The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (34 page)

“Because there’s nothing to see.”

“Nothing?” Her brow rose. “Even the older gentlemen we played cards with at Millworth compared me to your fictional creation. Were I to stay in England, more and more people would connect me to your
madcap heiress
.”

“What do you mean if you were to stay?” He stared. “You’re leaving England?”

“I’m returning to America.” She paused. “We sail tomorrow.”

“You can’t leave tomorrow.” Sheer panic surged within him. If she left England, if she returned home, any hope he had of wearing her down, of proving to her he could indeed be trusted, would be dashed. “What about us?”

She stared in disbelief. “How can you possibly think there can ever be an us?”

“You said you’d marry me.”

“And you said any number of things that have turned out not to be true.”

“In point of fact,” he said slowly. “I did not.”

“What?”

He had given this a great deal of thought. It was a tiny loophole but a means of escape nonetheless. “You’re the one who assumed I was a private investigator. I never said that.”

Anger and disbelief widened her eyes. “You never denied it either. You never corrected my assumption.”

“Your unwarranted conclusion,” he said pointedly.

“Yes.” She fairly hissed the word.

“I never actually lied to you.”

“You mean aside from the stories you told about your exploits as an investigator?” She scoffed. “No, in the strictest definition of the word, I suppose you didn’t actually lie. You were far too clever for that. And yet you did manage to mislead me, to
deceive
me all the same. Or am I mistaken in that too?”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“Any of what?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You didn’t intend to write stories using me as your—”

“Inspiration?”

“Unwitting dupe!”

“I prefer muse.”

“You may prefer whatever you wish,” she snapped. “Or didn’t you intend for me ever to find out?”

He winced with the accuracy of her charge. “It did seem best—”

“Best for whom?”

“For both of us!”

“Both of us?” She cast him a scathing look. “Fine, believe what you want. Whatever is convenient to salve your conscience. It really doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You used me, Cameron, and I trusted you. Worse, I trusted myself.” She drew a deep breath. “From the moment we met, I never doubted that you were a good, honest, honorable man. Admittedly, there have been moments when I wondered if making amends for the regrets of another woman was no different than how I’ve spent my entire life. Living up to other people’s expectations and ignoring or perhaps simply failing to recognize my own path. But I never doubted that I was right about the kind of man you are.” She met his gaze directly. “How could I have been so wrong?”

He wanted to say she wasn’t wrong, but at the moment, she wouldn’t believe it. And right now, he didn’t know if he believed it either.

“It didn’t seem to me that it was a lot to ask. Or to expect.” Her voice was quiet and far more frightening than when it had risen in anger. “That you simply be the man I thought you were.”

“I am,” he said quietly, and wondered if it was true.

“I have always, always jumped to conclusions. Mother long ago warned that would be my undoing one day and she was right. The way I misjudged you . . .” Her brow furrowed. “Obviously I’m not smart enough or brave enough to be an independent woman.”

“Lucy—”

“You know, through this entire quest of mine, I didn’t doubt myself. For the first time in my life I was doing something for me, even if it was another woman’s adventures. They became mine, you know. I knew I could do this. But if I was wrong about you, if my judgment was so flawed”—she shook her head—“then I have to wonder if I am wrong about everything.”

She was shattered. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. And it was his fault, all of it. “Lucy.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to make this right. I want to but I don’t know how.”

“Neither do I.” She drew a deep breath. “It’s not all for nothing, I suppose. I’m sure this will give you something new to write about.”

“I’m not going to write about us. I would never—”

“You mean never again, don’t you?”

He winced. “You’re right, of course.”

“No, Cameron. I wasn’t right about anything. That’s part of why it’s so . . .” She paused, then raised her chin, as if she had just made a serious decision. What bit of hope he still clung to faded. “But I do owe you my thanks. You have helped me with yet another item on my great-aunt’s list I did not think I would be able to accomplish.”

His stomach lurched. “The one about taking a lover?”

“Oh, well, two then, I suppose.” She shrugged. “No, I was speaking of the one about having a romantic interlude.”

“With someone you never want to see again.” His throat tightened.

“Yes, that’s the one. I’m so glad you remembered.” She looked at him for a long, silent moment, then cast him a wan smile. “Good day, Mr. Fairchild.” She nodded and took her leave.

He stared after her for a long moment. He had lost her and had no one to blame but himself. If this was a story, he could write his way out of it. But this was his life and nothing was as simple in reality as it was on paper. Nor was he as confident that he could fix this in reality.

But he knew as surely as he knew anything in his life, if he couldn’t set this right, it would be a regret that would eat at his soul for the rest of his days. A regret that no future descendant, no matter how well intentioned, could ever rectify.

Pity he had no idea how to do that.

Lucy sank down on the bed in the room she’d occupied since childhood in the grand house on Fifth Avenue and stared at the calling card in her hand, emblazoned with the same crest she had seen on one of the references Cameron had provided for her.

It was about time.

It had been three weeks, six days, and a fair number of hours since she’d seen Cameron Effington-Fairchild-Aldrich. Practically a full month since the damned man had broken her heart. Even accounting for the weeklong voyage between England and New York, one would think he would have been here by now. What on earth had taken him so long? Why, she was just about to pack her bags and head back to England herself.

Not that she wasn’t still furious with him, but nearly a month had given her a great deal of time to consider his actions and her own. She had been a fool to think she could return home to New York and life would be exactly as it was before she’d left. She was not the same Lucy Merryweather who had sailed for England in December, nor would she ever be again. Her life here left her restless and bored and terribly lonely. Even the regret of her great-aunt’s she was pondering how to resolve wasn’t enough to fill the endless days. She missed Clara, who had confessed her unwilling role in Cameron’s deception. And worse, she missed him. It seemed she was no longer the type of woman to be content with doing the expected.

It had dawned on her slowly that Cameron’s greatest crime wasn’t so much that he had used her for inspiration—the idea of being someone’s muse was growing on her—but that he had led her to believe he was someone and something he wasn’t. Certainly, one could say if she hadn’t jumped to the wrong conclusion in the first place, he wouldn’t have taken advantage of the opportunity she presented him with. While she could fault him for that, it didn’t seem quite fair. It did however still rankle—she had trusted him after all—and forgiveness would require a fair amount of groveling on his part. Not that she didn’t intend to forgive him. She simply didn’t think it should be too easy for him. Mother had once said deceit was not the way to begin a marriage, and Lucy quite agreed.

However, there were worse things in life than being seen by the world as a madcap heiress. Spending the rest of your life without the man you loved was at the top of that particular list.

She hurried downstairs, tried to ignore the eager thudding of her heart fueled by anticipation, and stopped in midstep when the open drawing room doors came into view.

On one side of the room, Cameron perched uncomfortably on the sofa beside a very large, cloth-covered something or other. On the other side of the room, all four of her brothers sat or lounged or leaned. None of them looked especially welcoming or friendly. They had known there was a man to blame for her disposition, but she hadn’t confirmed it, hadn’t denied it, and indeed refused to discuss it altogether. Their presence now could be blamed on her. Ever since they’d returned from England, her brothers had made a concerted effort to raise her spirits and had formed some sort of conspiracy to make certain she rarely spent an evening alone. Which was as annoying as it was endearing.

At least her parents were out for the evening, which was a small blessing. Looking at the expressions on her brothers’ faces as well as Cameron’s, it was very small indeed.

She braced herself and sailed into the room as if she had just seen him yesterday and not three weeks, six days, and a fair number of hours ago. Cameron stood and offered her a tentative smile, obviously uncertain as to how he’d be received. Good.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said pleasantly. “How was your voyage?”

“Very well, thank you.” His manner was as polite as hers.

“I assume you’ve met my brothers.” She gestured at the solid wall of American masculinity behind her. They did make an imposing display. “Harry, Joe, Cole, and Parker.”

Cameron nodded. “We were introduced when I arrived.”

“Excellent. I would hate to have to introduce you. I can never remember the right name.” She smiled sweetly.

“Effington will do,” he said slowly.

“Very well then.” She moved to a chair near the sofa and sat down. “Why are you here?”

He glanced at her brothers. “May we speak privately?”

“Anything you wish to say to me may be said in front of my family.”

He raised a brow. “Anything?”

“I told them about Great-aunt Lucinda’s regrets.” Not that she had told them everything on her great-aunt’s list. She might not be the woman she once was but she certainly wasn’t stupid. Her brothers had thought her quest was admirable if somewhat silly. Apparently everyone did. Her mother’s face had paled a bit when she’d heard of Lucinda’s desires to swim naked and kiss a stranger, but she had said Lucy was a smart, competent woman and well capable of making her own decisions. She had also pointed out it might be best not to tell Father about any of this. Lucy wasn’t quite sure who her mother was anymore, but she did like her. “Beyond that . . .”

“Did you tell them I want to marry you?”

Murmured expressions of surprise sounded behind her.

“Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?” Cole said under his breath.

“She’s going to be twenty-four tomorrow, after all,” Parker said quietly. “This might be her only chance.”

“Do you mind?” She cast them an annoyed glare. “If you’re going to stay, then do me the favor of keeping your mouths shut.”

“I have nothing to hide from anyone.” Cameron smiled.

“And isn’t that a pleasant change?” she said.

Harry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should wait in the hall.”

“Don’t go far.” She nodded toward the door. “I might need one of you to shoot him.”

“Why were we here in the first place if she was only going to throw us out?” Cole asked Harry as they filed out of the room.

“Because she’s mad.” Parker snorted. “All women are.”

“We’re here in a show of family support,” Joe said, glancing back at her. “Not that she needs it.”

Cameron studied her, obviously trying not to grin with amusement.

“You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”
And what took you so long?

“I brought you a gift. I didn’t know tomorrow is your birthday, but now that I do, this is even more perfect.” He pulled the cover off the something or other with a flourish to reveal a brass cage and its occupant, a brightly colored bird the size of a pigeon.

She gasped. “You brought me a parrot?”

“It’s the ninth or tenth item on your great-aunt’s list, I believe. Right after a dog.” He glanced around. “Where is Albert, by the way?”

“Albert is a creature of divided loyalties,” she said absently, rose, and moved closer to the cage. “He has fallen head over heels for Mrs. Helstrom, our cook, and spends most of his time in the kitchen, where I believe she encourages his affection by feeding him all sorts of treats he probably shouldn’t have. Only when she leaves for the day does he deign to be by my side.”

“I see.” Cameron smiled. “Then allow me to present Fernando. Fernando, say hello to Miss Merryweather.”

“Hello,” Fernando said obediently. “I’m sorry.”

She stared. “You’re what?”

“Please forgive me,” Fernando said.

She glanced at Cameron. “Did you teach him—”

Fernando squawked. “I’m an idiot.”

“I had a great deal of time on my hands,” Cameron said in an offhand manner, and idly meandered the perimeter of the room. “The first week after you left I spent wallowing in self-pity and despair. At least that’s how my oldest brother put it.” He glanced at her. “I thought he was wrong but my other brothers agreed with him.”

“I’m a fool,” Fernando added. “I’m an idiot.”

“What a perceptive bird,” she murmured.

“But I did write a bit.” He paused in front of a bronze statue of Mercury on a marble pedestal. “A story about a man standing on the docks, watching a ship carry off the woman he loved while his heart was being torn slowly out of his chest. He had gone to stop her from leaving England, from leaving him, but his courage had faltered and for the first time he wondered if her life might be better without him. So he watched her board but didn’t know what to say.”

Her heart fluttered. Then it had been him. He had come to stop her after all. She’d thought she had seen him when her ship sailed but she had turned around and when she looked again, he was gone.

“It sounds a bit melodramatic to me.” She shrugged.

“Oh, it was.” He continued to study the statue as if the ancient messenger held some secret communiqué for him. “All about lost love and remorse and regret.”

“What about repentance?”

“I haven’t finished it yet and I don’t know that I will. The main character is entirely too pathetic. He was wrong, you see, and he knows it, but he’s become too mired in guilt and indecision to see what he needed to do and I’ve grown tired of him.”

“Have you?”

“I no longer like him either, so it seemed pointless to finish writing his story.” Cameron continued circling the room. “The second week was a bit brighter. I presented my book to my father.” He paused. “I believe I mentioned my agreement with him in the note I left in your room the night we—”

She glanced at the open door and waved him quiet. “Yes, yes, I remember.” She lowered her voice. “They really could shoot you, you know.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He shrugged. “By the end of the second week, the book was available for sale. It’s selling quite nicely, thank you for asking.”

Fernando flapped his wings. “Please forgive me.”

“I didn’t ask, nor did I intend to, but I have no doubt of that.” She paused. “The stories were rather . . . entertaining.”

His brow rose. “Not overwritten?”

“Not as much as I first thought.”

“Then you’ve read them again.” He studied her closely.

She sighed in surrender. “Once or twice perhaps.” Or thirty or forty times.

“I see.” His tone was solemn but there was a definite gleam of amusement in his eyes. “By the third week I realized—”

“I’m an idiot,” Fernando announced.

“That too.” He grinned. “So I made some arrangements, bought a parrot, and took the first ship I could get passage on.”

“And?”

“And here I am.” He paused by the fireplace, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned against the mantel in a casual manner. “Are you giving up your quest?”

“I haven’t decided yet. It won’t be nearly as much fun without—”

“Me?”

“Clara,” she said firmly, but she had meant him.

“I, for one, think that would be a great shame.”

“Why?” She narrowed her eyes. “Because it would give you nothing to write about?”

“No, because it would give that diabolical brain of yours nothing to sort out. You could end up in a plot to rule the world.”

She considered him cautiously. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

“Absolutely not,” he said staunchly. “Unless of course it’s working.”

“It’s not.”

He chuckled. “You’re the only woman I know who would take being described as diabolical as a compliment.”

“Diabolical is not for the fainthearted.” Neither was confrontation and candor. She drew a deep breath. “Do you know the worse thing about your stories?”

“Aside from the fact that you felt I was making fun of you?”

“You made her so much better than me.”

His brows drew together. “What?”

“Your Miss Heartley, your heroine. She was smarter and braver and certainly funnier than I am. Her adventures were far more adventurous than mine. Her quest had a purpose whereas mine was just . . .”

“She is fictional, you know.”

“Is she?” She studied him intently. “One does have to wonder who it is you claim to love. Me or the fantasy version of me that you created. This incredible woman who is so much more than I can ever hope to be.” She shook her head. “How can anyone live up to that?”

“You do have a point,” he said thoughtfully.

She stared. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

“No.” He picked up a folder that was lying on the sofa beside the cage and handed it to her. “There is a troupe of English actors who are performing a production of readings from Shakespeare. It’s my understanding that it’s a very progressive sort of thing. Costumes but minimal sets and a handful of props. They are giving a special performance for some charitable cause tomorrow night.”

She opened the folder and flipped through the pages. “This is the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“Perhaps the most romantic scene in the history of theater.”

“Except that they’re dead in the end,” she said under her breath.

“I have arranged for you to read the part of Juliet in the balcony scene.”

“You what?” Her gaze jerked to his.

“Didn’t your great-aunt wish to appear in a theatrical production?”

“She did but—”

“I told you I would help you with your quest and I feel obligated to continue to assist you to check at least one more item off your great-aunt’s list.”

“Is that why you’re here?” She stared in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“I did give you my word, and in spite of what you think of me, I do keep my word. It’s a question of, well, honor, I suppose.”

“Honor?” Surely this was some kind of not very funny joke on his part. “You followed me across an ocean because you felt obligated?”

“I do hate to leave things unfinished.”

“I don’t want your help.” She tossed the folder onto the sofa. “Nor do I wish to have anything further to do with you. And I’m very tempted to have my brothers shoot you, after all.”

He scoffed. “Do you really want them to shoot me?”

“Yes!”

“But I brought you a parrot.”

“I’m an idiot,” Fernando squawked as if on cue.