The Dashing Miss Fairchild (14 page)

Clare wondered where Richard Talbot had come by his eyes, the color of rich malachite. His mother's hair was the same lovely chestnut, hers artfully laced with silver. Not that all that much might be seen of it, but what peeped from beneath her exquisite day cap gave a clue.

If she had the ordering of the decor in the Dower House, she also had fine taste in furnishings. The inherited evidence of her taste, Clare supposed, could be seen in Richard's elegant, yet never foppish clothing. He always looked as fine as fivepence, yet did not give Clare the impression he spent a great deal of time before his looking glass. Still, she could see a resemblance to his mother.

She wondered about his easygoing, yet firm character. He was enormously complex when she compared him to the gentlemen she had met in London. His curiosity matched her own, and he was as unhesitating in the pursuit of the missing countess as Clare might wish. Not quite obstinate, or precisely mulish, he possessed a resolute nature she truly admired. Perhaps too much. When she chanced to get a trifle too close to him, she sensed it with every fiber of her being, a most uncomfortable feeling, she thought, it was one she'd never had to deal with before. There was not a thing she might do about it other than withdraw, unfortunately.

"Indeed, Mother, we found The Folly quite lived up to its name,” Richard replied, pulling off his gloves while he escorted Clare to a chair near his mother. “Whatever prompted them to add on all those ells and gables? The place looked as though it had sprouted in every direction."

"Ten children, my dear.” The countess placed her needlework on her lap, a hint of a fond smile in her eyes as she studied her youngest son. “I was told the house was not particularly large when they bought it. They simply added on as they needed the space. I suspect they did not hire an architect to assist them. Tell me, Miss Fairchild, you found out nothing of help?” The countess turned a polite gaze toward Clare, who shook her head sadly in reply.

"No, ma'am. I confess I found it vastly difficult to understand how a mother could be so unconcerned about her eldest daughter. But then, I miss my dear mother dreadfully at times. I am fortunate I have an elder sister I may confide in, if I feel the need. But to have a mother and not be able to turn to her in time of trouble...” Clare shook her head.

"You are close to your family? I remember Viscount Seton, your father, that is, and your mother. Charming couple. Pity they died so relatively young. A fever as I recall?” Her interest, though courteous, seemed genuine. Her eyes revealed warm sympathy.

Remembering the dreaded fever that carried her parents from her within weeks of one another, Clare merely nodded. It had been a nightmarish time for her, one she tried to forget. She had nursed them, when no one else would enter their rooms. It was a wonder she had been spared, considering how close she had been to them, and how exhausted she became before the end.

"It has been a tiring day. I trust one of your excellent dinners will be forthcoming shortly? If we may be excused, we shall go up to change.” Richard had observed the shadows that entered Clare's lovely blue eyes at the mention of her parents. He wished there might be a way he could quickly wipe them away.

Brightening, Clare rose from her chair, dipping a lovely curtsy to her hostess. “I hope we do not cause too much trouble for you, ma'am."

"Not at all,” murmured Lady Knowlton in reply as she walked with them to the hall. She instructed Clare on her room, then watched her glide up the stairs, graceful and fluid in her carriage.

Once the girl had turned the corner, Lady Knowlton glanced at her son, and commented, “Charming girl. Comes from a fine old family. Interesting that you should champion her cause, as it were."

"I could not like the manner in which the tabbies of Bath were shredding her name, all because an unknown person had placed an infant in her coach and she was too kind to ignore it. She is a young woman of great character. I could scarce believe that she did not suffer a spasm when a shot went through her bonnet, as most young ladies might have. She did look a trifle pale, however,” he said, his eyes grim, recalling how Clare had sunk to the road, her eyes wide with apprehension.

"Remarkable, indeed. There will be no gossip from this visit?” They strolled up the stairs together, then paused at the top.

"We enlisted the aid of the greatest quidnunc in Bath, a Mrs. Robottom, to lend us support. I fully expect that when we return, we ought to see an improvement in the atmosphere. She will put it about that Clare is caring for the infant of a friend who has taken ill. I trust Mrs. Robottom will make a great tale of it. I only hope we can recognize ourselves."

"You think that it was a wise thing to do?"

"I had to do something.” He patted his mother's shoulder, then hurried off to his room to freshen up for dinner.

Lady Knowlton stood a moment, then she too went to her room, a wistful smile on her face. It seemed very much evident to her that her youngest had at last found his match. Now if only some way might be found to persuade him to remain in England.

The following morning, Clare joined Mr. Talbot in the breakfast room, her best bonnet in place and ready to eat a light meal before taking off for Bath. She well knew the earlier they reached the city, the better.

"Mother shan't join us. I expect she reclines on her pillow until a more respectable hour."

Clare nodded, not displeased she wouldn't have to face that shrewd study from Richard's mother this morning such as she had endured last evening. Lady Knowlon evidently labored until the delusion that an understanding existed between Clare and Richard. That they were merely friends was a fact that did not particularly cheer Clare. She had left a most proper letter of thanks for her hostess, and would write again once they reached Bath, expecting it to be the last time she communicated with the countess.

When they had sipped their last of tea and coffee, they went to the coach where Priddy and Tom Coachman awaited them. The groom stood by the coach door, giving Mr. Talbot a nod as he entered.

"All's ready, sir."

Clare caught that remark and raised her brows in inquiry. When only a bland smile returned her way, she settled back against the cushions to idly inspect the view from the window. Ready for what? she wondered.

They drove along the avenue that led to Knowl Hill rather than the way they had arrived. Clare turned questioning eyes to Mr. Talbot.

"I wished you to see where I grew up. It's a rather charming house."

It was that and more. They paused some distance away, because of the early hour and not wishing to disturb his brother and family. The early sun shone on a lovely Georgian structure of impeccable taste set on a grassy slope with stately oaks and hornbeams as accents.

After they had turned about, Clare took another wistful peek at the house. “It is a handsome building, standing high on the hill, and in such a very beautiful situation. You must have enjoyed growing up there very much."

Richard engaged to relate a few tales of his boyhood, suitably edited, to entertain Clare. He found her interest all he could want, and her enjoyment of his boyish pranks delightful.

"I can't believe you did all those naughty things and lived to tell about it,” she said, chuckling at the last of his stories.

Just then the coach rumbled to an abrupt halt not far from the lockkeeper's cottage on the Kennet and Avon canal. Richard stuck his head out of the window at once, while Clare regained her upright pose once again. He pulled back, then glanced at Clare before leaving the coach. “There seems to be a tree across the road, or some such thing. I shall see what is to be done."

"Do be careful,” she remonstrated, a tiny frown of worry creasing her brow. Odd, the road had been fine yesterday and there had been no wind to speak of last night.

Curious, she slipped from the coach to see what had actually stopped them. The scene appeared peaceful enough, with a tranquil sun hazily beaming through light clouds. A gentle breeze tossed the willow branches, and long summer grasses danced to-and-fro. Harebells and small scabious poked their blue heads from among the green. To her left, a canal lock could be seen in the distance.

The three men labored to pull a downed tree from the road. Clare was about to walk over to see what had caused the hornbeam to fall when she saw a glint of metal among the shrubbery. She froze in her steps, longing to call out, only finding her voice was also stilled. Was that a gun? Or something innocent? Feeling slightly foolish, she turned to see what Mr. Talbot was doing.

Then a shot rang out, and she felt a tug at her bonnet. She vividly recalled when she had felt just such before. “Richard ... “Her terror could be heard, even though her cry was feint.

"Clare!” Richard dropped the limb he had picked up and dashed to her side, alarmed at her pallor. He had heard the shot, and was thankful Clare had not been touched. Then he caught sight of the hole in her bonnet, and dragged her toward the safety of the coach. Another shot might not miss!

"I have b-been a pattern card of respectability all my life. N-nothing ever happened to me that was daring or out of the ordinary. And to think I believed Bath would be dull and uneventful,” she whispered in an aside, as they stood leaning against the coach, trying to catch their breath. She was winded from their mad run, and rested her head against his chest while waiting for her legs to return to normal.

The pounding of his heart against her ear lessened a trifle, but he must be as apprehensive as she felt. “I shall be enriching the milliners of Bath at this rate,” she added. “Perhaps one of them has taken to drastic measures to improve her business?"

How comforting it was to cling to his solid form, to absorb the scent of costmary from his linens, and feel his strength as he clasped her in his arms.

"Somehow, I doubt it.” Richard tightened his hold to her, grimly searching the area for signs of anyone. Deciding Clare would be safest inside the coach, he thrust her within, then with the help of his man and Tom Coachman, he investigated the area around the crossroads. They found nothing more than some bent grass where a person might have crouched for a time. Nothing of help.

"Our plans have changed.” Richard stuck his head inside the coach to study Clare. She looked as calm as if she had been at a tea party instead of being the target of an armed man. Her bonnet dangled from her hands, the hole much in evidence. “I espied a boat, and my man is now arranging for the fellow to take us to Bath via the canal. Your maid will stay in the coach. We shall be underway as quickly as might be. Let us hope we can foil our pursuer by this little trick."

"Priddy, I'd not have you stay here if you are afraid,” Clare whispered to her redoubtable maid.

"I am afraid of nothing,'’ Priddy replied, while thankful she was not required to stand up.

Leaving all her things but her indispensable reticule, Clare crossed to where the small boat waited for them along the bank following the trip through the lock. It was about the size of a wherry, and carried a load of produce going to Bath, or so the lad said. His eyes were round with amazement at the sight of these folks who were willing to pay a great sum just to have a boat ride.

"You will go as fast as you can, my lad? There is another guinea in it for you if you can get there quickly."

"Aye, sir. I'll do my best. There's another lock on the way, you know.” But he was as good as his word. He signaled his partner, who set their tow horse into a gallop, and the narrow boat shot off along the canal. The high banks concealed them from the road; only someone who peered over the edge might discover them.

Clare huddled in her pelisse, thinking this trip had to be the wildest she had ever taken in her life—next to the one to Millsham Hall. Richard joined her on the clean sack spread out on the bottom of the boat. He took off his jacket, then wrapped it about her in spite of her protests.

"I observed how you trembled, my dear. There is sun, such as it is through the clouds. I shall be warm enough.” He leaned back against the hull of the boat, watching her as she settled as well. They were close, the lad at the front had his back to him. Richard felt the strain of the near disaster, but he felt something else as well. He was honor-bound to keep his distance, but he longed to hold her in his arms once again, and not to ward off her terror.

Yet that firm chin, tilted up in defiance, indicated she was pluck to the backbone. He truly admired her spirit, that tenacious yet serene ability she had to plunge ahead with what she deemed right. The sun picked up golden threads among her curls, now free of the ruined bonnet.

"My dear girl...” At her questioning look, be realized he had spoken aloud. “Is it possible he shot and missed deliberately, to discourage you from looking for Lady Millsham?"

Clare shivered in spite of the morning sun and the warmth of Richard's jacket about her. “That seems so utterly fantastic. Why? What would we uncover if we find her? I am far more suspicious now than if he had not shot at all. For, if you think about it, it points a finger to Lady Millsham. I think a madman must be behind this scheme."

"Will you give up your search?"

"I cannot. That innocent baby needs his mother. And I begin to believe she needs a champion almost as much as we need to find her."

"Were you not terrified?” Richard drew closer to her so she might lean against his shoulder if she chose.

Clare nodded. “Of course.” She was very aware of that shoulder so close to her. If she were to lean her head just a trifle, she'd be able to take advantage of it. She ought not do such a thing, she knew. She looked again. Then she tilted her head to rest upon that wonderfully firm and comforting shoulder, and sighed very softly. “I suppose it was the same person who shot before. Odd, how he knows where we go and when."

"Only Miss Godwin knew where we planned to travel."

"Do not forget Mrs. Robottom."

"So that means there could be countless others? I pray not.''

Clare turned her head to study his face at close range. It was an opportunity a woman rarely got, unless during a dance, and that was usually a hasty glance. One did not spend time staring at one's partner on the dance floor.