The Unflappable Miss Fairchild Page 8

  Bert eyed him. “Won’t believe you’re afraid of him, not after the way you faced down your own brother. Ignore the bugger, I say.”

  Chas shook his head. “Mr. Meadows isn’t the type one easily ignores. I think it best if I withdraw.” Anne caught his nod in her direction.

  Obviously so did Bert for he also nodded as if in understanding. As he pulled the horses to a stop, Anne shivered, suddenly cold.

  “You needn’t leave on my account,” she told Chas. “I’m not afraid.”

  Chas, already standing, gazed down at her, a half smile on his face. “That I can believe, Angel. I wonder if anything frightens you.”

  Watching him, Anne wasn’t sure whether it was fear or something else that suddenly made her look down at her hands. When she looked up again, he had already alighted, and Leslie was following. No longer caring for propriety, she boldly twisted to look back at them as they crossed the street behind the landau.

  She noticed for the first time that the carriage had been crossing a square in a residential area not far from her aunts’ home on St. Mary’s Circle. Chas and Leslie strolled leisurely across to the park in the center as if they had nothing better to do than admire the view. She had hoped to find that the other carriage had continued on and that Chas had been wrong about their intent. Her fears mounted as she saw that the carriage had stopped, and Champworth and Meadows had alighted.

  “Oh, Bert, look!” she gasped as they moved across the street toward Chas and Leslie. “What will they do?”

  “Don’t know the gentlemen,” Bert mused, gazing back as she was. “Prestwick seemed to think they were a danger, although I should think they would do the honorable thing and call him out face to face.”

  “Call him out?” Anne felt sick. “Whatever for?”

  Bert looked uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t want to say for sure. Did hear some nasty rumor about Letitia Meadows and Chas. Seems he recited poetry to her in full view of Society the other night.”

  Anne looked at her childhood friend, frowning. “At the Badgerly party, do you mean? I can assure you, he did not.”

  Bert shrugged, refusing to meet her eyes. “Only repeating what I heard.”

  Anne turned back to the scene unfolding in the park. The four men were conversing quite calmly, and she wondered again if Bert and Chas had misconstrued their intentions. If Bert was right as to the cause of the misunderstanding between Meadows and Chas, she felt partly responsible. Some of Lady Badgerly’s guests had obviously not noticed her and had assumed that the more lovely Letitia was his inspiration. Perhaps Chas could simply explain that, and the gentlemen would forget the matter.

  Across the street, Chas was bowing, and she relaxed, hoping the interview was at an end. He and Leslie continued on into the opening in the fence around the park. Champworth and Meadows watched them go. Anne sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief.

  “It’s not done yet,” Bert declared. Alarmed, she popped back up in time to see Meadows throw Champworth’s arms aside from where his friend was trying to restrain him and stomp into the park after Chas and Leslie. Champworth scuttled after him.

  “Bert, we must stop them!” Anne cried.

  Bert obligingly jumped down from the carriage, threw his reins to his groom, and held out his hand to help her alight. As she stepped down, a single loud crack sounded from the park. Anne’s breath caught in her throat.

  “A gunshot, by God!” Bert cried, his round face slack with shock. Anne gripped his arm, feeling as if the ground were sinking under her feet. She waited for him to lead her forward, but he didn’t move. She looked up at him in surprise and saw that he had gone pale. The arm beneath her hand trembled. She let go of him.

  “Why, Bert,” she chided gently. “We cannot do nothing. We cannot just leave him to his enemies.”

  Bert shook himself, pulling himself together with difficulty. “No, of course not,” he replied with a wane smile. Sweat stood out on his upper lip. He shook himself again and stood a little straighter. “You stay here, Anne. I shall investigate.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind,” she informed him. “I’m going with you. Do not even attempt to dissuade me.” Head high, and insides quivering, she started toward the park. Bert fell into step beside her.

  The entire short walk into the park she envisioned the worst. He had shot at Meadows in self defense and would be forced to flee the country. He was shot and lay dying, and she would be too late to save him. He was dead already, shot through the heart. Her own heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure they would hear her coming. Beside her, Bert kept adjusting his cravat and glancing into the undergrowth as if they were traipsing through darkest African unarmed. Then the path opened to a small clearing, and she saw them.

  Champworth and Leslie, both pale and stiff, stood a little back from the body of a man on the ground, another man bending over him. Her heart nearly stopped, then she realized that the man on the ground was Meadows, and the man very much alive and bending over was Chas. As she and Bert moved closer, she heard Champworth growl, “Well, Prestwick, have you killed him?” and her steps faltered.

  Chas raised his tawny head from off the downed man’s chest and fixed Champworth with one of his emerald glares. “If you’d be quiet long enough, Champworth, I might be able to tell.” He put his head back down and frowned. “He seems to be breathing, but I can’t hear a heart beat.”

  Anne exhaled in relief, sure now that no one was dead as yet. There was still time to solve the problem. “Shouldn’t someone be sending for a doctor?” she asked practically. Leslie and Champworth startled, and Chas leapt to his feet.

  “Anne! What are you doing . . . “ he began, but Champworth broke in.

  “Oh, fine! That’s all it needed. You nearly kill Meadows over your affairs, and here’s another of your ladybirds ready to lay you over the corpse.”

  “Damn you, Champworth!” Chas barked. “Hold your tongue in the presence of a lady!”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Anne said in what she hoped was a calm, sensible voice. Heaven knew she was shaking inside. “There appears to be a man injured. Shouldn’t someone be tending to his needs?” She glanced around the knot of men, but they avoided her eyes. They were all clearly chagrined at her presence, but she saw no reason to simply decamp at this point. For all his claims of wildness, even Chas seemed unsure what to do next. “Perhaps if you’d carry Mr. Meadows to Mr. Gresham’s carriage, we might take him somewhere for help.”

  “He’ll probably bleed to death on the way,” Champworth grumbled. “Then we’ll have a dead man on our hands, and what are we to do then, that’s what I want to know.”

  Anne felt her patience growing thin. “My home is a short distance from here, gentlemen. I suggest we convey him there. My neighbor on the circle is a doctor. We could send someone to his place of business and have him attend Mr. Meadows.”

  Chas stepped forward and took her hand. “A most generous offer, Miss Fairchild,” he said warmly, his smile and the light in his green eyes doing even more to warm her. “But we cannot implicate you in this business.”

  “Sorry to disagree with you, Chas,” Leslie put in, “but we can’t very well leave Meadows on the ground much longer.”

  “Chit’s already in just by seeing us,” Champworth muttered. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  As if to agree, the man in question moaned. Anne watched as Chas stood a moment more in indecision, then threw up his hands. “Oh, very well. Champworth, you take his head. Leslie, the feet. Gresham, see if you can’t help me steady the middle. Lead the way, Miss Fairchild.”

  Anne turned toward the coach, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure the men were following. They made an ungainly group, shuffling with their burden out of the park and across the quiet street to the carriage. Bert held the horses as they hefted their load up into the landau and then heaved his bulk up into the driver’s seat and set them off at a sharp clip. It was only after they were under way that Anne paused to wond
er, with a tightening of her stomach, how her Aunt Agatha might react to a dead body.

  Chapter Eight

  Chas couldn’t help smiling in admiration as Anne whisked open the door to the Crawford town house and peered inside. He couldn’t imagine the renowned Lady Crawford being quite so calm should she see the procession of men carrying the slack body of Meadows up the steps as if they were delivering a parcel. Anne turned and motioned them inside, pointing to the right, toward a door. Chas was only too glad to deposit his burden on the sofa that sat just inside. As he straightened, he saw that Anne was scribbling a note, presumably for the doctor she had mentioned, onto a piece of paper at a small desk on the other side of the door.

  “Which one of you is going for the doctor?” she asked, folding the note.

  Leslie stepped forward. “I’ll go.” She handed him the paper, and he gave her a quick grin, saluted Chas, and left.

  “Whyn’t you send a servant?” Champworth complained.

  Chas frowned at him, annoyed, but Anne remained calm. “The servants are out at present, Mr. Champworth. I’m afraid we’ll just have to make do.”

  “Good thing too,” Gresham said, flopping down on a nearby chair and panting. “Wouldn’t fancy meeting Lady Crawford just now.”

  Anne went over to the sofa and knelt beside it. Chas joined her.

  “Do you know where he was shot?” she asked, eyeing the body.

  Chas shook his head and wondered how much of the concern he felt showed in his face. She always seemed so damnably good at reading his moods. “He pulled a pistol on me, we struggled, and the gun went off. Then he just crumbled.”

  “Perhaps if you loosened his coat,” she suggested, and he marveled again at her ability to remain calm. Imagine bringing a body home to Malcolm, or his mother, or even Liza.

  “Likely to be blood, I should think,” Bert put in helpfully. “Best get something to wipe it up with.”

  “I’ll get some cloths and a basin,” Anne said. “Excuse me.” She rose to leave the room.

  “You know, Prestwick,” Champworth began. Chas looked up even as Anne paused in the doorway. The man was standing by the window and eyeing Lady Crawford’s drapery. “You really ought to keep your ladybirds in better style. Shameful, I’d call it.”

  “Oh, I say,” Bert protested, even as Anne reddened and hastily departed. Chas glared at Champworth, who slunk away from the window to a chair as far across the room as he could get.

  Before Anne returned a short time later, Chas managed to open Meadows’ coat and waistcoat, wondering what he would find. There was no sign of blood, so he carefully unpeeled the cravat and opened the neck of the fellow’s lawn shirt as well. Frowning, Chas rocked back on his heels.

  Even though he was becoming accustomed to these little accidents that seemed to follow in his wake, this business with Meadows upset him. He had made it a point never to dally with other men’s wives; it galled him to learn how easy it was for the ton to expect the worst of him. He’d tried to reason with the man and had thought he had succeeded, only to find Meadows running up behind him with a loaded pistol. Thank God he had been able to plant him a facer before anyone else was hurt. But had he killed the man while trying to save his own life? He scanned the body again for a sign of a wound but to no avail.

  “How bad is it, old man?” Gresham asked.

  Chas shook his head, eyeing the brooding Champworth across the room.

  Gresham followed his gaze, shaking his head as well. “Makebait,” he muttered, but Chas noticed he had lowered his voice. “No right to belittle Lady Crawford’s furnishings. Everyone knows they haven’t a feather to fly with.”

  Chas glanced at him with interest, then around the room for the first time. It was a small, but presentable little sitting room. The sofa looked on a stone fireplace flanked by two floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the morning sun. The pale color of the stone and the walls was muted by the darker burgundies of the upholstery on the other chairs in the room and the floral pattern on the sofa and Aubusson carpet.

  When he looked closer, however, he saw what Champworth had already seen: all of the upholstery was worn with age, the woodwork nicked and scratched. The drapes that were pulled back from the windows let in more light than they kept out. Either Agatha Crawford was the greatest pinch-penny alive, or Gresham was right and the family was in dire straights.

  Anne returned to set the tray with the basin and cloths beside him. He noticed that she had taken off her pelisse and bonnet and was wearing a serviceable gown of dark grey that nevertheless brought out the ivory of her skin and the depth of her eyes.

  “How bad it is?” she murmured.

  He glanced up at her as she straightened. “I’m still not sure. I can’t seem to find a bullet wound. And the only blood seems to be on his lip.”

  Anne followed his gaze to where Meadows’ lip was bleeding from a split in the center. The blood was pooling on her aunt’s sofa. She grabbed a cloth and tucked it under the man’s chin. Then she jumped back as Meadows’ mouth flopped open, and he began to snore.

  “What’s that?” Champworth demanded, coming toward the sofa. Bert rose to look as well. Chas began to chuckle, relief washing over him.

  One look at his friend, and Champworth snorted in disgust. “Meadows, you old bugger! Scare the life out of me, and there you lay snoring!”

  Bert clapped Chas on the shoulder. “Good job, old man! Seems you only knocked him out. Bullet must have gone somewhere else.”

  Anne calmly bent to retrieve the tray. “Well, it looks as if we won’t be needing these.”

  “Good thing too,” Champworth muttered, retreating to his spot across the room. “You’d be in a fine pickle, Prestwick, with a murder charge against you.”

  Chas brindled, but Bert spoke up first. “Shouldn’t wonder if the magistrates wouldn’t see it as a clear-cut case of self defense.”

  “Perhaps not as clear as you’d expect,” Champworth sneered.

  To Chas’ surprise, Anne rounded on him. “Mr. Champworth, may I remind you that you and your friend are guests in my home. I will ask you to refrain from maligning another of my guests.”

  “Guest, hah!” Champworth snorted. “You’ve got sand, madam, I’ll give you that. Pity that you’re hooked up with the likes of Chas Prestwick.”

  “Cut line, Champworth,” Chas told him, feeling tired. He turned to Anne. “Miss Fairchild, allow me to help you carry that.” He took the tray from her unresisting hands and nodded for her to proceed him out the door.

  As they walked in silence to the kitchen, he felt again the need to explain himself. “I must apologize for this entire business, Miss Fairchild,” he started, laying the tray on the sideboard she indicated. “I did not wish to get you involved.”

  “I was rather forward, I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh, refusing to meet his eyes.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Forward? Nonsense. I’d have said you acted with the utmost propriety and a great deal of common sense.”

  She grimaced. “Yes, that’s me. A very proper young lady. Always calm. Even my Aunt Agatha would agree.”

  She sounded bitter. “There’s nothing so bad about being proper, you know,” he told her, thinking how ironic it was for the frequently improper Chas Prestwick to be praising the quality. “I believe many find that a most admirable trait.”

  “Oh, quite,” she quipped. She turned on him suddenly, grey eyes flashing like clouds in a lightening storm. “And tell me, Mr. Prestwick, if one of your friends offered to introduce you to a young lady he described as sensible and proper, would you leap at the chance?”

  Chas laughed. “I doubt any of my friends could spot a proper young lady, let alone introduce me to one.”

  She grinned back at him. “Yes, I suppose that might be a difficulty.”

  He felt his smile fading as he returned to his case. “In any event, I am very sorry you had to get involved today.”

  She busied herself putting away the basin and cloths. �
��There’s no need to explain further, Mr. Prestwick. It really is none of my affair.”

  “I feel as if you’ve a right to know,” he persisted. “No, you’ve earned the right. It seems Mr. Meadows saw my little recital last evening. He had apparently suspected Letitia of taking a lover. My performance convinced him that I was that lover. Though I cannot understand why he thought that poetry was meant for her.”

  Anne sighed. “She was sitting rather close to me. I suspect people would be much more likely to think you would praise her beauty than mine.”

  He frowned at her. “Then they are quite blind.” When she refused to look at him, her face reddening, he couldn’t help wanting to reassure her. He took her chin and tilted her face up to his. Her eyes widened. “Surely, Miss Fairchild, you must realize how lovely you are. Has none of your suitors told you how your eyes look like a storm at sea? Or that your hair is darker than midnight?”

  She swallowed, obviously unable to look away. “No.”

  What would you expect from an idiot who writes odes to hunting dogs? He watched her heart beat pulse in her throat. She needed someone to court her properly. With a pang, he realized that he wanted to be that person. He let go of her, startled by the strength of his emotions.

  “We should probably go see how our patient is doing,” he told her, turning away.

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured, shaking herself as if to clear her thoughts as well. She led the way back down the corridor.

  Chas forced his feelings into the background as they reentered the sitting room. The doctor had evidently arrived, for a new man was bending over Meadows in careful examination. Anne introduced him as Dr. Jacobs. He quickly confirmed their findings. Wherever the bullet had gone, it had not hit Meadows.

  The patient, now awake, submitted to the doctor’s probing as if he hoped to find something for which to blame Chas. He complained about the doctor’s manner, the poor comfort of the sofa, and the presence of so many people. He hinted that someone in the room had gone through his pockets. He continued his harangue as Anne led Dr. Jacobs to the door, thanking him for his trouble.