A Well Pleasured Lady

  The Fairchild family proper shuffled and coughed, and Mary wondered that the influence of this one man could change them from predators into prey. “My father told me none of my great-uncles had ever wed,” she said.

  “Oh, they didn’t,” Ian answered.

  Of course. Ian was illegitimate. Discomfiture swept her that she’d reminded him, and the others. That explained his kindness to another outsider, and made her like him all the more. Even Sebastian, beside her, relaxed a little of his tension.

  Ian looked behind Mary as if seeking something, then asked, “Wasn’t there a brother or sister?”

  “Mine, you mean?” Mary felt stupid when he nodded. “A brother.” She touched her ear with her left hand, hoping he’d accept her falsehood. “He’s no longer with us.”

  Ian watched her gesture as if it told him something, and she suspected it had. As housekeeper, she had learned to watch the nobles for unspoken signs of displeasure or discomfort. Ian’s position at Fairchild Manor must be much the same as a servant’s. He was unwanted, unsanctioned, and unlike them in appearance. Her sense of empathy grew stronger, and her lips trembled as she smiled.

  “We Fairchilds do have a tendency to lose our relatives.” Ian caught her hand again and brought it to his lips. “But we won’t let you go now that we’ve found you, Cousin Guinevere.”

  “Her name is Mary.” Sebastian swept her into his arms so abruptly, she squeaked like a mouse and grabbed at his neck. “And she’s tired.”

  A complete and most unusual silence fell over the Fairchilds as they watched the Viscount Whitfield take their prize away from them.

  Nothing escaped Ian’s notice.

  As the old lady, whoever she was, disappeared into the hallway, the uncles observed her with the avidity they might have shown a money bag in motion. Perhaps he should have arrived sooner, Ian thought, but then he would have missed his chance to make an entrance.

  And what an entrance! His little cousin had remembered him, just as he’d hoped. She’d been dazzled by him, too, and too unworldly to hide her interest. He fought the urge to rub his hands together, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket instead. Wiping the sweat from his palms, he moved to a chair in the corner and seated himself.

  The rest of the Fairchilds scurried into position, placing themselves according to their standing in the family hierarchy. The oldest of Bubb’s daughters, Lilith, claimed a seat. She had brought money into the family when she wed, and the death of her young husband had freed her to hunt again. The family had great hopes for Lilith.

  The rest of the chairs were taken up by the uncles. Ian loathed them all—especially Leslie, his father.

  Bubb placed his hands on the shiny desktop and slowly lowered himself into the purple overstuffed master’s chair. He was imitating his father, but somehow ol’ Bubbie just didn’t have the ballocks to pull it off. The high-backed chair dwarfed him. The desk, richly carved with swirls and curlicues, dominated him.

  As the second oldest brother, Leslie would have become marquess if Bubb hadn’t been born, and he never forgot it. “Bubbie, you look like a puppet, not a king.”

  Bubb’s beautiful Fairchild countenance fell.

  Glaring furiously, Leslie said, “Oh, stop looking so morose. You’ll never take your father’s place.”

  “Thank God for that,” Nora said.

  Leslie ignored her. “What are they doing here now? What do they know?”

  Ian straightened. What was Leslie babbling about?

  Nora placed her hand on Bubb’s when he would have answered. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  Bubb nodded. “Later.”

  Nora had seated herself behind the desk, but off to the side like a properly submissive wife.

  She wasn’t. Oh, she played the part to perfection, but Ian would have sworn that in the privacy of the master bedchamber, Nora placed every reasonable thought Bubb espoused into his empty pate. Furthermore, nothing rattled Nora, not even the venial glare Leslie aimed at her.

  Then he nodded, a swift up-and-down motion that set his chins jiggling. Taking an audible breath, Leslie said, “Our plan was to seek moneyed mates. Now three juicy mice have fallen into our trap. This Guinevere—”

  “She wants to be called Mary,” Nora said. She wasn’t easy to read, but Ian thought that Leslie’s constant strutting annoyed her.

  “This Guinevere”—Leslie emphasized the name—“is the first Fairchild ever who is anything less than irresistible. If we can remove her from Whitfield’s influence, we could control her and the money.”

  “Let me volunteer.” Drusilla’s little red tongue shot out, and she licked her lips. “I’ll gladly detach Lord Whitfield from our cousin Guinevere.”

  “Her name is Mary,” Bubb told her.

  She ignored him until Nora pointed a finger at her, and she flounced in her chair. “Mary,” she said, sulking.

  “You can’t be trusted to detach Lord Whitfield from our cousin.” Daisy was eighteen, and in Ian’s estimation, she alone of all the girls had received her mother’s intelligence. Speaking to both the twins, she said, “Neither of you can. You’ve never had to perform such a delicate operation, and it’s imperative we succeed.”

  Drusilla and Radella pouted.

  Daisy smoothed her dandelion-bright skirt. “I’ll do it.”

  “Unlikely!” Lilith burst forth. “You’re still a virgin. Or…you’re supposed to be.”

  “Lilith.” Nora’s tone was a rebuke.

  “I am a virgin. Not used like she is.” Daisy waved a hand at Wilda. “Or like you, either, Lilith. Apparently you haven’t heard about Whitfield’s reputation for fastidiousness.”

  “He is reputed to be fastidious, and Daisy has that ingenue look about her. So she’ll have to do it.” Lilith made the decision coldly.

  “When do I get a turn?” Wilda demanded.

  “You had a turn.” If Lilith was cold, then Daisy was ruthless. “You yielded the baron everything, and for what? A measly settlement from his family.”

  “He loved me.” Wilda’s eyes filled with tears. She was the soft one, not ready to run with the pack of wolves she called her relatives.

  “Of course he did, but his mother held the purse strings. The first rule is to investigate the source of their income. Even I know that.” Radella looked smug. “Still, I say if Daisy doesn’t bring him down within the week, then it’s hunting season for all of us.”

  Daisy folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll get him.”

  “You did at least one thing right in your life, Bubbie.” Leslie snatched a pinch of snuff from Calvin’s open container. “You bred up good daughters.”

  “They know their responsibility to the Fairchild family,” Nora said. “I’ve taught them that.”

  Leslie laughed cruelly. “You’d do anything for the Fairchilds, wouldn’t you? Why, I bet you’d sell your soul to the Devil to save us.”

  Bubb leaned forward in his chair, and for once, it didn’t look too big for him. “We’re grateful for Nora’s dedication, Uncle Leslie, and we wouldn’t have her any other way.”

  Leslie laughed again, but his gaze fell and he busied himself with inhaling the snuff.

  Speaking over his sneezing, Daisy asked, “Once I’ve separated Whitfield from our dear cousin, what happens to her?”

  Now was the time, and Ian made his move coolly. “It’s not unknown for cousins to marry.”

  No one spoke, but eyes grew wide as this new idea took hold. They’d seen the way Mary reacted to him, and they imagined he would work for the good of the family. Satisfaction settled on every countenance.

  Every countenance, that is, except Leslie’s. “Why shouldn’t she marry an uncle?”

  “Because it’s against the law, Uncle Leslie,” Bubb said.

  “When has the law ever stopped us?” Leslie retorted.

  Ian uncoiled himself from his chair and slipped to the liquor cabinet. “And because, Father, years ago when cousin Guinevere came for help, you fled in the
opposite direction, and if you don’t think she remembers, then you didn’t see the way she looked at you.”

  “He was too busy ogling Lady Valéry and trying to decide if the rumors about her affairs were true.” Radella giggled as her mother hushed her, and Drusilla laughed, too.

  Leslie hesitated, then said, “Of course they’re true. But unimportant. What I was trying to remember was the extent of her fortune.”

  Slowly Ian relaxed his grip on the glass. He had expected Leslie to denounce this plan just because anything his son did incited him. But the others had fallen easily for Ian’s stratagem, and now Leslie succumbed, too. For the first time in Ian’s life, the gods had smiled on him.

  Of course, there was Whitfield and his claim on Mary, but Ian didn’t respect that. He twisted his moonstone ring around and around on his finger. Living with the Fairchilds had taught Ian how to slither along, strike suddenly, and escape before vengeance could be wrought. Whitfield had best watch his back.

  “I remember.” Oswald, who was always good with numbers, smirked. “Fourteen thousand, four hundred pounds per annum from Guldene. Don’t know for sure about Valéry—he was a Frenchie—but rumors place it at twice that amount, although it has probably ceased since those damned Frogs started beheading their betters.”

  The previously silent Calvin spoke up. “Such a shame about her French income, but as I understand it, you’re saying Lady Valéry is wealthy.” He took an audible breath. “Why am I sitting here? I need to dress for dinner!”

  His brothers pushed him back to his seat.

  “We’ll not have a mêlée with all of us competing to get her bed and wed,” Leslie said. “We have to do this fairly.”

  “What makes you think she’ll be interested in any of you?” Lilith asked scornfully.

  Three of the uncles stared at her in patent amazement while Burgess sputtered indignantly.

  Oswald recovered himself first. “She’s a woman, isn’t she?”

  “And a woman who in her youth freely sampled the fruits of love.” Leslie displayed his Egyptian ivory false teeth in a crocodile grin.

  “Everyone knows women who have enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh yearn for it long past the time when they can attract a man.” Oswald pulled a long face. “Lady Valéry can’t attract a man now. She’s plump and wrinkled—”

  “Just like you,” Daisy said.

  “It’s different with men,” Leslie said loftily.

  Ian laughed out loud.

  Leslie loathed him with a glance. “Men retain their potency and appeal long after women are dried up and disgusting. So I’ll sacrifice and bed Lady Valéry.”

  Which explained why Leslie had surrendered Mary so easily to his son. Leslie was after bigger game.

  “And get all the money for yourself?” Oswald sniggered. “Not likely.”

  Leslie adopted a wounded posture. “I would share with my brothers.”

  That brought universal laughter.

  Disgruntled, Leslie said, “You don’t trust me, but we can’t all jump her. What say we draw straws to see who has to woo the witch?”

  “Only if Bubbie holds the straws,” Burgess said. “He’s the only one we can trust not to cheat.”

  Bubb rang for the footman, called for broom straws, and when they arrived, summoned the uncles to his desk. But only three old men stood up.

  Oswald stared at each of his brothers, then in every corner. “How long has Calvin been gone?”

  “He’s charged ahead.” Leslie stomped his finely shod foot. “I won’t have it!”

  “I don’t know how you’ll stop him now.” Burgess started toward the door. “Or me, either.”

  Oswald ran after Burgess and knocked him aside, darting into the corridor first. Leslie followed, his hefty thighs pumping, and Bubb’s daughters giggled.

  Then the footman stepped into the open doorway. “The first of the houseguests are arriving, my lord.”

  The abruptly resolute girls rose en masse and fled, chattering like quarrelsome jaybirds, each determined to bag the biggest game from among the widgeons who dared attend the party.

  Bubb and Nora ignored Ian as they stood and straightened their clothing. They had no mates to catch, but they had a role to play. They would welcome their visitors and divert any anxiety the single men might be experiencing at the thought of facing off with the famous Fairchild women.

  Poor sots. The men didn’t stand a chance.

  Ian knew from experience that the Fairchilds were nothing but a tribe of cannibals who ate their own kind.

  And he was about to prove himself a true Fairchild.

  Chapter 9

  Mary didn’t like being carried. Sebastian could tell by the way she held herself, as if she were a queen and he a sedan chair.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care what she liked, and he didn’t care what kind of games this Fairchild played to sweeten the ordeal of being handled by the man she’d better not betray.

  He looked down at her. She trembled with the effort of holding herself rigid, but her off-putting attitude meant nothing when matched against the skin revealed by her off-the-shoulder gown. She had folded her arms across her chest, not realizing how her gesture pressed her breasts against the neckline and showed him a hint of cleavage.

  She could damn well accept the fact that that view was his personal privilege, and that he had the right to carry her where and when he chose. And just because she was an heiress, and just because she had a handsome cousin who complimented her, didn’t mean she could run away from her obligations to him.

  And to his godmother, of course.

  He glanced behind him. Lady Valéry walked behind them down the long passageway in the east wing, part of the procession of maids and footmen who labored under the weight of their baggage. The Fairchilds’ housekeeper, Mrs. Baggy-face, led the way.

  “Here we are, Miss Fairchild.” Mrs. Baggy-face held the door wide to allow Sebastian to enter. “I hope this meets with your approval.”

  Sounding serene, Mary said, “It’s lovely, Mrs. Baggott.”

  Baggott. That was it! Sebastian knew it was some B name.

  Mary noticeably relaxed as he placed her on the bed, and Sebastian guessed she thought herself free of him. Amusing chit. She wouldn’t be free of him until he chose.

  At least the Fairchilds had been wise enough to place Mary in a luxurious bedchamber. The piles of blankets on the large bed would be pleasant to snuggle under of a night. The bed curtains would keep attendants from noticing if he chose to indulge in a morning romp. He pressed the mattress with his hand. It was firmly stuffed with feathers, so he and Mary could have their own sides or snuggle together, as they chose.

  “I love the large wardrobe and the bed table,” Mary said. “And what a huge mirror!”

  He had paid no heed to those pieces of furniture, but he said, “The chamber is agreeable.” It was also, he would wager, separated from his by miles of corridors and dozens of guards masquerading as servants.

  Mrs. Baggott hurried to the bed and nudged him aside, then arranged the pillows so they formed a rest for Mary’s shoulders. “I understand you’ve been ill, Miss Fairchild. I’ll order a light meal for you to be served here, and tomorrow you can join the party.”

  Mary laid a hand over Mrs. Baggott’s restless fingers. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  Mrs. Baggott stopped in the act of pulling a counterpane over Mary. She stared at Mary’s hand on hers. “It’s no trouble, miss. It’s my duty.”

  “I’m sure you have many duties that must be attended to while hosting this party.” Mary smiled at her. “How many guests are you expecting?”

  Mrs. Baggott clearly didn’t know how to handle this attention. Her hand remained in Mary’s, and she shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “We’ve prepared for sixty guests.”

  “With servants, that’s probably two hundred people to house and feed.” Mary shook her head. “La, so much work!”

  “I have never sh
irked my duties or complained about the hours,” Mrs. Baggott protested.

  Mary let go of her hand immediately. “And I would never insinuate such a thing, either. The Fairchilds are lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Fairchild.” Mrs. Baggott stared at Mary’s earnest, friendly face with a caution Sebastian didn’t understand. “I consider myself privileged to retain this post.” Her smile curved her thin lips, just as it should, but the frown lines remained around her eyes. “Lord Whitfield, your room is in the west wing.”

  So he was miles away.

  “I can show you the way now.” Mrs. Baggott moved toward the door and would have held it for him, except his godmother stood on the threshold.

  “Where is my room?” Lady Valéry asked.

  “I have put you just across the hall, my lady.”

  “That is delightful. Would you show me the chamber?”

  “Well…” Mrs. Baggott glanced uneasily at Sebastian as he stood beside the bed.

  “I’m not as young as I used to be,” Lady Valéry said pitifully. “These extended journeys are rough on my old bones.”

  Sebastian hid a smirk. The journey from Scotland had invigorated his godmother, and he’d worried she would tire her horse with her constant desire to go faster and farther.

  But Mrs. Baggott didn’t know that, and moved immediately to Lady Valéry’s side. “Of course, my lady. This way.”

  As the two women moved into the passageway, accompanied by the servants, Sebastian wondered what scheme Lady Valéry hatched now. In Scotland she had insisted on coming with him, claiming that she had to protect Mary from his nefarious desires. Now she contrived to leave them alone where they could easily be compromised. His godmother’s cavalier attitude was a signal to him to be cautious. Very, very cautious.

  Mary snapped, “Did you have to frighten Mrs. Baggott like that?”

  He looked at the flushed, indignant face of the woman on the bed. He looked at the loosened curtain of her hair, her dainty blue satin slipper and the white silk stocking with the slim ankle within, and tossed caution into the trash heap. Whatever Lady Valéry had planned, he would counter it, but first he would see if he could rumple the starched facade of his sham fiancée.