Elisabeth Fairchild (10 page)

Never before had Nell so keenly felt the change in her fortune. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she did as her aunt bade, for she saw no other option open to her. Tears spilled over when Boots, bleary eyes following her, refused for a moment to continue up the beach, despite two flicks of the whip. He just stood there, his dear old head turned in her direction, and Nell, heart broken, fell against her aunt’s shoulder sobbing, “Dear Auntie Ursula, do but lend me a bit of money so that I might make life right again for my old friend.”

Ursula was not an unfeeling woman. Her own eyes swam to see Nell carry on so over the broken down old animal, but she did not relent. Gently she led Nell through the curious crowd along the Steine, crooning whatever soothing words she could think of, and looking about for their carriage, for the jobbed out coachman had promised to meet them there.

It was as they walked along thus, that, with a tumult of barking, a black and white dog jumped down off the walkway above the beach and bounded toward them, tail a white flag above his back.

“Oh my!” Ursula cried, freezing in place, as if terrified that they were in danger of being attacked.

Nell sank down to meet the advance of the dog, crying joyfully through her tears, “Bandit! Is it you? I would have thought you halfway down the London Brighton road right now.”

As the gleeful animal wriggled in ecstatic contentment under her petting, she lifted her tear-stained face to look whence the dog had flown. Tear blurred eyes locked for a moment on pale blue, as if drawn by a magnet. He was here! What did it mean? Surely a coachman should be off driving his coach. Nell was embarrassed that of all men, this one should stand staring at her in this painfully unhappy moment. She knew she looked a sight, with tears in her eyes, hair wet and bedraggled, falling out from beneath the silly secondhand hat he had given her.

Weakly, she fluttered her limp handkerchief in subdued acknowledgement of having recognized Mr. Ferd, and then, sure that her swollen face and tear-reddened eyes were not at all the thing with which to confront an acquaintance, she ducked her head down, and giving Bandit one last heartfelt rub, raised her parasol like a shield and obediently followed her aunt to the waiting carriage, with only one backward glance, and that one for Boots, as he made his laborious way out to sea with yet another bather loaded in his box.

Beauford frowned as the carriage Miss Quinby occupied took off at a smart pace, drawn by an attractive pair of mismatched horses that drew Charley Tyrrwhit’s eyes like a magnet.

Bandit came, tongue lolling, tail wagging, back to them. “What was that all about?” Charley wondered.

“Boots,” Beau said thoughtfully as he squinted out at the bathing box drawn by the most pitiful nag on the beach.

“Boots? But, it was the horse she was making a fuss over, not her feet.”

“Where has Gates gotten himself off to?” Beau wondered, looking about.

Gates, who made an unobtrusive point of remaining within earshot, trotted up with an anxious expression. “Your grace? May I be of some service?”

Beau took out his purse. “I should like you to see about buying a horse for me.”

“The gray? You saw him too then, did you?” Charley guessed, his eyes still following the carriage that contained Miss Quinby. “Excellent conformation. I was just thinking to myself that he might be just what Barrymore is looking for. Looks right at fifteen and a half hands, does he not?”

Brow knitting with confusion as to what on earth his friend was rattling on about, Beau concentrated his pale gaze, first on Gates’s eager countenance, and then on the red bathing box drawn by a sad, old piebald.

“I should like you to e-e-enquire a-a-after that piebald down there. Do you see him?”

Charley whirled, open-mouthed, to regard him. Gates looked curiously at the horse, and then, blinking in disbelief, back at his master.

“The old nag pulling the red box?” he enquired carefully.

“The very one,” Beau nodded, regarding his confused man with a trace of amusement. He knew he had a reputation for bang-up goers, barrel-chested gingers with sound wind and good legs. This poor creature did not at all fall into the realm of what normally caught his eye. “If the animal has one blue eye and one brown, and a blaze like a splash of milk spilling down one side of his nose, then you must buy him for me. Take this.” He held out a handful of coins. “I trust you will strike a hard bargain.”

Gates, forehead wrinkled, took the coins and tucked them carefully away in an inside pocket of his coat. “I’ll do my best, sir. And, where would you have me sending the animal once he’s yours, your grace?”

Charley leaned forward to hear the answer, curiosity written plain on his face.

Beau narrowed his eyes, for until that instant he had given the matter little thought, other than that he would like to somehow alleviate the suffering he had witnessed in Miss Quinby’s troubled expression. He had absolutely no use for such an animal, but an idea came to him. “Arrange to have him transported, in easy stages, to my sister A-A-Anne’s establishment, will you? Her children are of a-a-an age to begin climbing about on just such a docile beast. I shall compose a letter to a-a-accompany the horse.”

Gates blinked again, for he would have thought a nice fat pony more to his master’s, and more to the point, more to Lady Elliot’s liking, but it was not his job to question, so he merely touched his cap and trotted off on his errand.

Charley Tyrrwhit had no such compunction against questioning his mad behavior. “Are you gone all about in the head, Beau?” he insisted.

“Not at all,” Beau smiled. “It is merely that I care for. . .” he paused, unwilling to expose, so soon, his feelings, “. . .horses,” he said. “That old fellow is of an age to be knee-deep in clover, switching flies beneath an a-a-apple tree, don’t you think?”

“I think you’ve gone soft in the head. Do you mean to empty every knacker’s yard in all of Great Britain’s empire into your sister’s back paddock? Lord Elliot may object.”

Beau grinned, for Anne and Edward were sure to be pop-eyed with amazement when the horse arrived on their doorstep. “Just this one old nag, Charley. Indulge me in this, won’t you? I think Anne will.”>

Charley smiled sardonically. “You really must tell me more about the trip down from London, old chap.”

Beau smiled enigmatically. “You were saying something about a gray for Barrymore?”

Chapter Seven

The gray, it was decided, bore looking into.

Beau and Charley set about discovering just where it was that Mrs. Ursula Dunn resided in Brighton, that very afternoon. This was not a difficult undertaking, for any person one needed to locate was easily found by going directly to the lending library, where a registry of visitors and their addresses was kept quite meticulously up-to-date for the master of ceremonies, Mr. Wade, who presided over all the entertainments that were arranged. One did not receive invitations to said arrangements if one were not listed in the registry.

The very next morning, the two gentlemen, with Bandit at heel, hunted up the address. The door was opened to them by none other than Miss Fanella Quinby, whose eyes lit up with astonishment and pleasure at seeing who knocked.

“Good day to you, Miss Quinby,” Beau said. “I a-am happy to see you in far better spirits than yesterday.”

She blushed, a hint of sadness tugging her lower lip. “Thank you.”

She was dressed to go out. The rose ribbons on the old-fashioned bonnet Beau had given her, were tied saucily to one side of her chin, and a trio of fresh pinks had been thrust through the band that wrapped its crown. Beau was oddly pleased that she seemed to take such delight in wearing the thing. It never occurred to him that her straightened circumstances might preclude the purchase of a new bonnet.

His sister Beatrix, had she been there, could have guessed as much. She would have pronounced Miss Quinby’s entire outfit hopelessly behind the times. Even Charley later remarked that her rig was not quite up to snuff, but Beau noticed only that she carefully chose from her wardrobe, an entire outfit in colors that would suit the second-hand bonnet.

Her simple, full front, square-necked muslin chemise boasted no ruffles or flounces, and bore none of the deep Egyptian style borders that were become so popular in London this season, but it had a pretty band of gathered muslin at neck and hem, and the material was fine enough to be worn with great effect over a slip the color of crushed strawberries. The straw-colored sash, high on her waist, brought attention to the bonnet. The overall effect was quite flattering to Miss Quinby’s dark hair and eyes, and while few would be foolish enough to think a fashionable modiste dressed the young lady, most would agree she had exceptional taste, and could update an old gown with panache.

Beau’s heart warmed at the sight of her, for when her dark brown eyes met his, a charming flush of pink washed into the young lady’s cheeks, in the exact same shade as the lining of the hat. For the briefest of moments he considered telling her what had become of Boots.

“Is that the coachman, come at last?” Ursula Dunn demanded tartly from somewhere beyond the door before Miss Quinby could so much as say Hello. “Whatever kept him?”

Charley looked at Beau, one eyebrow archly raised.

Fanella chuckled. “It is a coachman, auntie, but not the one we were expecting.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Ursula poked her lace-capped head around the door./p>

Beau and Charley tipped their hats in unison.

Dismayed, Ursula let a smile chase away her frown. “Why hallo! Are you in need of a position so soon, Mr. Ferd?”

“Ferd?” Charley mouthed in surprise.

“I do hope you will say yes,” Ursula rattled on, oblivious to the exchange, “for while my husband has sent down my own vehicle and horses, we are jobbing out drivers, and a thoroughly unsatisfactory arrangement it has proved to be. This is the third time in as many days that we have been kept waiting.”

“Won’t you come in gentlemen?” Fanella asked, standing back from the door.

Beau directed a warning look at Charley, but his friend seemed to know exactly what was required of him, for he said with mocking politeness. “Mr. Ferd,” and indicated that Beau should enter before him.

“Come,” Nell led the way. “It will be best if we adjourn to the front sitting room, so that we might watch for the arrival of our real coachman.” She pronounced the word  “real” with unnecessary emphasis and directed an amused if rather searching look at Beau.

“Fanella, do you mean to insult Mr. Ferd?” Ursula objected as she directed the gentlemen where to sit. “Is he in some fashion unreal?”

Miss Quinby flushed a darker shade of rose at this mild set down. There was a trace of obstinacy in the set of her jaw. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I believe Mr. Ferd does but masquerade at being a coachman, Auntie.” She directed a piercing look at Beau.

“Tut, tut, my dear,” Ursula twittered. “Would you call the man a liar?”

Eyes locked on Nell’s, Beau was struck by the realization that to call him liar would be no more than fair. In that fleeting instant while Ursula Dunn’s words hung in the air, waiting answer, the new duke of Heste was tempted to tell all. He lied to these kind people, representing himself to them as something he most certainly was not. Fanella Quinby was clever to have realized as much. It was unfair, and dishonorable in him to continue his deception. Brampton Beauford prided himself in living a fair, right and honorable life. And yet, in pausing to contemplate his inevitable return to the weighty responsibilities that were now his, and his alone, and the prospect of Beatrix’s matchmaking ways, in which Aurora Quinby was only one of a long parade of potential partners, his honor wavered. The truth, in this instant, would wreak certain change in his budding relationship with Fanella Quinby. He would spend the rest of his life wondering,
what if?
What if it were possible to win this clever and kind young woman’s love and respect without her knowledge of his wealth or title? What if he told her the truth in this moment and alienated her forever? Surely the knowledge he stood to gain in his deception was worth this harmless stretching of the truth.

He chose to remain silent. He chose to perpetuate his little white lie.

Charley came to his rescue, deflecting Nell’s challenge to his honor. “Our Beau’s the real MacKay when it comes to coaching, Miss Quinby,” he said with unblinking nonchalance. “There are only one or two I can think of who handle the ribbons better, and Beau has a most discerning eye for horseflesh. Which is why we bother you today. We could not help but observe the splendid pair of horses that your hired coachman drove up to the beach yesterday.”

That was all it took. The moment of truth was past.

“My horses?” Ursula Dunn preened. “I am very flattered that you should notice them at all, for I am sadly conscious of the fact they do not match in color. My husband was quite pleased wh their purchase when he presented them to me for my last birthday, and assured me they were prime creatures.”