The Dashing Miss Fairchild (6 page)

Clare rose to her feet in one of those elegant movements that drive other women to gnash their teeth. Smiling at Mr. Talbot and Venetia, she invited, “Let us change rooms, then, for I perceive Mr. Talbot is entirely correct.” To him, she added, “I must again beg forgiveness that we forced you from the house you had selected."

"It is entirely my fault,” he stated with a nice show of manners as he assisted Venetia from her chair. “I had business matters in London that took far longer than they ought. After several years of being abroad, I had forgotten how slow the wheels can move here. I looked forward to a respite in Bath, one of my favorite places, enjoying a change from the heat of Jamaica. However, I am pleased to find the house thus occupied, I assure you."

Quite satisfied that he was reconciled to his abode in the Edgar Buildings as well as renewing their acquaintance, Clare ushered him down the stairs and into the study, then urged Venetia into a charming Chippendale chair close by while settling upon another next to Mr. Talbot. If they were to put their heads together over this, Clare was determined to be near enough to do so. She totally ignored the interesting reality that she had never behaved so in her entire life.

"Now,'’ began Mr. Talbot, “I suspect we had best start with the Season before last. Since I was absent from the country, it will be up to you ladies to think of possible names for the list.” First he located a fresh quill and a pot of ink, then he glanced at Venetia before turning to Clare.

Venetia stared into middle space while considering the brilliant, and not-so-brilliant, marriages of that year.

"There was the Musgrove wedding. Quite a splash at St. George's. That was followed by the Jolliffe-Claverhouse, then the Elfinstone-Fayer. Lady Du Plat married Lord Hepburn in July, such an unfashionable date, too. The Grantham-Inglis wedding took place in September just before the Kysale-Lombe affair. Gracious, how shall one ever make a list of them all? I touch only upon the church weddings. The remaining shall require a separate list."

"I agree. The task is difficult enough, without trying to figure out just who was breeding at the appropriate time to produce little William,” Clare said thoughtfully.

Venetia looked as though she longed to expire from embarrassment at this bit of outspoken language. Her brows rose to new heights, and she fanned herself vigorously as she cried, “Dear Clare, do have a thought for propriety, please! What you said is quite enough to bring on a case of the vapors!"

"I thought better of you, Venetia. My mama was not quite so missish about life.'’ Clare turned her eyes, now alight with humor, on Mr. Talbot. She was not disappointed. That green gaze met hers with perfect understanding.

"Can you recall who of the
ton
has red hair? That might be more to the point.” Richard studied the two young women in turn. Miss Fairchild was relaxed, yet concentrating on her thoughts. Miss Godwin seemed of a divided mind, as though she wished to do two different things at the same time. Having been around and about for some years, it was not too difficult for Richard to figure out what she had in her head.

"The Fitzgeralds, of course,” Venetia finally offered. “And the Innes family has a number of redheads as I recall. The grandmother's side of the family, you know. I think we might ignore most of the Scots, for it would be most unlikely they would be around this area to deposit that child in dear Clare's coach."

"She has a point there,” Clare conceded to Mr. Talbot, wishing all the while that she didn't find it quite so difficult to concentrate on the matter to hand. He would think her a peagoose without a brain in her head.

"Well, it is too bad of them all. There ought to be a convenient way to merely look up all the marriages of that year without going to London,” Venetia said with a pout.

"We could do that if necessary, you know. Or I might send my man to check for us if your memories fail.” Richard looked at Clare, who seemed to have plunged into the past.

"You know,” mused Clare, while thinking back in time, “there was a quiet little scrap of a girl I just recalled. Her name was Jane something or other. She married the Earl of Millsham. Had pots of money. He did, that is. I seem to remember that he had dark red hair. ‘Tis the sort of color that just might have been brighter when he was a child. Did you not have brighter hair as a little girl, Venetia?"

Looking as annoyed as a hornet that has been brushed away from a chosen flower, Venetia hastily denied any such thing. Her hair had always been its present hue. Her skin flared into the angry color that often afflicts redheads when upset or embarrassed.

Turning to Mr. Talbot, Clare sent a silent question. Ought they pursue this line?

"I suggest we all write a few letters to anyone we know who might have knowledge of those on this admittedly short list of marriages who could have produced a child in the required month. Let the see, if he was born in April, the wedding would have been no later than August?"

"Would the birth not be recorded?” Clare wanted to know.

"We have to have more details first. It is more complicated than I suspected. In Jamaica, it is a simple matter. Here, it is another thing entirely."

Clare wondered about that island. She suspected he would have to return to Jamaica eventually. She longed to ask him if he planned to return soon nearly as much as she feared his answer. She forced her unwilling tongue to remain silent.

Not so Venetia.

"Tell us, Mr. Talbot, do you plan to remain in England? Or does your future lie in Jamaica? I do so admire a man who travels. It is one of my fondest dreams to spread my wings and see something of this world.'’ Her demure smile was enhanced by a languid wafting of her painted fan.

Why, the little hypocrite, thought Clare. Could this possibly be the same woman who had forced Clare to travel at a snail's pace from London because of her sensitive stomach? She did not turn a hair at her outrageous words! All thoughts of exposure vanished as Clare realized that what she longed to know might be found in his reply. She listened with straining ears.

He toyed with the quill pen yet in his hand before answering. “Perhaps. It all depends, you see. My father has left the some property not far from here. I shall study the matter and see what appears to be the best prospect."

Clare looked down at her lap where her fingers played with a silk flower. Whatever did he mean by those ambiguous words? Deciding she would be better off ignoring what she had no control over, she took a deep breath, then briskly said, “I expect the sooner we write our letters, the sooner we shall get replies.''

She rose from her chair and hunted about for the rather nice hot-pressed paper she had brought with her from London. Gathering up a collection of quills, and after locating another pot of ink, she directed the others.

"Venetia, why do you not join the over at the card table? We can share this bottle of ink while Mr. Talbot uses the desk.''

Quite happy to be of use while Mr. Talbot was present to observe, Venetia settled at the card table, declaring, “I shall write several ladies I met in London, now ruralizing at their country estates. They are all great gossips and know simply everything about everyone. Surely they will provide a clue."

Clare exchanged a guarded look with Mr. Talbot, then set to work at writing a letter to her sister and her brothers’ wives.

They might be well married, but seemed to be
au courant
with who was producing what.

She quickly scratched out a letter to her sister, being careful to inquire if Sarah knew anything of a young woman named Jane who had married the Earl of Millsham. Clare doubted that Jane might be recalled, but Sarah made a point of being well acquainted with marriages of the peerage.

Once they had finished their writing, Clare expressed her gratitude to the others.

"You found someone to write to, even though you have been gone for several years, Mr. Talbot?” teased Venetia. Her fan was back in use now that she was able to set aside the pen and paper upon which she had neatly written her lines.

Clare darted an annoyed glance at Venetia. Really, for someone who set such store by propriety, she surely was inquisitive. Although Clare had to admit one did learn more that way.

Venetia, for her part, suspected Clare might be annoyed with her for flirting with Mr. Talbot. But the gentleman was far too handsome for Venetia's peace of mind. Were dear Clare to succumb to his good looks and manners, it would leave Venetia without a home, for her relatives had made it quite plain that she was to find another to take her in—they would not. Tiresome people. She had done her very best to help them all. Not every woman was as gifted as Venetia in knowing what was the best thing to be done at any given time. She had tried to point out the error of their ways in the nicest possible manner, and what gratitude did they show?

True, she was not her best with children. She found them plaguesome brats at best. But she knew for a certainty the proper way to rear them. And as for household duties, while she might not have had the running of a house herself, she was a fount of information if they would only listen. She read a great deal, you see. True, novels were perhaps not the best source, but they were always so wise.

"I wrote my mother, for one. I have always found her to be knowledgeable when I least expected her to be. Since my father died, she has had little to occupy her time but to write letters. I received quite a stack of them filled with all manner of news.''

He looked at Clare. “She even mentioned you once. As I recall, you were an attendant at some rather glorious wedding she attended, and she thought you prettier than the bride.” He grinned wickedly at Clare's discomfort at this praise.

"Yes,” Venetia agreed, “Clare has been a bridesmaid at a goodly number of weddings. Perhaps you ought to merely list them all, and we shall discover the missing parents from that, dear Clare.'’ She tittered a dainty laugh behind her fan, her eyes alive with delight in her wit.

"Oh, but I have, Venetia,” Clare responded, wondering what had gotten into her friend, who usually treated men as though they possessed some awful disease. The words reminded Clare that she had indeed served as attendant to many brides. Too many, it seemed. “Since you were in the congregation at nearly all of them, I trust our lists match."

Rising from the chair, she extended her hand to Mr. Talbot. “That was dry work, sir. Would you care for a glass of sherry while we send these off to the post? A celebration, if you like?"

Amused at her dry sense of humor and good grace at tolerating the snide remarks of her companion, Richard inclined his head with a deal of pleasure. “If I do not keep you from your tasks."

"The way dear Clare fusses over that baby, ‘tis a wonder she has time for anything. I was taught that children should be seen and not heard.'’ Venetia swished from the study and began to walk up the stairs. Over her shoulder she added, “We are not only plagued with his presence, but have to listen to him at all hours as well."

Richard gave Clare a questioning look as she mounted the first step to follow Venetia. She squarely met his gaze with a troubled one of her own. “I have the oddest fancy that he is in danger, you see. Rather than in the attic, I keep him closer by, a silly whim, I admit. The attic seemed too remote."

The tickets for the concert at the Octagon were obtained with no difficulty, and Clare looked forward to the outing with great pleasure.

She and Venetia joined Lady Kingsmill, Susan, and Lord Welby just outside the entrance, then strolled in to take their seats as though the gossips were not taking note of every movement, or who said and did what.

"The organ is in the other area, you know,'’ explained Lady Kingsmill in an amiable way. “You may hear it quite plainly without any difficulty in the least. The soloist this evening is a baritone of some renown. I heard him once in London. You ought to be pleased with his performance."

Clare was caught up in the atmosphere of the room. Casual glances about her brought home the interesting fact that not all the ladies of Bath found her beyond the pale. Perhaps it was the presence of Lady Kingsmill, as well as the genial approval of Lord Welby, that did the trick. But there were gracious, nods and reserved smiles, which at this point was the best one might expect.

"I see that young fellow I told you about over there, Miss Fairchild. The one whose house you took? Fine gentleman. Look, he's coming this way.” Lord Welby nodded in the direction of Mr. Talbot, a smile wreathing Welby's round face.

"So I see.” Clare felt sure her cheeks turned a bright rose beneath the scrutiny of the two men.

"May I join you?” The rich vibrancy of his voice feathered on Clare's nerves, sending tiny chills down her spine.

She glanced up to meet that green gaze and sighed. “We should be pleased, sir.” She edged her chair sideways just a trifle so he might draw another up if he so wished. It seemed he did, for he found a vacant chair, pulled it in line with hers, and thanked Lord Welby for making room on the other side.

"The weather has been lovely these past days, has it not?” She chided herself for mundane conversation, but if anyone listened, they would find it quite unexceptionable.

"Indeed.'’ He twinkled down at her as though he understood precisely what she was about. “How nice to get a respite from the rains. I was told they could have snow here as late as April. Did you know that?"

"Really!” she exclaimed in horrified tones that she hoped would sound sincere. “I shan't complain about a bit of wet, then."

He bent his head as though inspecting his cuff for lint. “Have you received any replies to the letters as yet?"

Clare touched the tip of her nose with one delicately gloved finger, thus concealing the movement of her lips. “Two from nearby. Since my sisters-in-law are good to write, I expect more any day now."

"Anything of interest?” He leaned toward her with polite curiosity, as though he had just uttered another word of wisdom about the weather.

"Yes. Best discuss it over tea when you are free to attend us.” She had not seen him anywhere the past several days, and it had surprisingly rankled her. Not that she actually was so vulgar as to search the throng of people strolling along Milsom Street or the crowd in and about the Pump Room. But she could not help notice his absence. After all, how many gentlemen were there around with his presence and looks?