The Unflappable Miss Fairchild Read online

  “Malcolm,” Chas breathed.

  Rames’ eyes rolled upward as if begging the heavens for mercy.

  “Rames?” an older female voice wafted from the sitting room. “Do I hear my son?”

  “And mother too.” Chas sighed.

  “Does she hear her son?” Rames hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  Chas knew there was no escape. “Yes, Mother, it’s me.” He handed his top hat and gloves to Rames, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Thanks, old man. You tried.”

  “Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?” He sounded far too hopeful of escape for Chas to do other than nod and watch enviously as Rames scurried for the safety below stairs.

  Squaring his shoulders and putting a pleasant smile on his face, Chas entered the sitting room. Rames had obviously tried to straighten it up a bit--the extra tables and chairs, brandy bottles, and glasses from last night’s card party had been taken away and the furniture rearranged in a more intimate grouping with the sofa opposite the fire and two Sheraton chairs flanking it. A warm fire crackled in the grate, shedding its light on Gwendolyn, Countess of Prestwick, sitting quietly on a footstool, her slender hands held out to the warmth.

  Like a char woman, looking for comfort, Chas thought with a shake of his head.

  “Mother,” he greeted her, stepping forward to help her to her feet and bending to kiss her cheek. Green eyes, so like his own, regarded him from a pale oval face that had yet to show a wrinkle, just as her auburn hair had yet to show a streak of grey.

  “Home a bit early, aren’t you?” she murmured, eyeing him with obvious concern. “Have you been a good lad?”

  Chas stepped back, smile already feeling strained. “Very good, mother. I haven’t caused any trouble all evening.” The look on Anne’s face, half fascination, half amazement as he had recited the love poem came to his mind, and the smile became genuine. “At least, nothing to speak of.”

  He guided her to one of the Sheraton chairs, and she seated herself, spreading the grey silk of her dress before her. “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing, Mother,” Chas said. It always amazed him how little humor either she or his brother had. Sometimes he wondered how he had come to be born into this family. Leslie maintained he must have been a changeling, switched at birth. If it hadn’t been for her green eyes, he might have given the story more credence.

  “So, what brings you to London this time of year?” he tried with cheerfulness he hardly felt. “I hadn’t expected to see Malcolm until after the Easter holiday.”

  She picked at the fringe of a purple shawl that lay across her shoulders. “Malcolm had business in town, he said, and I persuaded him to let me accompany him. He’s staying at the Fenton.”

  Chas frowned. “But he usually stays here when he’s in town. Is there something amiss?”

  “Nothing!” his mother hurriedly assured him. Almost too hurriedly, Chas thought, watching her avoid his eyes like a guilty child.

  She fidgeted as the silence lengthened. “Truly, Chas. He isn’t angry with you, unless you’ve done something I haven’t heard about.” She peered at him in the amber light. “You haven’t, have you? You have been good?”

  Chas gritted his teeth. “Yes, Mother. Do not worry yourself on that score.”

  She refused to be mollified. “He frets so when you misbehave. He’s never forgotten about those frogs at Eton. Why would you put frogs in your schoolmaster’s bed? Or was it snakes? No, that was the summer house the year he tried courting that Edwards woman. She was quite beside herself, I remember. I imagine I would have been too, having them fall down upon my bonnet. But I never wore those nasty chip bonnets--they never sit right.” She gazed up at him. “You have been good?”

  Chas took a deep breath and smiled as brightly as he could imagine any angel smiling. “Word of honor, Mother. I’ve been quite the gentleman.”

  She relaxed. “Oh, good. Then we can all have tea tomorrow. Malcolm promised he’d come for tea.”

  “How very thoughtful of him,” Chas quipped. Even she caught the tone this time and frowned at his bitterness.

  “Boys mustn’t fight,” she murmured, hitching her shawl a little higher on her shoulders. “It isn’t gentlemanly.”

  He found himself smiling. She always sounded the most authoritative when she reverted to her role as governess. He reached out and settled the shawl about her shoulders, realizing with a pang that she was thinner than the last time he’d seen her. She offered him a smile in return as he leaned back against the mantle. He ought to let it go, he knew; still, he felt the need to find out what was bothering his brother. “And why is Malcolm staying at the Fenton?” he asked politely.

  “Why because it’s the best hotel,” she replied. “Malcolm says there are all kinds of terrible hotels in London. You wouldn’t want him to stay at one of those, would you? All drafty, I imagine. And the food would be hideous.”

  “Yes, of course.” He tried again. “But wouldn’t it be more pleasant if he stayed here, as he usually does?”

  “Oh, I daresay. But he can’t stay here.”

  Chas took a deep breath. “Why?”

  His mother blinked her exquisite green eyes. “Because I’m staying here, of course.”

  “Oh yes, how silly of me.” Chas saw by the look of concern in her eyes that she had again heard the bitterness in his voice, despite his attempt to control it. He could feel his temper rising. “He couldn’t possibly be in your company for more than a few minutes. The great earl, lowering himself to talk to a governess, for all that she is a countess. How very noble of him.”

  “Malcolm talks to me,” his mother said with a frown. “His visits are always pleasant. He is the kindest gentleman I know.”

  “Oh, kind indeed,” Chas sneered, no longer able to keep from venting his frustration. “No doubt his kindness is why you live in that misery dower house while he takes up all four wings of the manor. He is so kind that this is the first time he has allowed you to travel to London in the twenty years since Father died! When are you going to remember that you are a countess, madam! You do yourself no good by settling for his so-called kindness.”

  “But, Chas,” his mother protested, clearly confused. “He has to have the manor. He’s the earl. Besides, he’s only looking out for my best interests. Malcolm and I living in the same house? What would people say?”

  His temper snapped. “Madam, if you were so worried about what people would say, you should never have gotten involved with my father!”

  The minute the words were out, he regretted them. Her lovely face clouded, her lower lip puffed out, and she rose shakily to her feet. “I can’t talk about that. You know I can’t. I ... I want to go to bed now. Where’s Mrs. Mead?”

  Chas reached out to her, but she flinched away, glancing around the room as if she’d never seen it before. “Where’s Mrs. Mead?” she repeated, wringing her hands. “I want to go to bed now. I don’t feel well.”

  Chas’ hand dropped to his side, stomach churning, and he strode to the bell pull, knowing that he had been the cause of her pain. “It’s all right, Mother. I’m sorry I upset you. I’ll have Mrs. Mead here for you directly.”

  It took Rames considerably longer than usual to answer his call, leaving Chas to watch impotently as his mother dissolved into sniffling sobs. His guilt and frustration mounted as she rebuffed any overture he tried. It was obvious that he was only making matters worse.

  When Rames finally appeared, Chas barely noticed that his waistcoat and shirt were once more immaculate, but he did notice that Rames cringed before what he saw in Chas’ face.

  “Send for Mrs. Mead at once,” Chas commanded, forcing himself to remain in control. “My mother wishes to retire.”

  “But sir, Mrs. Mead didn’t come with her,” Rames explained, doing little to still Chas’ frustration. The butler took a step back, glancing at the countess who sat sniffing and staring at the fire. Chas let the man draw him out into the hall out of the lady’s hear
ing. “And the young lady who did,” Rames continued quietly, “is completely unsuited to the task, if I may say so.”

  Chas ran his hand back through his hair, feeling his options cut off one by one. “There must be someone who can reason with her.”

  Rames cleared his throat noisily. “I’m sorry to add to your problems, sir, but the reason I took so long to respond to your call was that Lord Leslie Petersborough has arrived seeking your company. I took the liberty of escorting him to the library, although he did express a desire to greet the countess.”

  “And I suppose Malcolm will arrive next,” Chas said. “Tell Lord Petersborough that I will speak with him tomorrow,” he started to add, knowing that his friend would understand, but Leslie chose that moment to saunter down the corridor, a glass of Chas’ best brandy in his hand.

  “Tell me yourself,” he quipped, pausing to take a deep draft. “Didn’t think you could keep me cooling my heels all night, did you? It’s barely midnight, and the only fun I’ve had was to watch you make eyes at your little guardian angel. Tell your mother goodnight, and let’s be away.”

  “Go see to the countess, Rames,” Chas said, deciding to deal with Leslie himself. It was a delaying tactic, and he knew it. “I’ll join you shortly.” Rames started to protest, then, as if realizing his master’s mood, shrugged and turned back to the sitting room. Chas borrowed the brandy snifter from Leslie and took a long swallow.

  “Hey, ho,” Leslie mused, “you’re not well. Did the old girl rip up at you again?”

  Chas looked into his friend’s face, reading the concern behind the flippant manner as genuine. “It’s worse than that, Les,” he said with a sigh. “The Countess is . . . has been unwell for some time. She was always rather childlike, I gather from others who knew her when she was younger. I was away at school so often that I don’t really remember her much. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized that one shouldn’t . . . upset her. I never saw anyone deal with it until Mrs. Mead, her companion, took care of her at Christmas two years ago. She made it seem so easy, but I obviously haven’t the talent. For some reason, my brother brought her to London without Mrs. Mead, and she’s quite upset. I have to find some way to calm her.”

  “Laudanum?” Leslie suggested, then quickly softened it as Chas scowled. “Or wine? This brandy should do the trick.”

  “Are you suggesting I get my own mother drunk?” Chas shook his head. “I hardly think that’s kind, Les. Besides, I doubt she’d take anything from my hand.” He knew he was still having trouble schooling his face because Leslie looked as concerned as he felt.

  “And Malcolm cannot help you?”

  Chas shook his head again. “That would be the last thing I’d try. Can you imagine his reaction when he learned I was the one who upset her? The resulting vicious little scene would send her completely over the edge. I’d like to spare her that if I can.” He took another sip of the brandy. “Hell, I’d like to spare myself that.”

  “I don’t know what else to suggest, old fellow,” Leslie said. “I don’t suppose she’d talk to me?”

  “Doubtful,” Chas replied. “What I really need is someone she would trust, and I suspect that would need to be another woman, although Rames seems to feel that the only girl we have right now couldn’t deal well with her in her condition. What I need, Les, is a miracle.”

  “Too bad your guardian angel isn’t here,” Leslie quipped.

  Chas stared at him, an audacious thought piercing his frustration. “That’s it, Les! They might still be at the party.”

  Leslie frowned. “You can’t mean Miss Fairchild and her aunt?”

  Chas clapped him on the shoulder. “The very ones. Mother and Mrs. Fairchild were friends years ago when we lived here in London. And you’ve seen Miss Fairchild--nothing flusters her. Be a good lad and fetch them over.” When Leslie still hesitated, Chas pushed him toward the door, snatching his friend’s evening cloak from off the hall table where Rames had apparently left it in his hurry.

  “But Chas,” Leslie protested, “what shall I tell them?”

  “Tell them my mother has arrived unexpectedly and wishes to renew the acquaintance,” Chas extemporized. “Tell them I fell down the stairs and am expiring. Tell them the bloody house is on fire, just get them here!” He shoved Leslie out the door and snapped it shut. Then, feeling as if a weight had been lifted, he drained the last of the brandy, squared his shoulders, and returned to the sitting room to see how Rames was coming along.

  Chapter Five

  With mixed emotions, Anne slipped into her velvet evening cloak as Lady Badgerly’s footman held it out for her. On the one hand, she was quite glad to see the evening end. Her face ached from smiling, and her ears hurt from listening to Lady Badgerly gloat over Mortimer as if he had been some kind of success. On the other hand, she felt a glow of pleasure each time she thought of how Chas had recited poetry to her in front of dozens of people. True, he had left shortly after Millicent had introduced him, but something in the way he held her hand in parting told her that she might have a chance at seeing him again. That ought to make any girl feel special.

  Millicent stepped up to her, fastening her own cape and beaming as Lady Badgerly once more thanked Mortimer for making her party a success. Anne stifled a smile as Mortimer bowed, simpered, and fawned his way across the entry hall. She refrained from reminding him of how well his ode had been received before Chas had arrived to save the evening. Chas most likely didn’t care for the glory, and Mortimer sadly needed it.

  Mortimer was so busy preening that he collided with another gentleman who was hurrying up the walk. As they exchanged embarrassed apologies, Anne recognized Chas’ friend Leslie. She glanced about, half hoping to see Chas close behind, then chided herself on being too eager. Besides, Leslie was quite alone. In fact, he was closely regarding her, his dark eyes thoughtful, and she returned the look in puzzlement. Leslie quickly looked away.

  “I say, Dent,” he murmured to Mortimer. “You don’t remember me from Oxford, do you?”

  Anne watched, fascinated, as Mortimer hung his head. A fter his recent praise, she couldn’t fathom this humble attitude. “Of course I remember you, Lord Petersborough. I wasn’t sure you remembered me. I was several forms below you.”

  “I do remember you, old chap,” Leslie assured him with a grin. “Always were the creative type, though as I recall, I always preferred your sketches to your poetry. You made quite the impression tonight, though, I must say.”

  Mortimer looked up, surprised. “You heard already?”

  Leslie clapped him on the shoulder. “I was there! A poem to a hunting dog. I don’t know how you poets think of such things, do you, ladies?”

  “No indeed.” Millicent beamed. “Quite original.”

  “Quite,” Anne said with a grin, hoping her encouragement would help Mortimer through what was obviously an awkward moment.

  Unfortunately, Mortimer only fidgeted all the more under their praise. “Oh, I don’t think it was all that good. If you will excuse us, my lord, I should get the ladies home.”

  Anne flushed at his abrupt dismissal even as Petersborough frowned.

  “But surely we can spare a few moments for your friend,” Millicent said with a twitter. “If you would introduce us, Mr. Dent?”

  Mortimer sighed, obviously stuck. “Mrs. Hatfield Fairchild and Miss Anne Fairchild,” he mumbled, “may I present Lord Leslie Petersborough?”

  Leslie bowed, and Millicent simpered. Anne dutifully curtsied, thankful that neither Millicent nor Mortimer was aware of her connection with Chas’ friends. She still hoped to keep her adventure secret from Agatha, although after the poetry reading, she realized, she might have a difficult time of it. As she straightened, she looked up hoping to see that he was going to wave them on and not question her, but he was eyeing her again, and she returned the look with less composure.

  “A moment, please, Miss Fairchild,” he insisted, and she prayed he wouldn’t give her away. “I . . . I h
ave a message from a mutual acquaintance.”

  Something in his tone made her pause, and she peered more closely into his face. The jovial exterior seemed to hide a deeper concern. Something must be wrong with Chas. Her stomach constricted.

  “Perhaps if you were to walk us to the carriage,” she offered, feeling breathless. Mortimer looked as if he would like to protest, but he offered the gaping Millicent his arm and they fell into step behind Leslie and Anne.

  “This is very good of you, Miss Fairchild,” Leslie murmured beside her, smiling as if nothing untoward was happening. “I realize we do not know each other well. I promise you I would not detain you if it were not important.”

  Anne shivered, suddenly cold. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m afraid our friend Chas is in rather dire straights,” he replied.

  Her stomach tightened again. “Has he been hurt?” She managed to keep her voice calm when she was trembling all over.

  “No, no,” he hurried to assure her, and she could breath again. “But his mother, who is visiting, is unwell, and he needs someone familiar to her to make her feel comfortable. We thought perhaps your aunt . . . .”

  Her momentary rush faded, and she suddenly felt like crying. “Oh, I see. I’m sure my aunt would be happy to help. Please feel free to ask her.”

  Leslie smiled his approval and turned to do just that. Anne felt entirely deflated. She should have realized that he wouldn’t have a particular need for her; she was just a convenient access to Millicent. She scolded herself for feeling betrayed.

  But she gave up on smiling.

  Millicent quickly agreed to Leslie’s request. This time Mortimer did start to protest, but Leslie pulled him aside. After a few minutes of heated debate, Mortimer bowed stiffly to her and Millicent and strode to his waiting carriage, obviously in a pique. Anne was suddenly reminded of Julian. She broke away from Leslie and hurried to the waiting carriage. Seeing her, Mortimer put his head out the window, his frown making his round face look like an apple puckered by an early frost.