Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (17 page)

“You’re welcome to try it,” Morris sneered.
 

“I don’t think I will,” Alistair said. “Instead, I suggest that you give Anna custody of her son, and sufficient funds to provide him a lifestyle suitable for his means and station. There should be no need to touch the principal.”
 

Morris laughed. “And I suppose this house and Henry’s estate will fund themselves?”
 

“They ought to,” Alistair said, looking around the room at the walnut panelling and tall shelves filled with books. “This house is nice—the desk by Sheraton? Yes, I thought so—but no reason to keep it open when the owner doesn’t live in it. Perhaps Henry could rent it to you.”
 

Morris looked ready to explode. “And why should I—”

“Your life will be more pleasant if you do,” Alistair said. “I promise.” When Morris said nothing, he decided to elaborate. “You wouldn’t like being cut by society. I could arrange that, if I wished. But I think the neatest solution by far would be simply to shoot you.”
 

Morris swelled like the sails of a frigate, but Alistair didn’t break the careful inspection of his fingernails.
 

“You wouldn’t dare!” Morris finally burst.
 

“Why not? It’s much simpler than you suppose. I kill people all the time,” Alistair said. “I’m rather good actually. Compared to wafers at Manton’s, there’s nothing to it. Simplest thing in the world, if I caught you unexpectedly.”
 

“You’re mad!”
 

“No, no. We haven’t any of that in our family,” Alistair said, slowly rising from his chair.
 

“I’ll report you to the law!” Morris said wildly, spittle flying across his desk.
 

“But I haven’t done anything yet,” Alistair said. “And I assure you, if I did, no one would see me. None but you know what I’ve said. Who would believe it? I don’t look unreasonable. And I’m not entirely without sympathy for you. I don’t object to you keeping some small portion of the interest for yourself as compensation for ensuring Henry’s properties are kept up or for any other sundries that may occur. I do object to robbery, to keeping Anna’s son hostage out of avarice and spite, and to your manners. But if you meet my demands, I’ll be quite satisfied.”
 

“Will you, by God!” Morris slammed a fist into the desk, sloshing the brandy in his glass. “I won’t endure these accusations! I demand satisfaction—”

“Splendid,” Alistair said, straightening his left sleeve. “My seconds will wait on you in the morning. I choose pistols.”
 

Morris strangled off his tirade, his jaw hanging open. “But—but you—”
 

“My dear Morris, you’ve just provided me a perfect opportunity. I’m not one to let it go to waste.”
 

“I didn’t mean—”

“You mean when you demanded satisfaction that you weren’t challenging me to a duel?”
 

Morris’s face turned scorching red. “I—I—no, I did not,” he said, spitting the words reluctantly onto the desk between them.
 

A bemused smile lit on Alistair’s face for a moment, then fluttered out of sight. No good trying to press the matter, not with a coward like Morris. “How disappointing,” he said. “Then we are agreed? I’ll join Anna packing up Henry. In future, you may send your correspondence to her at Rushford House. Have your man of business send me your proposal for Henry and Anna’s allowance by Wednesday.”
 

Morris was too apoplectic to respond to his farewells. Alistair left the room and mounted the stairs, wondering idly about the possibilities of Morris expiring naturally. But Anna’s husband had died in an accident, so no luck there. The Morris breed didn’t seem short-lived.
 

Anna’s voice guided him to the nursery door, but he lingered outside, nervous. It had been an age since he’d been in a room like this. He wasn’t sure how to manage it, so he’d taken the precaution of bringing a gift. A tiny box rested in his pocket.
 

“Hallo,” he said, striding into the room with a heartiness that would have made Jasper snigger.
 

Anna struggled to her feet, hauling Henry up from the carpet, in spite of his legs, which flopped like empty coat sleeves. “Alistair, this is my son. Henry.” Her smile was brilliant, but not blinding enough to hide the panic in her eyes.
 

“How do you do?” Alistair said, bowing to Henry. The boy looked him over. Recognized him.
 

“Ass-wipe!” he exclaimed.
 

“Master Henry!” exclaimed the girl in the corner, springing out of her rocking chair as Anna’s cheeks drained of color. “I’ve told you a hundred times—”
 

“No matter,” Alistair said, forestalling the nursemaid with an outstretched hand. He probably deserved it. He dropped to a crouch, where he could receive the full force of Henry’s impudent grin. “You look”—and talk, but no need to mention that—“like a proper soldier,” Alistair said. “Ready for your marching orders? You and your mother are going on a visit.” Best to get him out of the house quickly, while Morris was still in shock. They could bring him back to Anna’s parents’ house for the night.
 

The boy scuffed his toe on the carpet. “Are you really a soldier?” he asked.
 

“I’m a captain of hussars,” he said, knowing this was the pinnacle of every small boy’s dreams, until they outgrew such foolishness. For him the dream expired long before he became a captain. Others weren’t so lucky, and died first.
 

“See what I’ve brought you?” He reached into his pocket. Henry slipped free from his mother’s grasp to snatch the box, sliding open the lid before Alistair could blink. “Wahoo!” Henry shouted, executing a triumphant leap when he saw the figure inside. It was a tin hussar riding a charging horse, his saber drawn.
 

“Lucy! Look! I’ve got a new one!”
 

“He hasn’t any with horses, sir, just plain soldiers,” the nurse explained.
 

“I have a uniform just like it,” Alistair said, “But no mustache. See?”
 

Henry looked from the soldier clutched in his fist to Alistair, then back again.“Why not?”
 

“It wouldn’t suit him,” Anna said quickly. “He’s handsome enough without one.”
 

“Maybe you should try one,” Alistair said. “It seems I don’t have permission.”
 

Henry cocked his head to one side. “All right,” he said. “How?”
 

“Stop shaving,” Alistair explained. He reached out and thumbed Henry’s chin. “No whiskers yet? Never mind. Give them a year or two.”
 

“Or twelve,” Anna said, when Henry turned to her for confirmation. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sure when they come, they’ll be glorious,” she added. Henry perked up at that.
 

“You’ll look after the packing?” Alistair said, glancing at the nurse.
 

“Of course, sir.”
 

“I hope you’ll come with us, Lucy,” Anna said, stumbling a little over the words. “To Rushford House. Henry will miss you, and I—”
 

“Mr. Morris has given his full approval,” Alistair added, smiling, since he didn’t want the bother of finding a new nursemaid either.
 

“Oh.” Lucy’s cheeks turned pink. “Well, I couldn’t leave the young master.”
 

“Excellent,” Alistair said, tucking Anna’s hand into his arm. “Something tells me that Master Henry is in dire need of an ice. Let’s remedy that, shall we?” In his own ears, he sounded over-inflated, uxorious. But he’d chosen the right words. Henry jumped into his jacket and soared down the stairs, Alistair holding one hand, Anna clutching the other.
 

“So far, so good,” Alistair whispered, and Anna forgot her anxiety long enough to smile.
 

Never before had Lady Fairchild let sympathy and guilt urge her to support such an unqualified disaster. No matter how matters eventually settled, there were problems ahead. Still, it was more comfortable involving herself with Alistair’s troubles than examining her own. She sat at her writing desk, nibbling her pen—a habit she’d have to give up, now that she couldn’t blame the damage on anyone else—trying to think of the best way to share the news with her sister. Alistair would write, no doubt, but he wasn’t sharing the entire story. Nor would she. If they were to carry the thing off, the secret must be kept as close as possible.
 

Unused to keeping secrets from her sister, Georgiana crossed out line after line, struggling against her hesitant pen. She was on her third sheet, the failed attempts torn in pieces, when the front door opened and she heard footsteps on the stairs. William. She’d have to tell him too. Best not put it off.
 

He was in his study, of course, the sporting papers sticking out of his coat pocket and a stack of letters in his hand. Greeting her with more of his troubling friendliness, he invited her to join him. She took the proffered chair, her eyes flying involuntarily to the watercolor painting above the mantel. It was a view of their gardens at Cordell, and it never failed to heat her blood to a boil—it had been painted by Sophy’s mother. Tightening her lips—it was wisest to remain cool to him as long as he sported trophies like this on his walls—she prepared for battle.
 

William shifted in his chair. “Perhaps it’s time I updated the furnishings.”
 

“It’s no concern of mine how you keep your rooms,” she said with a venomous smile.
 

“I trust you’ve passed a pleasant afternoon?” he asked.
 

“It was interesting, certainly. Gave me a great deal to think upon. I’ve taken your advice and gotten myself a new project.”
 

“Oh?”
 

“Yes. I’d prefer to help him, since I failed signally the last time, but Alistair’s requested my help for another instead. His fiancée, in fact.”
 

William was a refined man, restricting his astonishment to a fractional lift of his brows.
 

“He’s in love with her,” she said. Eventually she’d find the right words to deceive her sister, but William knew her too well. She had to give him the truth. She would never approve an engagement to such a pitiful nobody, no matter how lovely of face and form. If Mrs. Morris still controlled her fortune, it would be different, though even then, she would prefer a marriage that wasn’t quite so degrading to her nephew. “He’d marry her himself, if he could—”

“Didn’t you just say they were engaged?” William said, stopping her with a raised hand.
 

“A ploy, nothing more. He can’t foist her on us without some kind of connection.”
 

“And the purpose if this is to . . . ?”
 

She knew she’d end up feeling ridiculous. Too late now for regrets; she had given her word, and was bound to see the thing through. “She’s a widow. Anna Morris. Married to Anthony, of the Warwickshire family. Took her for her money, of course.” William showed no recognition—she didn’t expect him to, since Anthony Morris hadn’t ordered his life around his stables. Most of the time, William didn’t even recognize their neighbors in town, though he knew every farmer, hound and horse for miles back in the country. “She wants her son, and Alistair has taken it upon himself to get him for her.”
 

“How noble of him.”
 

Georgiana ignored his flat tone. “She’ll need a husband eventually, and unless I help her to a suitable one, Alistair could very well end up married to her. He’s kept his head so far,” she said, ignoring William’s skeptical eyebrow, “but who knows what he might yet do.”
 

“I’ve heard of Anna Morris,” William said. “But she hadn’t roused his pity then. I suppose it’s a commendable emotion, but I don’t see why either of us should embroil ourselves in Alistair Beaumaris’s concerns. I’m happy to help his career, but this is—strange. You’re overtired, my dear.”
 

“You said I might do whatever I pleased,” Georgiana said.
 

“If it made you happy. Will this meddling accomplish that?”
 

“I don’t require your permission. I can befriend anyone I like.”
 

“True. But you never have before.” He glanced at the bundle of letters in his hand. “I’ve just had word from John. Fortis is ready to foal. I’d hoped to be there—I’ve hopes for this one.”
 

Horses. Always the horses.
“I thought you wanted us to spend more time together,” she said.
 

“I do. But it’s been twenty-seven days since I broached the subject and you haven’t given me an answer. What was I to think?” Before she could answer, he moved again. “So you are accepting my offer?”
 

No.
But she couldn’t say that. “Life would be more pleasant, certainly, if we had fewer quarrels,” she equivocated.
 

“Is that what we do?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting. Quarrel was a mild word for the sterile wasteland between them.
 

“I don’t like to exaggerate,” she said. “Plenty of married persons disagree from time to time. I daresay—” But she didn’t, floundering into silence. William’s proposed experiment terrified her.
 

“All right,” he said. “We’ll both stay in town. When do you meet this girl?”
 

“This evening,” Georgiana said. “She’s coming to dine.”
 

“I’ll have to send Somerville my regrets,” William said. “Assuming you’re wishful of my company?”
 

She was, but would prefer he expressed the sentiment in less romantic terms. His presence would be useful. “I’d like your help, if you are willing,” she said carefully.
 

“Then you have it. Bring on Alistair’s charity. Bring on whatever you like.” He smiled mockingly, tapping his letters with his forefinger. “What kind of husband would I be, denying such a pretty request from my wife?”