The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (13 page)

“Mr. Fairchild!” She gasped and tried very hard not to let him see the tiniest bit of amusement. “That was extraordinarily rude.”

He cast her an unrepentant grin. “But funny. You have to admit it was funny.”

“It was not the least bit funny,” she said firmly, and turned away for fear he’d see her amusement in her eyes. It wasn’t his imitation of the chef that was so funny but rather the very fact that he’d attempted it at all. His accent was atrocious, which did make it all the more comical.

But then she did find him more and more amusing. He’d come to the house every day during her unfortunate confinement and never once pointed out he had warned her that the skin coloring was a bad idea. It was most considerate of him.

If Cameron wasn’t so terribly amusing and dashing and, when he wished to be, charming, he might not be worth the effort to keep around. But she had been far more frightened by the incident with her purse than she’d let even Clara see. The theft had brought to mind all sorts of dire and dreadful predicaments two women alone might encounter, and having a gentleman on hand seemed like an excellent idea. Still, even if she wished to be rid of him, he had been hired to watch her and watch her he was determined to do. Besides, she was becoming rather fond of him. No, in truth, she liked him. More and more each day. And just last night he had appeared in her dreams as well, which was both disconcerting and intriguing.

And she did so love his stories about his work as a private investigator. Lucy had always loved a good story. Pity she didn’t believe a word of them.

It was her experience that real life was never as perfectly entertaining as something made up. And Cameron’s stories were suspiciously close to perfectly amusing. It was hard as well to ignore how he steered the conversation to one of his investigative adventures whenever it veered too close to his personal life. The man was definitely hiding something. But that touch of mystery was nearly as appealing as his brown eyes and irresistible smile.

She’d noted when she’d taken his coat that the quality of the fabric and the tailoring of the garment was well above average. And probably out of financial reach of a private investigator no matter how much he was paid for what appeared to be very little work. He was obviously well educated and, just as obviously, used to the finer things in life. His pronunciation of François’ last name was impeccable even to her untrained ear and had earned him a grudging modicum of respect from the chef. He was also a bit more concerned with propriety than one might have expected. All of which spoke of a privileged upbringing.

But, regardless of his secrets, he did seem to have a sense of honor. One could tell that just by talking to him. Lucy wasn’t completely certain but she suspected she was an excellent judge of character; at least, nothing had ever happened to prove her wrong, and something inside her insisted he was an honorable man. But what did an honorable man have to hide? It would be entirely convoluted to hire an investigator to ferret out the secrets of a fellow investigator. Still, the idea had merit.

Oh yes, she did indeed like Cameron Fairchild. Even so, she had lied to him. As brief and fleeting as their kiss had been, as unremarkable as she had claimed it to be, it had still done something quite remarkable to the pit of her stomach. Which did seem to bear further examination or at the very least, another kiss. He had very nearly kissed her at the circus and she had very much wanted him to. He’d not attempted it since, which was both disappointing and a relief. She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d react to another kiss, although she couldn’t quite get the idea out of her head. It occurred with alarming frequency whenever her hand inadvertently brushed his, or she gazed into his dark eyes or his smile reached into her soul. She slanted a quick glance at him. He was handsome and dashing, funny and proper, no more than a few years older than she and, in many ways, all a woman might want in a man. If a woman was looking for a man—which she wasn’t, of course. Still, he was a mystery and she simply adored mysteries.

Cameron leaned close and spoke softly. “Do you realize you called me Cameron? Twice by my count.”

“Did I?” She shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He grinned in obvious disbelief.

“You needn’t make anything of it. I call François by his given name.”

“I thought that was significant at first and frankly, somewhat alarming. Then I realized I was wrong.”

“Oh?”

“Once I heard you attempt to pronounce Vadeboncoeur, I saw that François was much more practical.”

“He insisted.” She winced. “He’s rather sensitive about the pronunciation of his name.”

“And your mind doesn’t work in more than one language.”

“Exactly.” She paused. “I will confess, I have started to think of you as Cameron rather than Mr. Fairchild,” she said slowly. “We are spending a great deal of time together, after all, and we have forged a friendship of sorts.”

“I didn’t expect that.” He smiled into her eyes and something deep inside her fluttered. “But I find it delightful, Lucy.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “As do I.” She drew a deep breath. “However, I think it would be wise to restrict our address of one another to Miss Merryweather and Mr. Fairchild when in the presence of others, especially Miss West. I doubt she would find it quite as delightful.”

He chuckled. “She doesn’t like me.”

“I’m not sure she doesn’t like you as much as she doesn’t trust you.” In spite of her conviction that he was an honorable man, Lucy wasn’t entirely sure she trusted him either. After all, what kind of secrets did an honorable man have, anyway?

“But you do?”

“Completely,” she lied.

“I suspect you’re entirely too clever to fully trust anyone you barely know.”

“You did say you were trustworthy.”

He smiled, and again that odd fluttering caught at her. And gazing into his brown eyes, it struck her that Mr. Fairchild was wrong.

The most dangerous man in the kitchen wasn’t the French chef.

“Mr. Fairchild is not going to be happy about this,” Clara said mildly.

Lucy’s gaze met Clara’s in the large mirror reflecting the two women. “Does that concern us?”

Clara shrugged. “Not in the least.”

“Yes, well, it can’t be helped,” Lucy said firmly. “It’s not as if I actually lied to him.” Lucy studied her reflection and ignored an annoying stab of guilt. Cameron would certainly see her failure to inform him about tonight’s activities as a lie of omission at the very least. But only if he found out. “When Mr. Fairchild made his obligatory appearance this morning to check on our activities, I said we had no plans to leave the house this evening, and at that point we hadn’t. I told him we intended to do nothing more than consider the remaining items on Great-aunt Lucinda’s list and how to best accomplish them and, at that point, that was indeed our intention.”

“He did look rather uneasy at that.”

Lucy grinned. “Delightful, wasn’t it?”

Clara laughed.

It was the truth, at that point. And Lucy really hadn’t anticipated anything changing, although perhaps she should have. The day after she’d baked what turned out to be an extremely tasty cake, thanks to François, she’d received a note from Lady Theodosia Winslow. Then yesterday, she and Clara had met Teddy at the Ladies Tearoom at Fenwick and Sons Booksellers for tea and cookies and a very fruitful conversation.

“If he was better at his job he never would have simply taken my word for it,” Lucy pointed out. A voice in the back of her head noted that wasn’t entirely fair. But really, when all was said and done, it seemed to her he had become rather lax in his duties. He had admitted Lucy was his only assignment at the moment, and one would think he would then spend more time in her company. Still, the man trusted that she was going to be where she said she would be. It struck her that Cameron might be a bit too trusting to be a private investigator. At least a good one.

He had accompanied them to the tearoom but insisted on remaining outside in the cold carriage, which did seem silly since he could have browsed the offerings in the adjoining bookstore. But he was quite adamant about not coming in, and one did have to wonder if it was the natural reluctance of any man to enter a primarily female domain or if he was worried about running into someone he knew. It was an interesting thought Lucy filed away for further examination later, but more and more about Cameron was simply not adding up.

Teddy’s note had asked how Lucy was faring in London, although Lucy suspected she was far more interested in finding out if Lucy had heard anything from Jackson. Which indicated Teddy had not. It was a shame the two refused to compromise, but Lucy had no doubt it would all work out in the end. That was the way of true love, after all. Why, Shakespeare himself acknowledged that it did not run smoothly.

Lucy admired Teddy’s independence and determination to succeed in her business of organizing and planning weddings and society events. And admired her courage as well. Lucy didn’t know that she would have the strength to risk the loss of the man she loved to follow her own path. Although as Teddy had explained it, for either of them to give up what they wanted would surely lead to regret and recrimination and heartbreak. Which did indeed make sense but was a pity nonetheless.

Teddy had casually asked after Jackson’s parents and about any number of other insignificant topics until Lucy bluntly pointed out Jackson had scarcely been gone two weeks now and it was entirely too soon for a letter to have reached either of them. They both left unspoken the acknowledgment that Lucy was far more likely to receive a missive than Teddy was. Although she would wager a great deal any such letter from Jackson would ask, in an entirely offhand and subtle manner, about Lady Theodosia. Lucy would then dutifully mention his inquiry to Teddy.

“I think we look adequately masculine.” Lucy considered her reflection thoughtfully.

Clara snorted. “As gentlemen, I’d say we look as if we are several eggs short of a dozen.”

“Not at all,” Lucy said staunchly, although the male version of herself displayed in her mirror could use a little less refinement. Still, the mustache would help.

Lucy glanced down at the dog who had been sniffing the hem of her trousers since she had put them on. “What do you think, Albert?”

Albert looked up at her, sneezed, then wandered off to jump onto the center of the bed. He circled once, then lay down but kept his gaze fixed on her. The poor thing was obviously a bit confused.

That they were dressing like men at all was thanks to Teddy. During the course of their conversation, Lucy had told Teddy about her great-aunt’s list. A bit edited, of course. She really didn’t know Teddy well enough to predict how she might respond to some of the, oh, racier items. While Lucy wasn’t about to announce her quest from the rooftops of London, she saw no need to keep it a secret from the few people she knew.

The very fact that they were now dressed like men was due directly to Teddy’s delight at what she saw as a truly wonderful adventure. Yesterday, she said she might be able to help. Today, shortly after Cameron had departed, Teddy had stopped by. She was managing a social evening, dinner and the like, for the membership of Prichard’s, a very exclusive gentlemen’s club. This was an annual dinner honoring the club’s founders, and Teddy hoped it would lead to additional business. She, of course, would not be permitted to leave the kitchen, but her reputation was such that she was more and more in demand for such events. However, Teddy’s servers, all male, could freely come and go. And really, did anyone ever pay much attention to servants?

The women had decided both Lucy and Clara would disguise themselves as servers but only Lucy would actually enter the sacred sanctum of the club. Clara would stand by in the kitchen to be of assistance if assistance was needed. They had worked out the remaining details and all three women agreed the plan was as good as it was simple. Teddy had taken her leave with strict instructions as to when and where Lucy and Clara would join her. The moment Teddy left, Clara too had departed, returning an hour later with appropriate clothing, wigs, and everything else she and Lucy would need to turn themselves into passable men. They had also taken the precaution of applying the mustache adhesive they would use to Lucy’s wrist to make certain it did not affect her as the skin coloring had. So far, it had no ill effects.

“All right then.” Clara nodded at Lucy’s reflection. “We should be off if we are to meet Lady Theodosia at the appointed hour. Are you ready?”

Lucy stared at herself in the mirror and nodded. “As ready as I’m going to be, I think.”

Both women put on half masks, which had nothing at all to do with their subterfuge at Prichard’s but rather with exiting the house under the watchful eyes of the butler and other servants. They then donned long, hooded cloaks to hide their clothing and cropped wigs. They would apply their mustaches in the carriage. Lucy had earlier asked Clement to summon them a cab, explaining she and Clara were to attend a masquerade and the Channing carriage was entirely too recognizable. Why, it wouldn’t be any fun at all to have everyone in attendance know their identity before they had even entered the ballroom.

Clement had accepted her explanation although she was fairly certain there was a distinct glimmer of suspicion in the man’s eyes. Still, in Lucy’s experience, that wasn’t at all unusual for the butler, at least when it came to her.

It was no more than a ten-minute ride from Channing House to Prichard’s. Long enough for Lucy and Clara to apply their mustaches, but not nearly long enough for the tempest in Lucy’s stomach to subside. What had her great-aunt been thinking anyway? To consider
not
invading a men’s club to be a regret? Goodness, it did seem silly. Still, it was exciting, which was probably the main ingredient of any adventure.

Teddy had said Prichard’s was not the oldest gentlemen’s club on St. James’s Street, having been founded a mere three-quarters of a century ago, and was considered extremely modern and progressive. Not progressive enough to allow women guests, of course, but progressive nonetheless.

The cab dropped them off a few doors away from the club. The driver either didn’t notice that his passengers now sported mustaches or didn’t care. Or perhaps he had seen far stranger things among the passengers of London.

Teddy met them at the servants’ entrance and hurried them inside.

“Lucien Merryweather and Clarence West at your service, my lady,” Lucy said with a bow, and drew off her cloak.

“Well done.” Teddy cast them an approving smile. “You can leave your cloaks behind that door. They’ll be convenient there to grab on your way out, should you need to leave quickly. Now, turn around so I can get a good look at you.” They turned and she examined them with a critical eye, then nodded. “You’ll do. The wigs are a nice touch. I was concerned about what you would do with your hair.” Her gaze skimmed over them. “As well as the rest of you.”

“Thank you,” Clara said with a smug smile. Lucy was beginning to realize Clara might well have as many secrets as Cameron. “We’re quite, well . . . oh, confined.”

“It’s not easy being a man,” Lucy said with a grin.

“So they claim,” Teddy murmured, and led them to the door of the kitchen. “The club members attending tonight are currently in the main lounge. There’s a corridor that runs from the kitchen and leads to that room, the dining hall, and several other areas. It’s annoyingly narrow and is extremely busy as is the kitchen. That will make things more difficult but will serve you well. No one will notice another body or two. I already have servers in the room with trays of small glasses of a very old Scottish whisky. Apparently some sort of tradition.” She eyed Lucy skeptically. “Can you act as a server? They are small trays.”

“Of course.” Lucy scoffed. She’d never carried a tray in her life, but she could balance a book on her head. Not the same thing, but how difficult could it be to carry a tray of drinks around a room filled with gentlemen?

“As we discussed, you’ll simply circle the room once, then return to the kitchen.” Teddy paused. “I realize it might not be the adventure your great-aunt wanted, but it should suffice.”

“It will do nicely,” Lucy said with a grateful smile. Teddy was risking a great deal to help her. If they were discovered, her reputation would be ruined. “And you have my eternal thanks.”

“Appreciated, of course, but not necessary.” Teddy waved off the comment. “I can think of nothing more amusing than breaching the bastion of sacred manhood unnoticed. Now then.” She met Lucy’s gaze directly. “If you’re ready.”

Lucy nodded. “More than ready.”

“One more thing. You know how servers are expected to act, so this shouldn’t be all that difficult, but remember not to speak unless you’re spoken to directly and then say no more than “yes, my lord” or “no, my lord.” And, oh, try to adopt a deeper tone of voice. Something more manly.”

“I shall try,” Lucy said in the deepest tone she could manage.

“Good Lord.” Teddy winced. “We shall simply hope you don’t have to say anything.” She squared her shoulders. “Let’s do this, shall we?” She pushed open the door to the kitchen and stepped into the room, Lucy and Clara at her heels.

Teddy was right. The kitchen was chaotic, overly warm, and filled with cooks, assorted assistants, and men dressed exactly as Lucy and Clara were. Teddy directed Lucy to a tray, gave her a look of encouragement, and sent her toward her fate.

Lucy kept her head lowered and followed two servers down the corridor and into the club lounge. Her heart thudded with apprehension and she had to force herself to stay calm. She wasn’t sure what she had expected—murals of mythological satyrs and maidens cavorting was probably too much to hope for—but the lounge was every bit as, well, unexceptional as any room designed with gentlemen in mind usually was. Gas sconces and low-burning lamps lit the dark-paneled room. Comfortable-looking leather chairs and sofas were arranged to encourage private conversations. Evenly spaced forbidding portraits, probably of notable club members or past presidents, and more than likely deceased, hung on the walls and glowered down on the proceedings. Glowered down on her. Lucy shivered and ignored the disquieting thought. She drew a deep breath and dutifully circled the room, offering her tray to those gentlemen with empty glasses.

While the members ranged in age, the majority did seem to be older, some extremely old. Probably original members who would have some sort of apoplectic fit at the thought of a woman’s presence defiling the place. She bit back a grin at the thought. Lucy moved from group to group and no one gave her a second look. She avoided eye contact and tried to be as efficient, discreet, and invisible as possible. There was a reason why no one paid any heed to servants. Still, she couldn’t help but overhear conversations that were, for the most part, not worth overhearing. While most of the discussions dealt with any number of topics men found fascinating and women considered boring, one gentleman was saying the most impertinent things about the wife of a man across the room, and Lucy regretted she couldn’t linger to hear more. Still, that was the most interesting thing she heard. Great-aunt Lucinda would have been so disappointed.

All but one of the glasses on her tray were taken far quicker than she had expected. Good. She could make her way back to the kitchen now and she and Clara would soon be on their way home. Relief washed through her along with a distinct sense of satisfaction. She could check one more thing off her list.

She offered her tray to another group of gentlemen. Much to Lucy’s relief, a hand reached for the last glass. In her haste to escape she made the fatal mistake of glancing up.

And into the startled dark brown eyes of Mr. Cameron Fairchild.

 

 

Cam stared over the rim of his glass. For no more than a fraction of a second he absolutely refused to believe his eyes. But this was exactly the sort of thing Lucy would do. Damnation, the American was maddening.