Incognita (Fairchild Book 2)
Incognita
Jaima Fixsen
Copyright © by Jaima Fixsen. All rights reserved.
Cover photo © Grachikova Larisa
Cover design © Glenn McMillan | Glenn G M Creative
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever with the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
ISBN 978-0-9918310-2-9
To Regina
For the upward lift, for the nudges on, and for reading everything first.
Thank you, my friend.
There were worse things than being spectacularly jilted, Alistair knew. Losing one’s leg, for instance. Losing a fortune—or worse, never having one in the first place. Of course, he didn’t have a fortune of his own, but since most of his relatives did, it was almost the same thing.
Malaria. That would be terrible. Or tying yourself to a wife like the one Captain Fitzhubert had so recently acquired—plaintive and spotty. Better to be jilted than to marry one like that.
“Don’t forget pox. Most uncomfortable, I’m told,” said his cousin Jasper.
Alistair grimaced. Yes, there were plenty of worse things. Trouble was, none of them had happened to him, but he had been jilted by Sophy Prescott.
“This isn’t helping,” he growled.
“Really?” Jasper looked down at the list he held in his hand. “What about bad fish? I had some once . . . . ” He caught Alistair’s dark look and pulled his mouth shut.
Voices from the direction of the door warned of newcomers making their way into the room. Alistair sank deeper into his chair as Jasper set down his pencil, signaling the waiter to bring them another bottle. Once his glass was filled, Alistair reached for it, taking the opportunity to dart a glance at the new arrivals. Two of Jasper's cronies . . . and a ginger-haired fellow sporting scarlet regimentals. Didn’t recognize him, but the other two were cowards. They’d laugh at his expense in private, but would give him a wide berth here.
“Stop glaring at everyone,” Jasper muttered. “You just give them more to talk about when you sulk like a wounded bear. You said you were going to pretend like it didn’t matter.”
Indifference had sounded like a good plan when he and Jasper set out for the club, but acting the part was harder than expected—watching the sideways glances and discreet whispers.
“You aren’t the only scandal in London,” Jasper said, a little wearily, as Alistair’s hand tightened around his glass. “Well, you won’t be for long,” he amended. “But if you pick a fight with Protheroe, I’m dropping you. He’s a friend of mine.”
“I know,” Alistair said, swirling the wine in his glass. Better if he just didn’t look at anybody.
Jasper gave a low whistle. “Looks like someone just lost another thousand.” Over at the card table, one player was rummaging through his pockets for a scrap of paper to scrawl out another IOU. Two hours ago he’d been up nearly four thousand pounds, but now he was plunging deep and scribbling vowels, doggedly playing on, convinced his luck would change. His opponent was unmoved, despite the pile of coin and paper in front of him. Undue excitement was gauche, of course, but this fellow looked bored . . . indifferent even. And why not? Word was, he’d dipped worse himself just last week. Such reversals were fairly commonplace at Watier’s.
To tell the truth, Alistair wasn’t especially fond of the place—ran into his brother here far too often for his liking. It was a problem. Stifling a sigh, Alistair turned back to his cousin. “What?” He was tired enough to be provoked into words, instead of using his usual lifted eyebrow.
“I didn’t expect you to mind so much,” Jasper said. “Didn’t think you were that attached to my sister.”
Alistair hadn’t thought so either. Oh, he liked Sophy well enough. She was an admirable choice. Marrying her would allow him to sell out of the army, and he was tired of getting shot and killing the French—cowardly impulses, but ones he couldn’t deny in his private thoughts. Unfortunately, his arm was mostly healed and he wasn’t marrying a comfortable fortune, so he’d have to return to his regiment. Alistair didn’t shrink at the thought—thank God—but it made him incredibly weary. Almost made him wish he’d gone for a career in the church.
It would be nigh impossible to find himself another bride, embroiled in Sophy’s scandal. True, there might be other ways out if he were desperate, but was he? He couldn’t tell. It was hard to know exactly how he felt under the smart of Sophy’s rejection. He was too proud, that was the problem. Never in his life had he expected to be thrown over by a girl like her—ladies usually went out of their way to oblige him.
Not Sophy. He’d courted her, kissed her, said all the right things, but she’d run off instead with a tradesman, giving up the house and the income her father had offered to settle on her, a bribe to compensate for her illegitimacy. It was a humiliation of gargantuan proportions, and it hurt too, more than he cared to think about.
He liked Sophy. She was pretty, with laughing eyes and a quick tongue, never at a loss for words no matter who challenged her, and swift with wry retorts that had as much charm as they had sting. She was wary and young and inexperienced, and probably the finest horsewoman he’d ever seen. In his mind, they would have done very well together.
Besides, women liked him. He wasn’t a braggart, but it was no secret that the gentle sex had a habit of smiling beguilingly at him. He was barely more than a boy when they started tapping him teasingly with their fans and kissing him in dark corners, sending him smoky glances and conniving ways to get into his bed. And now, to be spurned by Sophy Prescott—fresh out of the schoolroom and a bastard to boot. The entire world was laughing. It might never be safe for him to look in the papers again. Just this morning he’d recognized himself in another cartoon, his nose steep and sneering, his chest puffed out like a balloon. They’d drawn him fingering a pile of money, saying ‘Yes, Fairchild, she’ll do . . . . ’ while Sophy (a decent likeness, capturing her pert smile) escaped out the back door. Just thinking about it made his neck burn.
“Let’s go,” he muttered, rising from his chair, not waiting to see if Jasper was going to follow. There was no help for it: until a new scandal broke, his would be talked of everywhere. He could hide or he could brazen it out, but he was done brazening for today.
He collected his hat and was at the door of the club before he heard Jasper hurrying after him. “You’re becoming maudlin,” Jasper complained. “Slow down.” Alistair stopped and looked back. Jasper was a step behind, frowning at having to don his hat without the aid of a mirror. He set it carefully on his head, waiting for Alistair’s affirming nod before taking another step. “Just where are we going?”
“Expect I’m going to the devil,” Alistair said. “I don’t know about you.”
“It’s only Tuesday,” Jasper sighed.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Alistair demanded.
Jasper shrugged and threw a coin to a straw-haired, gap-toothed crossing sweeper, who cleared their path across the street while lisping thanks.
“In here,” Alistair said, turning into the inviting quietness of Green Park. Perhaps he’d feel better with more space around him—he was done with snug rooms and smug stares.
“She’s happy, you know,” Jasper said. “It’s almost repulsive.”
He was supposed to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “I’ll be spared the sight of that at least. I expect I’ll soon be back in Spain.” He cast a sideways glance at his cousin, worried Jasper might have divined some of his feelings about returning to the Peninsula. “I’m anxious to get back,” Alistair said, for good measure.
Jasper regarded him through narrowed eyes. “A miraculous recovery. You couldn’t reach over your head last week.”
He still couldn’t. The hole bored into his right shoulder by a French musket ball, sending him home from the Peninsula last winter, was exasperatingly slow to heal. Alistair could raise his arm about two thirds of the way now, but not without considerable wincing and cursing. With a saber in his hand it was worse, but he felt no pain the rest of the time, so long as he didn’t try to raise his arm higher than his shoulder. “I’ll be fit by the time I get there.”
Jasper made a noncommittal murmur and changed the subject. “He’s not a bad fellow. Tom Bagshot, I mean. Not any more oafish than he looks.”
“Ham-fisted, probably.” Alistair said, remembering the slope of Sophy’s back as it disappeared under the muslin of her gown. The temptation of those warm shadows still plagued him. Too often he’d imagined sending his fingers there, watching her eyes growing warm and wondering. Perhaps it was her skittishness around him that made her so attractive.
Jasper grimaced. “She’s practically a baby.”
“You would think so. She’s your sister,” Alistair said, with something more like his usual smile. “She might be a baby, but she’s a pretty one.”
“Ugh. Be quiet.” Jasper said.
Alistair was, for a minute, but now he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d been so sure he could persuade her to love him. She’d have forgotten Bagshot in a matter of weeks. “I’d have changed her mind, if she’d given me a chance,” he muttered. “Seduced her so thoroughly she’d forget he existed.”
Jasper hauled on his arm, dragging him to a stumbling stop.
“Wha—? Let go of me!” Alistair snapped, snatching his arm free.
“Be careful how you speak of my sister,” Jasper said, his mouth a tight line.
“Take a damper,” Alistair grumbled. “I’m not doing any harm.”
“You are,” Jasper insisted. “I’ll hear your apology and I’ll have your word not to speak of her again.”
That was too much. He was the jilted one. Not once had he reproached Jasper for helping Bagshot get the special license allowing him and Sophy to wed. “Not today, you won’t,” Alistair scoffed. “Your man isn’t here to help you out of your coat.”
“Not overly fond of this one, actually,” said Jasper, frowning at his left sleeve. “Sophy’s a topper. Worth any number of coats.”
“Glad you think so,” Alistair said crisply, peeling out of his own. It was new, a claret-colored Bath superfine, but he tossed it onto the grass. He and Jasper hadn’t scrapped since they were boys, but when they had resorted to fists, Alistair usually won. With his shoulder, they were probably even.
“Ready?” he asked, shifting his feet, trying out the ground.
Jasper swung his arms in a wide circle, the crack of his splitting coat seams ripping through the air. “At your convenience,” he said.
“Excellent.” Alistair shot out a fist.
“We’ll see,” Jasper said, swerving left and grunting as he thrust his left at Alistair’s chin. Alistair answered with a quick jab that Jasper blocked. Before Jasper could swing again, Alistair threw out with his left, thumping Jasper solidly in the chest, the breath whooshing from him as he leapt back a step.
Jasper rattled in again, swinging so fast he got one in on Alistair’s side, a rock-hard jolt that nearly sent him over. “Had enough?”
“Not nearly,” Alistair replied. Nothing felt better than a turn up in a mood like this. He ducked. Jasper was better than he’d expected—like most gentlemen in his set, he was competent, having taken lessons with celebrated boxers—but Alistair wasn’t worried. His cousin was too punctilious. He’d never had to bludgeon a man to death with an empty pistol, leaned from a wheeling horse to unseat a ferociously screaming enemy, or stumbled through smoke, carrying a bleeding friend only to find he was dead. Bad shoulder or no, he could take him.
