The Unflappable Miss Fairchild Read online

  THE UNFLAPPABLE MISS FAIRCHILD

  Regina Scott

  Prologue

  The mother-of-pearl enameled clock on the mantle in the Cranfield library struck midnight with twelve rather dusty-sounding bings. Frowning, Chas Prestwick looked up from where he stood nearby, scanning the titles of the equally dusty books by firelight. Trust Liza to be late, even for an assignation she had wanted.

  Confound the woman! What did she hope to gain by bringing it all up again? When he had told her they were through, the ensuing battle had broken every piece of statuary, pottery, and crystal the woman owned. She couldn’t possibly want him back. Yet here she was, before two hundred of London’s finest, trying to pretend that nothing had changed. Thank God he had been able to convince her to slip away unnoticed and join him in the library.

  The door cracked open and Elizabeth Scanton slipped into the room. He leaned against the mantle and watched her as she draped herself artfully along the sofa opposite him.

  He doubted that stuffy old Freddie Cranfield, who had only invited him to this tedious little ball because of a long-standing friendship with Chas’s brother Malcolm, had ever dreamed the mahogany-paneled, seldom-used library would play host to such an assignation. Looking at Liza now, with her titian hair pomaded ala Greque and her amber gown damped to cling to her shapely breasts and ample hips, Chas knew exactly what had attracted him in the first place. She must have seen and recognized the appreciation in his eyes, for her smile turned lazy, and she ran a pert tongue along her reddened lips.

  “Please, Chas,” she said, voice like a purr, “can’t we simply forget that awful fight? We really were made for each other.”

  Chas shook his head. “I meant what I said, Liza. This is all just a game to you, and I’m tired of playing.”

  She raised a carefully etched eyebrow. “What, can this be the Chas Prestwick who holds the record for best time by carriage to every location within a day’s drive of London? The Chas Prestwick who bet Lord Leslie Petersborough, his well known shadow, that poor Leslie couldn’t somersault from one end of Hyde Park to the other? The man who told Prinny to have the Lords pay him in rubies against his weight as that seemed to be the only thing about him that was increasing? Since when, sir, did you tire of games?”

  Chas sighed. “Touché, my dear. Perhaps I’m maturing. I find those activities you just described a bit outrageous now.” It dawned on him that perhaps that was the best tack to take with her. “I fear I’ve grown a bit stodgy. You’d best find yourself someone more outgoing.”

  “Humbug,” she said, and he realized his hangdog look wasn’t working. Liza knew him too well. She stretched a long leg across the white velvet. “You have years of fun left in you. Let me show you.”

  Best to simply end it now. “No, Liza,” he said in his sternest voice. “We’re through. You should have known better than to try to change my mind in a place like this.”

  She rose slowly from the sofa, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “Because the Cranfields are one of the few families who still receive you? I could cause such a nasty scene, you know. Wouldn’t it be a shame to see poor Chas Prestwick cast out of yet another home?” She smiled until her canines showed. Like the cat she was, Chas thought bitterly.

  He let nothing of the anger and frustration he felt show on his face or in his movements. It would never do to let her see she was dangerously close to scoring. His reputation for wildness had scared off a good number of his brother’s friends. Few mamas introduced him to their daughters anymore. More likely they quickly betrothed them to safer, if less-dashing gentlemen should he show interest. While he continued to spend most of his nights with Leslie Petersborough and the rest of the faster set, these balls and dinner parties were a welcome change, and one he didn’t particularly want to forego. But Liza must never know that.

  He waved a languid hand toward the house beyond the carved mahogany door. “Be my guest. The Cranfields mean next to nothing to me.”

  “Liar,” she said softly. “All I have to do is open that door and scream. What little reputation you have would be in shreds.”

  Chas made a study of the toe of his evening shoe. “Wouldn’t do much for your own reputation either, my dear. By all means, scream away. It would be more amusing than some of the things you’ve done.”

  Liza stiffened. “You go too far, Mr. Prestwick.” She moved to the door and flung it open. And stared.

  Chas’ head had come up almost involuntarily as he prepared for the coming onslaught. Instead, he was surprised to see Liza nearly nose to nose with a young lady who was unknown to him. She stood with wide eyes, her hand arrested in mid air as if in the act of reaching for the doorknob. She obviously realized that she had interrupted an intimate affair and was even now coloring in a blush.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “I was sent to find someone in the card room, and I seem to have found the library instead. Please excuse me.” She started to back away.

  Liza, never one to miss an opportunity, grabbed the young lady’s arm. “Please, you mustn’t go! You can’t leave me alone, with him!” Tears appeared as if by magic in Liza’s eyes. “He brought me here, alone, and now he’ll have his way with me!”

  Chas almost groaned aloud. The pathetic story would be unbelievable to anyone who knew Liza, but the wide-eyed innocent in the door would be sure to think it the truth.

  But the young lady looked from the tears that were tracking through Liza’s makeup to his face and back again, as if judging the story. In that one look was more wisdom than her youth bespoke. Chas stood a little straighter.

  “Why, my dear, there’s no need to cry,” she said soothingly in her quiet voice. “You’ve only to walk out the door, and he’ll be powerless to stop you.”

  Now it was Liza’s turn to glance at Chas. She bit her lip in chagrin, obviously hoping that the young lady would have been an easier mark.

  “But my reputation,” she tried again. “He’s ruined me. No other man will ever look at me again. I’ll die a pitiful old maid!” This time even Chas could almost believe the sobs wrung from her as Liza cast herself back on the sofa and buried her face in her arms.

  The young woman stood for a moment as if in indecision. Then she crossed to the sofa and knelt beside the prostrate Liza. “Please don’t cry. I’m sure the gentleman meant no harm. A lady of your sophistication is likely used to the gentlemen loosing their heads.”

  Chas snorted, but the young lady gave him such a quelling look that he was forced to turn his eyes away for a moment, abashed.

  Liza raised her head, sniffling. “It’s a curse; you have no idea what I go through!”

  The young lady patted her hand. “You bear it very bravely.”

  Liza sat up. “I try, but sometimes . . .”.

  “Yes, of course, sometimes these gentlemen would try the patience of a saint. If I had your charms, I simply don’t know what I’d do.”

  Now Liza patted the other woman’s hand. “There, there, my dear. Thank God there’s only a few of us so cursed.” She cast a venomous glance at Chas. “You, sir, may be thankful that this dear girl has reminded me of my inner strength.”

  “You would have regained it yourself, sooner or later,” the young lady demurred, rising.

  “Of course I would,” Liza replied. She rose also and sailed to the door, where she paused to look back at Chas. “Remember this night, Chas Prestwick. This is the last you’ll see of Elizabeth Scanton.” She stood for one more moment, as if she hoped to give him something to regret, then melted into the darkness of the corridor.

  Chas waited one more minute to be sure she was out of earshot, then gave a whoop of delight. He took the lady’s hand and
gave it a resounding kiss. “That, my dear, was pure genius. I’ve never seen Liza so well handled, and she never even saw it happening. Are you an angel or a sorceress?”

  The lady gently pulled her hand from his grasp and turned toward the door. “Neither, sir. I merely offered help where I perceived it was needed. My family tells me I have a distressing tendency to see the best in everyone,” she glanced back at him, “apparently even you. There is no need to thank me for something I habitually do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Wait,” Chas ordered. He was surprised to find that he was loathe to let her go. But then, he had been surprised since the moment he had first laid eyes on her in the doorway.

  He looked at her more closely. Not his usual style to be sure. This one had a quiet beauty. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a pair of rather speaking large, thick-lashed, grey eyes, like a storm above his own Mendip Hills in Somerset, she would have been almost plain. Nice hair--thick, black, lustrous, although he would have preferred another arrangement rather than the bun at the back of her neck. Rather thinner than he usually liked as well: she almost looked as if she hadn’t had a good mutton dinner in some time. And her clothes seemed a bit behind the style. Still, the way she had handled Liza, and was handling him for that matter, was nothing short of brilliant. He tried again. “May I not at least know the name of my rescuer?”

  The lady looked back at him again, and he could see that she was blushing once more. “That would not be proper, sir. I think it would be best if we both pretended we’d never met.” She continued toward the door.

  Chas felt a prick of annoyance. The chit was dismissing him! Well, he was rather infamous for coming up with creative ways to solve difficulties. He moved to cut off her retreat and gave her his most dazzling smile, turning his head just enough that the firelight would reflect in his emerald eyes and show his blond hair to advantage. “I see, a very proper young lady. Don’t talk to strange men in quiet libraries and all that. I could ask someone to introduce us.”

  The lady gave him one last look, her smile decidedly saucy, before purposefully ducking around him and starting down the corridor. “I doubt we know any of the same people.” She evidently found the door she had been originally looking for and disappeared.

  This is simply not my night, Chas thought ruefully, but he had a feeling that that smile would stay with him for a very long time.

  Chapter One

  “Anne Fairchild!” Lady Agatha Crawford snapped, raising her pince-nez to glare at her niece down the breakfast table. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

  Anne had jumped at the sound of her own name. Now she set her tea cup carefully down in its saucer before she could spill the hot liquid on the linen tablecloth. “I’m sorry, Aunt,” she said, smiling in apology. “I’m not quite myself this morning.”

  “You have been a bit dreamy-eyed since the Cranfield ball last week,” her Aunt Millicent put in gently, squinting in the sunlight that streamed through the dining room windows behind Anne. “Dare I hope you met a special young man?”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Agatha said with a sniff. Anne ignored her aunt’s disparaging tone, relieved to have been spared an answer. “She danced with each of those two idiot suitors of hers once,” Agatha continued, “and Mr. Hilcroft twice. Thank goodness my headache gave us all an excuse to leave early.”

  “Although I was having a lovely game of silver loo when you sent Anne to find me.” Millicent sighed, herself looking dreamy.

  “The game does not signify,” Agatha asserted with an impatient wave of her hand. “What is important is that the only potential suitor of any merit that Anne has managed to attract is Julian Hilcroft. Which is why I asked when he is scheduled to call again.”

  Anne realized she would have to answer this time. “Mr. Hilcroft asked to take me driving today, if the weather holds.” She kept her voice noncommittal and busied herself spreading honey on her biscuit.

  “Did he indeed?” Agatha looked thoughtful. “I’ve a good mind to send you alone this time. Perhaps that will inspire him to make an offer.”

  Anne focused on setting the knife aside and taking a deep breath to still her rising temper. “What makes you think Mr. Hilcroft intends to make me an offer?” She was pleased by how calm she sounded.

  Agatha put her own tea cup firmly in its saucer, threatening to give the worn Dresden china another chip. “He had better intend to offer, my girl. Why else have I been treating him to tea at least three days out of five these last few months? I am not running a posting house.”

  “Of course he’ll offer,” Millicent assured Anne with a pat on the hand. “He’s quite fond of you, I can tell.”

  Anne managed a smile, feeling a little guilty for hoping Millicent was wrong.

  “Fond or not,” Agatha snapped, rising, “while he monopolizes your time, other more suitable candidates cannot approach. If he is not sincere, you will tell him to stop calling.”

  Anne took a bite of her biscuit. Swallowing was somehow more difficult. “I think you are making too much of Mr. Hilcroft’s visits, Aunt Agatha. He seems to be only interested in a friendship. If other gentlemen are so timid as to be deterred by a friendship, I cannot consider them such suitable candidates.”

  Agatha shook a bony finger in Anne’s face. Anne refused to flinch. “Fine words, my girl,” her aunt declared. “How will you feel about this friendship when you’re a wizened old maid?”

  Millicent fluttered to her feet before Anne could reply. “Now, Agatha, you know that’s not likely. Anne’s such a dear girl. I know some fine gentleman will offer very soon.”

  “Not soon enough for me. Ungrateful child! Who was it took you in?” Agatha’s hands shook as she leaned on her cane. “Come, Millicent. Leave the girl alone with her high ideals. Just see that you wear your grey pelisse when Mr. Hilcroft calls, missy. If I’m going to pay a pretty penny to deck you out, you will do me the courtesy of wearing the clothes I pick for you. And you will tell Mr. Hilcroft that I cannot spare Bess today. I rely on him to be your escort and behave in a gentlemanly fashion. I will expect a full report when you return from your outing.”

  Millicent cast Anne a supportive glance as she helped her sister-in-law from the room.

  Anne sighed, pushing the food away, her breakfast quite spoiled. Why was it that she had never been able to find a way to please Lady Crawford in all the five years since she and her widowed Aunt Millicent had come to live in Crawford House? She truly did appreciate all the effort Agatha had gone to on her account--the dancing master, piano teacher, even that dreadful woman who had tried to teach her water color painting, not to mention the clothes Agatha had recut to fit Anne. If only her aunt hadn’t been such a prickly thing, flaring up at the least sign of any disagreement. Lord knew, she tried as hard as she could to find ways to agree with Agatha.

  For example, she found herself in agreement with her aunt that she did seem to attract the unlikeliest of suitors, although she refused to see them as the idiots her aunt named them. Mortimer Dent was a dear, but his intention of becoming a poet to rival Lord Byron was doomed to failure, she feared, for he didn’t seem to have an original thought in his head, and he had an abysmal sense of rhyme and rhythm. Godbert Gresham had been a devoted friend since childhood, but he was so afraid of being taken for a bluestocking that he affected the very worst dandyism. That purple plaid waistcoat with the green piping he had worn the last time he was in town had been atrocious.

  Yes, Julian Hilcroft was the best of the lot: intelligent, respected, and well to pass, but she was always aware that there was something else lurking behind his calm blue eyes.

  If only Agatha had some of Millicent’s qualities, Anne thought, not for the first time. Millicent was all that was warm and generous. From her wren’s brown hair and broad face to her more-than-ample girth, she seemed motherhood personified. She was always ready with a smile or a shoulder to cry on, and, more often then not, she’d cry right along with you. Of course, she couldn’t m
atch Agatha’s quick wit or her ability to instantly assess a situation.

  Agatha Fairchild Crawford, on the other hand, was thin as a rail, with iron grey, wispy hair; grey eyes; and a positively black disposition. Where Millicent smiled, Agatha’s lips were perpetually curled in a thin line of distaste. Her blue-veined hands clutching her ebony cane, she walked with the dignity of a reigning monarch. Millicent wanted Anne to marry someone who would take care of her. Agatha wanted her to marry for money and position. Anne had always dreamed of marrying for love. And at the moment, all she could think about was Chas Prestwick.

  She climbed the stairway to the second floor of the Crawford town house and walked down the narrow corridor to her small bedchamber, wrapping her worn flannel robe more tightly around herself as she entered. Aunt Agatha was economizing again--only enough coal for a small fire once a day in the bedchambers. As Anne preferred hers right before bed, she frequently awoke to a room from which the warmth had long since evaporated. Not so her memory of him.

  It was silly, really. She wasn’t likely to even see him again. In the first place, she did not move in fashionable enough circles to have easy connections with a nonpareil like Chas Prestwick. Even if she did, Agatha would never approve.

  Besides, it was probably just the novelty of the experience that made the memory so vivid. Lady Agatha Crawford’s niece, rescuing what was surely the most handsome rakehell in London from the clutches of an equally wicked woman! It was simply too delightful to contemplate. Agatha would have had apoplexy had she known. It was one of the few memories all Anne’s own; most likely that was another reason she kept reliving it.

  She’d been so surprised when that woman had snatched open the door. Her first glimpse of him over the woman’s shoulder had been of a tall man, strength clothed in grace. His thick, tawny hair was worn longer than the current close-cropped style, tied back from his face in a queue at the nap of his neck. That, his green eyes, and the graceful way he moved reminded her of a lion she had seen on display once for the Royal Family.