The Dashing Miss Fairchild (17 page)

"My aunt is planning a rather grand party, and I just know that you would be the one to assist me. I have had so little experience at this sort of thing. Please promise you will help?” she said with appealing grace. When Venetia gave her a dazed nod of agreement, Susan enthusiastically continued. “Clare, you must promise to attend, for I shall not take a refusal. And Mrs. Robottom as well. Naturally Mr. Talbot, as hero of the hour, will be with us.” Susan gave him a mischievous smile, then primly looked at her lap.

"Well,” Clare said, as though the wind had just sailed out of her, “that is something to look forward to, indeed."

Venetia rose, gave Clare a simpering, superior look, then motioned to Susan Oliver. “Perhaps we should find a place to begin our work, for it requires a good many lists, you know.''

At the door, Susan paused. “I shan't fail you.” Then she disappeared from sight.

Considering what had just happened for a moment, Clare said, “I do hope that Lady Kingsmill does not mind discovering that she is to give a rather grand party all of a sudden."

The softly shared laughter broke what tension had been in the room with Venetia's entrance.

Before Clare knew what was about, Mr. Talbot, Mrs. Robottom, and she had planned the excursion to Marlborough to the last detail. And to Clare's chagrin, Mr. Talbot included himself, with Mrs. Robottom's genial urging, while that dear lady announced her intention to make the rounds of all the gossips during their absence.

The following morning, Clare managed to get out to Milsom Street, where she went to the same shop Venetia had patronized. The milliner seemed delighted to serve her, sympathizing over the loss of beloved bonnets while eager to sell any of several utterly ravishing creations in her shop.

"There you are. I was just on my way to your house."

Clare turned, totally dismayed at the sight of Mr. Talbot filling the shop's front door. He closed it behind him and strolled forward to view the bonnet Clare was trying on.

"Good morning, sirrah."

"Sirrah, indeed,” he said indulgently, as one might to a rather beloved child. He reached out a gloved finger to flick a rather frivolous riband that decorated the bonnet.

Knowing she was far too adult to stamp her foot or indulge in a tantrum, Clare graciously gave him a glacial smile, then said, “What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

Ask a stupid question, Clare reminded herself. “I am attempting to replace my ruined bonnets.” She turned back to the image in the looking glass, wondering if that delectable bonnet of minutes ago still appealed to her.

"I shall be happy to give you the benefit of my vast experience,” he offered amiably. “My sister thinks I have impeccable taste."

Clare didn't trust the look in those green eyes of his. “I daresay she does. Sisters are inclined to be doting, I have noticed. Possibly blind as well,” she added, unable to resist the chance to tease him.

"Now, what would my mother say to that? Hm? I assist her as well."

Clare knew when to retreat. “What do you suggest, then?” She waited for him to select some horror of a hat, or affliction of a bonnet. What did men know about such things? She soon found out, when he selected an elegant bonnet of fine pale straw lined with deep blue satin and decorated with delicate zebra feathers to one side of the brim. It was undoubtedly one of the most fetching bonnets in the shop.

"I am impressed, Mr. Talbot,” she reluctantly admitted while studying the effect in the looking glass. How she hated to acknowledge that the bonnet was exactly what she wished.

"I believe this might do to replace the second one. As I recall that one went rather nicely with your blue pelisse.” He handed the amazed milliner another dashing bonnet, this of navy curled silk, lined, edged, and trimmed with the palest cream satin. Two dear bows decorated the front of the high crown, and the narrow brim enabled Clare to see to either side without difficulty. She tied the riband beneath her chin while trying to come to terms with this side of Mr. Talbot.

She found it remarkable that he recalled her pelisse, much less the color of it. That he could choose a bonnet so exactly right for her was more than a little unsettling.

"I warned you I am a dab hand at this, my dear Miss Fairchild."

"Mr. Talbot,” she scolded, then rose to pay the milliner, longing to flee to her house and away from him.

They exited the shop, Mr. Talbot carrying the two hatboxes for Clare in one hand, his other placed firmly beneath her elbow. As though she might dash off? “I am hardly likely to disappear whilst you hold my new bonnets in your hand, sir."

"You look well today. Are you ready to depart for Marlborough?"

Glancing about to see if anyone was close enough to overhear his words and possibly misconstrue them, she nodded. “Now I am. I simply couldn't face any of my old bonnets."

"Typical woman,” he murmured as he ushered her across the Circus on the way back to the Royal Crescent. “I gather Miss Godwin is more than resigned to remaining at home."

"As long as I take Priddy along with me, she says nothing. I confess I feel a bit guilty at leaving Miss Godwin at home once again. I am a shockingly poor hostess, I fear."

"I trust Miss Godwin will survive far better than you can imagine. Do you have any notion as to what she does when she is out and about on her own? Why does she not require a maid with her, when she insists you have one?"

"I did not take Priddy today,” Clare pointed out.

"But how well do you know Miss Godwin? I heard that she meets a gentleman at Duffields Library. Heaven knows what they discuss, but I am informed that he wears his cravats incredibly high, so that one can scarcely see his face, and that he does not remove his hat, even though speaking to a lady."

Clare mulled over this bit of information as they entered the house she had hired. Handing the boxes to Bennison to send up to Priddy, Clare beckoned Mr. Talbot into the study.

"I find this rather disturbing,” Clare said, turning to him while gesturing he sit down by the secretary. She joined him nearby, unbuttoning the neck of her muslin pelisse as she sank onto a chair. Giving him an earnest look, she went on, “I have wondered from time to time. For example, it was she who ordered Jenny to go without a groom to attend her. I have spoken about that with Jenny, so it shan't happen again. But what next? Dare I leave? Goodness knows I cannot take the baby jauntering about with me. And we can witness that traveling is not the safest, can we not?"

Her gaze collided with his, and for several moments she totally forgot the topic under discussion. Instead, the exotic scent she associated with Richard Talbot returned to her as she remained tangled in that green gaze. His face had felt so firm, so good. She had enjoyed being close to him, finding comfort, among other things, in his nearness.

"The babe shall be safe. I hired a man specifically for the purpose of guarding the child and his nurse."

Bennison cleared his throat at the doorway, and Clare snapped back to full consciousness. Whatever possessed her to be so taken with the state of Mr. Talbot's eyes! Or what might lurk behind them? Not to mention scandalous memories!

"Tom Coachman said to inform you that he has things ready whenever you wish to depart, Miss Fairchild."

She thanked him, then sought Mr. Talbot's gaze, this time only fleetingly. “You still intend to go along?"

"I do,” he said judiciously. Rubbing a well-manicured hand across his jaw, he appeared to study Clare as though she were a rare specimen of something he coveted. It made her feel vastly uncomfortable.

At that moment Jenny coughed to gain her attention. Clare rose, breaking the tension that seemed to flare up whenever Mr. Talbot came too close to her. “Yes?"

"Begging your pardon, miss. I remembered something else."

Richard narrowed his eyes, as though wondering if the girl told the truth.

"The woman I saw at the inn, the one I said Cook gave a cup of tea to? Her name, it was Mrs. Dow.” Jenny curtsied after giving this report, then ruefully added, “I fear that's all, miss.'’ She bolted from the door, leaving Clare standing in the center of the room clasping her hands together.

"Mrs. Dow. A very unprepossessing name, I must say,” grumbled Richard as he walked to Clare's side.

"We must find her, sir."

"I thought you once promised to call me Richard when we were alone?"

"Did I, indeed? I fear a spinster must use care, sir. I would have no one get the wrong idea."

"And do you know the right one, yourself?"

Ignoring his provoking question, Clare turned slightly from him, merely saying, “We had best be prepared to leave early in the morning, sir."

"I shall be prepared, never fear, Miss Fairchild.” With that, he took himself off, leaving Clare to wonder just what he meant by that last sentence.

"I feel as though I had spent the last few weeks in my coach. And do you know, it does not improve with time?” Clare grumbled. The vehicle hit a rut, and she was most thankful she had braced her foot against the opposite seat.

Actually, Mr. McAdam had improved the roads a good bit. The use of small angular broken stone, packed down by the passage of traffic, greatly facilitated the comfort of travel. Something must have caused that rut, she reflected.

No cloud of dust rose in the air behind them, witness to the rains that had fallen this past week. Clare was grateful for that as well, knowing that otherwise they would have arrived at Marlborough covered with gray from head to toe, what with the number of vehicles coming and going on the road.

The carriage rocked sharply again. Clare grew alarmed. A little curl of fear rose within her, and she wondered if she ought to leave her bonnet in the coach this time should they have to stop. Then she wondered what part of her might be hit if she did. Memories of the previous times they had been forced to halt came back to her. She turned her head to catch Mr. Talbot's gaze.

"I suspect the rains have created small ruts,” he offered by way of response to the apprehension in her eyes. “I doubt it is anything to worry about. We ought to arrive at the inn shortly, as I told Tom Coachman not to spare the horses. He's a good man."

Mr. Talbot had been most aggravating this morning, she reflected. Oh, he exhibited the most perfect of manners. She could not fault his attire, for those biscuit pantaloons fit like a second skin, and his coat of deep blue Bath cloth could serve as a tribute to Mr. Weston's skill as a tailor. His cravat looked a perfection, and that discreet waistcoat, as much as she could see of it, reflected fastidious taste. His chestnut hair became him arranged
a la Titus,
as did the benignly devilish smile that lurked about those firmly chiseled lips.

Oh, it was nothing obvious, but Mr. Talbot was slowly driving her mad. His green eyes teased and mocked her, by his posture he tantalized her. Those wicked glances held remembrances in them that were best left unsaid. From the very first thing this morning, when he had held her hand a trifle too long while assisting her into the coach, to the occasional touches, due, he apologized, to the rocking of the coach, he contrived to make her aware of nothing but him. Her senses reeled! Blast and drat the man! Why would he grimace with distaste one day and behave like this today? She felt lost and confused, and not merely because they were having little success in locating Lady Millsham.

"Pity we cannot take the canal to Marlborough,” Mr. Talbot said blandly. “We parted with it at Devizes, I believe. It was a very agreeable passage, if one does not mind the odor from produce. Did you not find it agreeable, Miss Fairchild?"

Clare stifled a gasp as she darted a glance at him before she could stop herself. How dare the man refer to that trip! And the effrontery to ask her if she found it agreeable, of all things. Those green eyes were dark and lively, denying the innocuous tone of his voice. That she had discovered she cared far more than she ought to for this odious man during the excursion on the little boat she would never confess to him.

Twice he had kissed her, made her heart nearly take flight within. But she could not forget his grim visage that second time. She would force no man to marry her, nor compel him to follow the silly dictates of Society when it scarcely seemed necessary. She would recover. It took some effort to return his wicked smile with a frosty one of her own, but she thought her attempt went creditably well.

"We are slowing down, Miss Fairchild. Do you suppose we are to be free of this bone-rattling coach for a while?” That mocking brow slanted, as though he knew how well he was getting beneath her guard, riling her interior.

Her coach was the latest design, with the finest spring mechanism to be found. Clare smiled sweetly and replied, “Yes. One's bones can be so easily rattled, it seems.” Then she wondered what she had said to make him grin.

She turned to view the outskirts of Marlborough. The Castle Inn lay on the east edge of the town. They ought to enter the inn yard within minutes, if memory served her correctly. A horseman galloped up toward their coach, obviously intending to beat them into town.

"Look out!” Richard pushed Clare over to the seat, knocking the breath from her. Her face pressed against his chest; his body covered hers with distressing familiarity.

At that precise moment, a shot rang out once again. Only this time Clare's bonnet remained intact. Her heart thudded with horror as she realized a bullet now lay embedded in the cushion behind Mr. Talbot. His splendid coat began to turn a dark red where his arm had been grazed. Had she remained upright, who knows if her bonnet or her head would have the hole!

Priddy quietly swooned away, sliding to an ungraceful heap on the opposite side.

The nick in Richard's arm stung a bit, but otherwise was of no great concern to him. Clare was. He ignored the slowly spreading stain to chance his stake in his future.

"You might have been hit. I shall claim my award, I think, for saving your life.” Ignoring her faint protest, he gathered her a bit awkwardly in his arms, then proceeded to kiss her with every ounce of his expertise.