think of her now, but only what lies in your heart.  What do you want?”

The girl’s eyes drifted toward the corner.  “Him,” she whispered.

Liberty smiled and brushed a tendril of her hair from her lovely face.  “Then let’s get him for you.”

The other girl sucked in a breath and Liberty spun around.  He’d rounded the corner, Felicity’s gentleman, his expression somber and his companion hanging back a bit.  She stepped toward him, a smile pasted on her face. 

“Here you are at last!” Liberty said brightly.  Her heart pounded in her ears.  She forced herself to look away from his wide shoulders and broad chest, but there was no help to be had in his glittering dark eyes and chiseled countenance.  She would have to discard all of her objections to England now.  Surely one could only admire a country that produced such a man.  “I can scarcely believe those adverts actually worked.  She’ll be so relieved that they finally brought you.”

He stopped, his brows raised high, two flying signals of abrupt disapproval.  “You can scarce believe they worked?  I can scarce believe you would think of such a daft plan, let alone carry it out.”  The deep rumble of his voice reverberated in her belly—until the disparaging tone of his words set her back up.

“Hold a moment,” she said, frowning.  “
I
would think of such a plan?”

At the same time, he scowled.  “Finally brought
me
?”

They exchanged accusing glances.  “You don’t know who I am!” they said in unison.

Liberty’s heart began to make an unsteady racket.  Oh, dear.  More than a Specimen of Masculine Splendor, this one was going to be a Challenge.

She’d
never
been able to resist a Challenge.

They both turned then, at a cry of feminine distress.  Felicity had passed them by and was fluttering with concern over the other, paler gentleman.  He, in turn, held her hand and smiled down on her, speaking softly. 

It wasn’t him, then.  Her Specimen was not Felicity’s gentleman of fine airs.

As one, Liberty and the other man turned back toward each other.  “Who are
you?” they asked, together again. 

Brodham took a step back, away from the pretty little bundle of liveliness—and guile, if her expressive green eyes and his suspicions were correct.

After so many years of exposure he possessed a finely honed sensitivity for trouble, and this girl oozed it from her pores.  A glittering, sparkling sort of trouble, to be sure, it hovered about her like a cloud of fairy dust—and made her all the more dangerous.

“Simon Lansing, Viscount Brodham, at your service.”  He glanced over to Peter and the other girl.  “I’d wait for a more formal introduction, but it might be best to let them have their few moments.  Especially as they are likely to be their last.”

She dipped, her curtsy abrupt and her smile fixed.  “Miss Liberty Baylis.”

She paused, presumably at his expression, and sighed.  “Yes.  Liberty.  I know it is a silly name, but it’s the one I’ve been saddled with and I strive to make the best of it.” 

“Very wise,” he murmured.

“Well.  It is a pleasure, my lord.  But why must these be their last moments?  Why would they not have more, now that they’ve found each other at last?”

He looked over again.  Peter’s young lady was lovely—and staring at his nephew like a love struck mooncalf.  “Ah, but who is it that Mr. Gardiner has found?  Who is her family and why have they allowed her to court such spectacle?” 

“I think spectacle is rather a harsh word, sir.  There’s hardly anyone here.  This barely qualifies as a fuss.”  She smiled.  “And what is a little fuss in the name of love?”

He raised a brow.

She sighed.  “She is Miss Felicity Carmichael, my lord, daughter of Baron Gosforth.  And I’m afraid she cooked up her little scheme all on her own.  It seems her family knew nothing of it.”

He lifted a shoulder.  “At least she has some claim of nobility, although the whole situation still does not speak well of whoever has had the charge of her.”

A corner of her mouth turned up.  “As much as it’s been a pleasure to make
your
acquaintance, my lord, I do confess to an impatience to meet Mr. Gardiner.  It appears
he
is a man of intellect and a great deal of understanding.”

As opposed to him?  She was as cheeky as she was curvy beneath her dusky blue day gown and smart spencer trimmed in white and gold.  He bit back a smile.  “What makes you say that?”

“He grasped Miss Carmichael’s many fine qualities
before
he learned of her connection to the peerage.”

“Ah, that helps me place your accent.  I suspected that you were an American.”

She flushed.  “And proud to be so, sir.”

“Yes, you all do seem to feel that way.”

Her chin lifted.  “As you are an Englishman, I will defer to your expertise in the area of pride.”

A direct hit.  He began to warm to the game, despite himself.  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand your connection to the lovely Miss Carmichael.”

She stiffened.  “The connection of friendship,” she said curtly.

“Ah.  A friendship of long standing, it must surely be.”

He awaited her answer, sure he’d caught her—and feeling alive and . .  . stimulated.  It had been a long while since he’d exchanged barbs with a skilled opponent—and longer still since he’d faced one so appealing.