The Dashing Miss Fairchild (10 page)

"I believe so.” He touched her arm in sympathy, for he suspected she was more upset than she allowed. With the maid, it was obvious, for she clasped her arms about her body, rocking back and forth while muttering words of distress.

At that moment, Clare turned to go to her complaining maid. The same second a report sounded and something whizzed through her bonnet. She stopped in her steps, a look of horror in her eyes as she whipped off the small headpiece to discover the hole. “Dear heaven,” she whispered. She raised her eyes to Richard, her alarm quite clear on her face.

Richard whirled about, searching the woods beyond for a clue to who had fired the gun. If the man intended to repeat, he would have to reload ... unless he had a second gun. Not a leaf stirred but what was tossed by a gentle breeze. No sound of galloping horse, no movement of any sort. The woods concealed whoever intended to murder Clare.

"That was a favorite bonnet, too,” Clare murmured. Then she sank down on the road, heedless of her pretty pelisse or the moanings of the maid. “I believe I would rather you remained here and sent your groom on to the farm, Mr. Talbot. Somehow, I find the thought of your departure more than a little disheartening."

He stepped to her side, kneeling to study her pale face. She had sustained a severe fright, yet she hadn't fainted away. He nodded. “That I will do, immediately."

With a look from Mr. Talbot, the groom took off as though a hundred demons were after him, which was surprising considering the coach horses were not from the racetrack. Only the skill of Tom Coachman and the groom had kept the horses from bolting in the first place when the accident occurred, followed by the shot. It seemed that horse was only too glad to get as far from all the ruckus as possible.

Hours later when a tired, unnerved, and somewhat shattered trio entered the house in the Royal Crescent, it was to the lament from Miss Godwin.

"Well, so you finally decided to return from your little jaunt. I must say, you show a shocking lack of sympathy for me, stuck here in Bath, wondering what is going on. That Mrs. Robottom had the effrontery to stop in white you were gone, no doubt to pry into your secrets. No fear, I told her nothing."

Clare turned anguished eyes to Richard. As if they had not enough on their plates, they must now deal with the nosy neighbor?

"May I suggest that Miss Fairchild be allowed to retire for the night without any more chitchat?
She
has had an exhausting day of it.” To Clare he added, “I shall see you first thing tomorrow. We must decide what to do next."

"True. We never did finish that conversation.” She gave him a tired smile, then leaned upon Priddy's arm to go up the stairs to her room.

Richard failed to satisfy Miss Godwin's curiosity, and that young woman stomped up the stairs to confront Priddy. When denied access to Clare, Venetia was out of reason cross and retired to her room, blaming the entire situation on Mr. Talbot and William, for you might know males were responsible.

Quite late the following morning, Richard entered the house in the Royal Crescent, ushered in by a most curious Bennison.

When conducted into Clare's sunny dining room where she sat over a cup of tea and toast, he was most relieved to see how well she looked. Faint shadows lingered about her lovely eyes, and her mouth still looked a shade tired. But otherwise she presented an impeccable picture, and only one who knew what she had endured the day before would be aware that anything was amiss.

She rose in that swift, fluid movement that seemed to be so uniquely her own. “Mr. Talbot,” she cried softly, extending both hands toward him. “I am relieved to see you are not the worse for the journey.” Then observing the rebuke in his eyes, she added in a very little voice, “Richard, that is. But I am that glad to see you.” Then obviously embarrassed at her improper enthusiasm, she blushed, trying to conceal it by turning aside, gesturing to a chair. “Will you join me in a cup of tea, or shall we adjourn to the study across the hall?"

"Finish your toast and tea. We can talk here as well as in there. You are alone this morning?” He glanced around the room, as though surprised to see her the sole occupant.

"Miss Godwin is no doubt exhausted after the worry of yesterday. Such excitement required restoration to the spirit and body, you must realize."

"How you can say that with a straight face, I'll never know."

"Come now,” she chided while striving to keep her countenance. “Have you thought more about what must be done next?"

"I am happy to be included after yesterday. I am aware I ought not have kissed you, Clare, but the temptation was more than I could resist.” His words were hesitantly spoken, as though he was not often given to this sort of apology.

"Irresistible? Oh, how can I scold you after that bit of flummery? You are a rogue and a scamp, sir."

Her easy laugh broke any constraint between them. Richard joined her at the table, accepting the cup of steaming tea from her hand, while meeting her gaze with a very direct one of his own, a gaze he hoped contained his feelings well.

"If we desire to put a stop to the gabble-grinders and quidnuncs, we had best be seen in public, and together. It will jolt them, to be sure.” He exchanged a wry look with her in appreciation of the gossips.

"Where?” came her reply, swift and quiet.

"Remember what I said about a play? I purchased the tickets for a party this very morning. If it meets with your approval, I shall stop by to invite Lady Kingsmill and Susan, as well as Lord Welby."

"Miss Godwin, too, of course."

"I know a couple of gentlemen in town, respectable chaps. I thought to include them to even the numbers if that is agreeable?"

Smiling at the casually hopeful note in his voice, Clare nodded. “I think that a splendid notion, indeed. Although I do not see how it furthers the cause of finding the Disappearing Countess."

"One thing at a time. I'll write my mother, and you'd best do the same to your sister. Perhaps armed with the maiden name of our elusive countess, we shall have success."

While wanting to find Willy's mother, Clare now discovered a most peculiar thing. She was not ecstatic about ending this cooperation with Richard Talbot. The hunt had brought more real excitement into her heretofore proper life than she had dreamed might exist for a young woman just settling nicely onto the shelf. Perhaps she was destined for a different future than she had envisioned?

"Goodness, Clare! Entertaining so early in the day? Most improper,'’ Venetia snapped as she watched the highly suspect Mr. Talbot leave the house following his obviously private chat with her hostess.

"Yes, he is all of that,” Clare responded. But her voice lacked any rebuke, sounding infinitely dreamy and fanciful. “All of that and more."

Venetia paced the floor of her nicely appointed room with a distracted air. The matter of Mr. Talbot had progressed from worrying to alarming. She had seen that silly, infatuated look on other women's faces before. Clare was hardly the first to tumble into a disgraceful love affair with a totally ineligible man. Not that Mr. Talbot was utterly beyond the pale. He possessed wealth and a respectable lineage. He was undeniably handsome and dressed with an exquisite attention to a detail and a restraint Beau Brummell would admire. His manners were a shade forward—witness his meeting with Clare in the dining room of all places—and he tended to an informality Venetia deplored. And he was a man!

She stopped by her window to look out on the vast green across the street from the Royal Crescent. Something must be done. What had precipitated the matter in the first place? Ah, yes, indeed. Baby William, that odious infant who occupied a pleasant room on the same floor as herself instead of a proper place in the attic. Who rent the air with his obnoxious cries at the most inconvenient times. And who apparently caught the heartstrings of Venetia's hostess much too ably.

How best to rid the house of the infant? “Since I do not know the mother—and what a heartless soul she must be to abandon her child—I must contact the one other person who might possibly be concerned,” she announced to the view out her window.

A rather feline smile crept across her face as she glided over to the neat dressing table where she searched about until she found a sheet of paper. A quill and pot of ink uncovered among the clutter, she penned a short note, folded and sealed it, then took it down to be delivered with all speed. How satisfying to assure her continued stay under what she had to admit was a most pleasing roof. For all that dear Clare might do wrong, she was indulgent and did not quibble over little extras as some might.

"Venetia,” came a voice from behind her as Clare exited the study, “you will join us this evening at the theater, will you not? Mr. Talbot has purchased tickets and means to get up a party.” Her acute perusal of Venetia's face gave a deal of discomfort to the guest. “He also intends to invite two gentlemen friends of his to complete the group."

"La, dear Clare, he need not do such on my behalf. I wonder who they are?” Venetia narrowed her eyes, trying to imagine the eligibility of any man known to Mr. Talbot. She followed Clare up the stairs, musing over the turn of events and how best to use it to her own advantage.

A short time later, Susan Oliver was ushered up to the drawing room, her pretty face alive with pleasure. The three settled down by the tea table for a comfortable coze. It was not long before Miss Oliver brought up a topic dear to her fluttering heart.

"What a famous time we shall have this evening. Have you met either Lord Adrian Grove or Sir Henry Berney? Most acceptable gentlemen, I assure you, Miss Godwin. While a younger son, Lord Adrian is well to grass and possesses a tidy estate north of here. Sir Henry is a bit older, but a charming gentleman, and one with no need to pinch pennies, either."

"Really,” drawled Venetia, as though to depress the younger woman. She concealed her distaste behind the unfurled lace of her fan.

"Quite true. I fancy the quidnuncs will be puzzled at this turn, for all our party will be the height of respectability.” Susan turned sparkling eyes on her hostess.

"How nice,” murmured Clare with true appreciation for the subtleties of the situation.

Venetia looked puzzled, but said nothing. She raised the question of what to wear, and the conversation turned to fashion and hairstyles, and whether or not it might rain.

When Mr. Talbot entered the house on the Royal Crescent early that evening, it was to find two exquisitely arrayed ladies awaiting him with poorly concealed and pleasing impatience.

"La, sir,” fluttered Venetia from behind her fan, “it has been an age since I have seen proper theater. I do hope the theatrical company is up to the mark.'’ She twitched the skirt of her pale blue sarcenet gown with nervous fingers. Perhaps the plan she'd considered quite fine this morning was now giving her second thoughts.

Richard repressed a grin at the rather odd notion of appreciation. “I am told the production is of London quality. Bath is yet a desirable place for the theatrical circuit players, as the house is usually full."

Annoyed with Venetia's quite unseemly remark, Clare tried to atone. “We are vastly delighted with your theater party, Mr. Talbot. A truly charming thought to bring together a group for a jovial evening. I trust we shall all be most amiable.” She darted a minatory glance at Venetia, daring her to behave with less than polite enthusiasm.

Venetia bowed her head sweetly in reply, causing Clare to wonder what the lady had been up to in the hours past. Each lady had spent time alone in her room, resting, fussing with her hair and clothes. When they had met for an early dinner, Venetia had worn a smug expression that Clare found a trifle odd.

Since they elected to travel in sedan chairs to the theater, due to the press of the crowd, she was not able to question Richard about any progress in their quest. Once they arrived at the theater—in good time, fortunately—she again found herself unable to speak with him. It was not that she did not trust Venetia to be privy to the conversation. It was merely her innate sense that such talk ought to be confined to privacy.

Now the delights of the play awaited them. Clare set aside her concerns and prepared to enjoy the evening. Her sea-foam gown of sheer jaconet had drawn appreciative glances from Richard Talbot, and she felt assured she looked her best.

The theater on Orchard Street thronged with people. The narrow, curved street itself was a madhouse of sedan chairs and foot traffic, as the citizens of Bath descended upon one of the main cultural spots of the city.

"Two boxes, Mr. Talbot?” exclaimed Lady Kingsmill, charmed to be included in this lively group. “I declare, that is indeed generous, sir.” She led the way into the one closest to the stage, where a comfortable chair suitable to her girth had been especially arranged in advance.

"I wish to please, ma'am,” he said with a courtly bow.

"Ladies never take to having their gowns crushed, don't you know,” Lord Welby added sagely as he took up his position close to Lady Kingsmill.

"I trust that is true,” replied Richard with a glance at Clare's rosy cheeks, remembering one lady who hadn't seemed to mind overmuch.

Lord Adrian Grove and Sir Henry Berney entered the second box where Venetia and Susan Oliver sat in anticipation. Venetia fluttered her delicate blue lace fan with an energy Clare found amazing. The introductions were a revelation to her. Susan bloomed, while Venetia reminded Clare of a calculating huntress.

Susan dimpled a winsome smile, modestly conversing with Lord Adrian. She behaved with comely appeal. He obviously found her attractive in her pretty pink muslin, for she was in first looks this evening. Any protégée of the wealthy Lady Kingsmill must be of interest to a young man about town. If one were on the lookout for a proper wife—one who would be accepted in Society, yet be at home on a country estate—Bath provided good contacts. And the niece of a childless widow of means offered twice the interest.

On the other side of the box from Susan, Venetia wondered what to make of the quiet, elegant figure of Sir Henry. Suddenly she sat a trifle straighter, her eye catching sight of a man on the far side of the theater. “Tell me, Sir Henry, who is that gentleman with the dark red hair, the one settling in the third box from the front across from us?"