Mary’s fingers itched to pick up his apparel and hang it on a hook, but she subdued her housekeeperly instincts.
He sat once more, sideways in the chair, and hooked one knee over the wooden arm.
To Mary, schooled to rigidity, his sprawl bespoke a lack of respect, almost…intimacy. She glanced at Lady Valéry, but Lady Valéry seemed affectionately amused at his discourtesy.
“There’s to be a house party at Fairchild Manor,” he said.
She took a long breath and with a courtesy born of desperation, said, “There is always a house party at Fairchild Manor.”
“I haven’t been invited,” he said.
“Do you think I have?”
“Of course not. The Fairchilds don’t know where you are.” He observed her closely. “I wonder why.”
Panic writhed in the pit of her stomach. She’d trained herself to listen when the occasional guests visited, and never had she heard the name of Guinevere Mary Fairchild mentioned as a fugitive from justice. But this man seemed to be demanding that she revive Mary’s vanished spirit, and with it, the specter of disgrace, imprisonment, and death. She scarcely unclenched her jaw as she replied, “I can be no help to you. When my father died, we begged my grandfather for help and he refused us. There’s no reason for the family to welcome us now.”
“Us?”
Funny. She was usually more discreet. “Hadden and me. My brother and me.”
“So Charlie had an heir.”
He made a statement, but it sounded as if he were musing, or worse, remembering, and she didn’t want that. Not if he truly didn’t remember that night. “As I said, the Fairchilds would not welcome me.”
Clearly he realized her discomfort, but this was a man who liked to have the upper hand. He relaxed back into the upholstered Chippendale chair.
She comprehended his scheme. Thinking her uncowed by the threat of arrest, he threatened her with himself. Beneath the thin white linen of his shirt, she could see a thatch of dark hair over a well-muscled chest, and his shoulders resembled a prizefighter’s more than a nobleman’s. His hands, she’d already noted, and his face…well, she’d seen executioners less austere.
Yes, he was threatening her.
“I can’t help you.”
“But you must, my dear. Half of the ton has been invited, including some very powerful men. I have no doubt the exchange of diary for money will occur during the party.”
Mary winced.
“I’ll use you as a distraction while I search for the diary, and that distraction will be a pervasive one.”
Oh, she would be a distraction, all right. Especially if one of the nobles at the house party recognized her.
“I assure you, I’ve anticipated every possible obstacle.”
“Every obstacle?”
“You see”—he leaned forward, his eyes as gray and cold as the night fog she feared—“you are going to be my betrothed.”
Chapter 3
“Don’t be absurd.” Mary had seen Trouble before without putting a name to him. Now she knew; the name was Sebastian Durant, Viscount Whitfield. With forced composure she said firmly, “I have no intention of masquerading as your fiancée.”
“If I might speak?”
Mary started. Lady Valéry had been so silent, she had almost forgotten her presence. And—regardless of the circumstances, a good housekeeper never neglects her mistress. “Please, Lady Valéry. I’m sure you will be the voice of reason.”
“My dear, the idea might sound absurd. It certainly sounds so to me.” Lady Valéry fixed her godson with a regal look. “But perhaps we should listen to Sebastian’s entire scheme. Our primary goal, after all, is to recover the diary.”
“Our goal?” Mary questioned faintly. She wanted to implore Lady Valéry to see sense. Instead, she looked at Lord Whitfield and found him staring as she convulsively crumpled the bell of her woolen skirt in her fists. She hadn’t even realized what she was doing. When had he so undermined her poise?
Stretching out her fingers, she forced them to remain at rest.
But apparently she’d betrayed too much. He laughed, a harsh bark of ruthless mirth. “Of course she’ll go as my fiancée. It is the only possible plan.”
Clearly it was up to Mary to be the voice of reason. “The Fairchilds won’t let me in the door,” she replied.
“They will now.” Lord Whitfield put his hand on his heart. “I fear, Miss Fairchild, I must offer my condolences. Your grandfather, the marquess of Smithwick, last year passed from this earth to another, better place.”
I hope they kindle the fire hotter just for him.
Mary’s memory of Fairchild Manor consisted of nothing but shame, incredulity, and a deep, biting anger at the man with malice-filled eyes. His long finger had pointed the way to the door, and when she hadn’t believed his indifference, he’d had her thrown out.
“Has the lecherous old villain gone at last? Good riddance, I say,” Lady Valéry exclaimed, echoing Mary’s thoughts.
Mary had kept secret the memory of the tall, sophisticated man who’d called himself her cousin. When her grandfather had disappeared back into his study, he’d stopped the eviction process and flung a handful of money at her. That money had been her nest egg. It had taken her and Hadden as far as Scotland when the time had come to flee.
“Such a lack of charity,” Sebastian chided Lady Valéry. “But yes, the old marquess is dead, and his son has inherited the title, the entailed lands—and damned little else.”
“Wasn’t there money?” Lady Valéry asked. “I cannot believe there was not! There was always so much, and after your father—”
“There was money,” Sebastian said smoothly, “but for reasons only Lord Smithwick understood, he chose not to leave it to his son.” He hesitated as if he wished to say more.
Mary could contain herself no longer. “It is most peculiar I had heard nothing about his death.”
What did Lord Whitfield see when he looked at her? The anger, the resentment, the bitter scorn she felt for all the Fairchilds? The family consisted of four great-uncles, brothers of her grandfather, and Bubb Fairchild, her father’s brother and the new marquess. None of them had tried to help her when she’d taken custody of her brother. None of them cared for anything but their own worthless hides.
Sebastian spoke with exaggerated patience. “You live in the wilds of Scotland. The Fairchilds live in the south of England. You’ve changed your name and your appearance—”
She jumped. “My appearance? What makes you say that?”
He swept her with a look. “I never saw a Fairchild who looked anything less than gorgeous, and you look like a housekeeper.”
Thank you, kind sir. But she didn’t say it.
And in truth, she was relieved he meant nothing more.
“Most important, the new marquess hasn’t been seeking you,” Sebastian said. “Why should he? Bubb Fairchild was frightened of his father in life, and indignant at his death. How will he maintain the family without the blunt to do so?”
“Do you suspect him of having the diary?”
“Of course. I suspect every Fairchild.” Sebastian squeezed the arm of his chair as if he could squeeze the life from the polished wood. “Ah, Miss Fairchild, wouldn’t you like to see your uncle squirm?”
The trouble was, she would. She would like to see all the Fairchilds squirm. Yet she snapped, “You mistake indifference for interest.”
“Mary!” Lady Valéry sounded appalled, but she watched as if diverted by the byplay. “If you don’t wish to do this, say so, but don’t compromise your dignity.”
Whitfield took his godmother’s hand. He kissed the freckled knuckles and murmured, “Hush, dear. I’ll handle this. I promised I would.”
Lady Valéry tilted her head, watching her godson as if he were a charming scamp rather than a pitiless savage, and Mary did see how he might have fooled his godmother. He represented the symbol of sincerity in a carefully-wrought French painting. His eyes gl
owed. His lips smiled, not in amusement, but to coax a similar reaction from his godmother. He held his extended hands cupped upward as if to catch the blessings she would rain on him.
Acutely aware of his charm and power, Mary feared him—in all his guises.
Floundering now, she tried to redeem herself. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done, Lady Valéry, but it just seems that you, Lord Whitfield, are better equipped to gain entrance to Fairchild Manor than I.”
“Perhaps we should look at this another way.” He smiled invitingly. “Think of the family’s consternation when they find their long-lost niece is already betrothed.”
“Why should they care?”
“If I were to speculate, I would have to say that since the marquess’s death, each and every Fairchild has been given a mission—to wed money.” For a man who smiled often, Lord Whitfield gave no impression of warmth or amusement. “Even now, I would guess, they are regretting the loss of you as another lure. The family will believe you to be just like them—charming, convivial, beautiful—”
“Shallow, vindictive, frivolous, treacherous,” she finished for him.
He sat back in a hypocritical exhibition of wonder. “You did meet them, didn’t you?”
“Quite,” she said.
“But they were not all…vindictive,” he admitted. “Or treacherous.”
She wanted to ask who he meant, but he returned to the subject with relish. “The Fairchilds would expect you to be one of them.”
“They will try and separate us, and why not? It will be immediately obvious that we are less than fond.”
“Will it?” He lifted one finger and caressed his lips in a manner Mary found highly suggestive. “I suspect we can convince them we are…lovers.”
Lady Valéry had been watching them with the fascination of a playgoer, but now she interrupted. “You’ll convince them of no such thing! You’ll not ruin her reputation, Sebastian, not when she’s been living with me all these years.”
“She is going, my lady. She has no choice.” He had gone from superior to overbearing to ruthless in the space of a single conversation.
“Somehow you’ll force me?” Mary asked.
“Not at all.” His street-dog smile made her want to arch her back and claw at his face. “Your father was the Fairchild without treachery. Are you going to tell me you haven’t inherited that loyalty from him?”
“I have inherited nothing from my father,” she said fiercely. “My loyalty is my own.”
Sitting up straight, he became in expression and manner a courteous stranger. “Then I’ll have to speak to your brother. Perhaps I can convince him to accompany me.”
A shiver worked its way up Mary’s spine. This man, talking to Hadden? Offering him a chance to go to England? Then interrogating him as he interrogated her?
Not that Hadden was simple. No, indeed, Hadden could be—should be—studying at the university. But he was open and unsophisticated, and Mary cringed at the thought of the information he would artlessly reveal.
She recognized defeat when it stared her in the face, and so rose with what dignity she could maintain. “When did you wish to leave, my lord?”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sebastian,” Lady Valéry said. “She can’t make herself ready overnight.”
“How much can she have to pack?” he demanded impatiently.
“She has to organize the staff for her absence.”
“She won’t be coming back.”
“Won’t be coming back?” Mary cried.
He said simply, “Fairchilds don’t work as housekeepers.”
“He’s right, dear.” Lady Valéry smiled at Mary. “Much as I hate to lose you, I’m afraid our cozy arrangement is over.”
Mary felt the carefully built foundation crumbling beneath her feet. “But what will I do? Where will I go?”
“The Fairchilds will welcome you this time, I assure you,” Lord Whitfield said.
Mary wanted to shriek. Didn’t he understand anything? “I don’t want the Fairchilds. I don’t want to know them, and I certainly don’t want to live with them.”
“You’ll always have a home with me,” Lady Valéry soothed her. “If not as my housekeeper, then as my friend.” Mary wanted to babble her thanks, but predictably, Lady Valéry wasn’t interested. “You’ll have to make arrangements with Hadden. Will you bring him?”
“Of course not!” Too emphatic, Mary realized, and she fought to tone down her consternation. “There’s no need for him to leave here.”
“Hadden’s a young man,” Lady Valéry pointed out gently. “Perhaps he’ll have some thoughts of his own.”
Mary shook her head. “He likes it here. He’ll be satisfied to stay.”
“How old is he?” Sebastian demanded.
Mary didn’t even turn her head and look at him when she answered. “Nineteen.”
“Your brother must be a dull youth if he’s content to remain in the lowlands of Scotland.”
How obnoxious this Lord Whitfield was! She’d never be able to convince anyone she loved him. Never. Never. As evenly as her temper would allow her, she answered, “Hadden is much given to adventure, but unlike some youths, he can find it in places other than the stewpots of London.”
“A direct hit,” he murmured, and clapped his hands softly. “Brava!”
Mary turned her back to him. “When should I be ready to leave?” she asked.
“Time is of the essence, especially if one of the guests will be purchasing the diary.” Lady Valéry tapped her fingers together. “Would it be possible for you to be ready to leave in two days time?”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mary curtsied to Lady Valéry, wheeled and bowed stiffly to Sebastian, and walked toward the door.
Lady Valéry waited until the door shut behind Mary before rising to stand beside him. “What a vulgar exhibition that was. I would have never told you who she was if I had known you were going to approach her so crudely.”
She waited while he weighed his answer, and knew a sense of satisfaction. Sebastian still respected and feared her. Now in her seventies, she hadn’t cared when her beauty faded, when wrinkles had formed around her eyes and she’d had to resort to plucking stiff hairs off of her chin. But she had minded, greatly, being excluded from the conferences of the powerful.
A man, regardless of age, merited respect. A woman, especially an elderly woman, merited only a pat on the head and a bowl of sops. It was another of life’s injustices, and the one she’d had most trouble adjusting to.
Placing her finger on his cheek, she turned his head toward her. “I will go with you to the Fairchilds’ as Mary’s chaperone.”
“Chaperone?”
His chin dropped, and she pushed it shut with a click of his teeth.
Indignantly, he asked, “Do you think me so lacking in control I would dishonor that woman?”
“No. I think you so lacking in control you would seduce that woman.” She pressed a kiss on his forehead. “It is, after all, my diary we seek to recover. I’ll accompany you when you go, or you’ll not take my housekeeper at all.”
“You know I have no reason to be fond of a Fairchild.”
He defended himself hotly, and Lady Valéry knew she had stumbled on the truth. Mysterious Mary Fairchild tantalized Sebastian.
“And she is a true Fairchild.” Clearly, he hated the ardor that burned in him against his will. “One has only to look at her to know.”
Now confident of her scheme, Lady Valéry walked to the door and opened it. “Oh, my dear one, how long will you carry this grudge against them?”
“How long will Fairchilds exist on this earth?”
As she left him, she chuckled.
She hadn’t been so entertained in years.
Chapter 4
Mary stared at the candle she’d set in the kitchen window. She was too numb with worry to pray and too used to the anxiety to pace. She simply waited. The wooden table before her ha
d been washed so many times through the years it was smooth to the touch, bleached almost white and bowed in the center where the most scrubbing had been done. The clock ticked on the mantel. The fire flickered in an ever lowering ebb, and the darkness pressed in on her.
He would be all right. He was always all right.
As the hour struck midnight the door opened and Hadden swept in on a restless drift of fog.
“Sister, you shouldn’t have waited up.” Her little brother had taken to Scotland with a boy’s innocent pleasure in the open spaces and mighty storms, and as he walked the countryside he’d grown strong and hardy. Now he smelled like moist air and heather, and his eyes sparkled with excitement as he leaned over and bussed her on the cheek. “I never get lost, you know that.”
She slipped the napkin off a tray and pointed to the array of bread and cheeses protected beneath. “I thought you might be hungry.”
He snorted. “Which I could have fetched myself. Dinna fash yourself.”
“I truly don’t believe it is proper to use the Scottish dialect…” He grinned at her, and she realized he was teasing her. With a smile, she slapped at his arm. “So I waited up for you. I don’t like the dark. It’s just silliness.” Then she couldn’t help adding, “Much like your mission.”
He paused in the act of tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf and gave her a warning look.
“Did you get some of them to talk to you?” she asked.
He stared at the bread in his hands, then put down the remains of the loaf. “Naturally. They like to talk to me.”
“I suppose they do. Who else would listen to them blathering about the old ways?”
He picked up a piece of cheese and laid it on his bread, then took a bite.
She should keep quiet. She knew she should. He showed more restraint than she did about this, their greatest conflict, but still she nagged him. “If you must listen to those useless stories, I don’t know why you can’t do it in the daytime.”