The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (8 page)

“I don’t know that tea will be enough,” his lordship said wryly. “After all, it’s been a hundred years or so.”

“We will just have to try our best,” Lucy said with a smile.

Until now, Lucy really hadn’t considered that in finding the answer to Lucinda’s question about her mother’s family, Lucy would find an entirely new family of her own. It was as odd as it was exciting.

For the next hour, Lucy and her new relatives traded family connections, who was related to whom, family stories, and even a scandal or two. The older couple was warm and welcoming, and Lucy couldn’t have been more delighted with her reception. In spite of their cultural differences, Lord Northrup and her father had a great deal in common. She suspected Harold Merryweather and Lord Northrup might end up being great friends one day. She wondered exactly how to phrase her next letter home without revealing more than she wanted her parents to know.

“Clarkson tells me we have heretofore unknown relatives visiting from America.” A tall, dashing, fair-haired man strode into the room, then pulled up short. “But he failed to mention they were still here.” He flashed an infectious grin. “Or that they were so lovely.”

“Alfred.” Lady Northrup’s brow furrowed. “Do try not to enter a room as if you were an invading army bent on conquest.”

“Sorry, Mother.” Alfred stepped to her side and brushed his lips across her proffered cheek. “It’s not everyday I learn of fresh blood in the family.”

Lady Northrup winced.

Her husband chuckled. “Allow me to introduce your distant cousin, Miss Lucy Merryweather, and her friend Miss West. This is my son, Alfred.”

“Miss Merryweather.” Alfred moved to her, bent low and took her hand. His gaze locked with hers. “I cannot tell you what a genuine pleasure this is.”

Lucy stared into his blue eyes, eyes that looked vaguely familiar. At once it struck her that Alfred’s eyes were the same shape and color as her father’s and her brothers’ and her own. “Lucy will do.”

“And you must call me Freddy.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “My father only refers to me as Alfred on formal occasions or when I’ve done something he deems unsuitable. My mother, however, routinely calls me Alfred. She thinks Freddy is entirely too frivolous for a future viscount. I think it suits me. What do you think?”

“I have no idea.” She studied him, then grinned. “But I think you’re probably right. You do look much more like a Freddy than an Alfred.”

He laughed, released her hand, and turned to Clara, taking her hand as well and staring at her as if he had just discovered a sweet he hadn’t realized he’d been deprived of. “Miss West, how very nice to meet you.”

“Mr. Rutledge.” Clara nodded politely.

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not American.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Miss West is my traveling companion and my dear friend,” Lucy said. “My . . . my family thought it best for me not to travel unaccompanied.”

“Quite right.” Lord Northrup nodded.

“That would be terribly improper,” Lady Northrup added.

“I see.” Freddy cast a last appreciative look at Clara, then turned his attention back to Lucy. “Is this your first trip to England?”

“It is indeed.” Lucy nodded enthusiastically. “I’m finding it all fascinating. We don’t have castles, you know, or ancient ruins. It’s all so terribly historic and old.”

“We are nothing if not old.” Freddy chuckled.

“You must allow Alfred to show you the sights of London,” Lady Northrup said.

“I was about to suggest the very same thing.” Freddy grinned. “I would like nothing better than to escort two such lovely ladies around my fair city.”

“What a wonderful idea, Freddy.” Lucy smiled. “That would be delightful.”

The look in Clara’s eyes clearly said she was not in complete agreement. One did have to wonder if it was Freddy’s willingness to offer himself as a tourist guide or his obvious interest in her that Clara objected to.

Arrangements were made for Freddy to call on them in the next few days along with promises to return for dinner before Lucy returned to America. Lucy declined both the offer of a Northrup carriage to return them to Channing House and Freddy’s suggestion that he escort them, insisting that it was entirely too much trouble, they had been most kind already, and besides she did enjoy a brisk walk. She and Clara took their leave and Lucy was surprised to find it was far later than she had thought and dusk was nearly upon them.

“You didn’t like him, did you?” Lucy said the moment the door closed behind him.

“On the contrary. I thought his lordship was most charming. He and Lady Northrup were far more gracious and welcoming than I expected. After all, you were a bit of a surprise.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Indeed I do.” Clara smiled in a wry manner.

“Why didn’t you like him? Freddy, that is. I thought he was charming and rather witty as well.” Lucy paused. “And he did seem to like you.”

“Possibly.” Clara picked up her pace and Lucy had to hurry to keep up with the taller woman’s longer strides.

“He was quite handsome, really. He reminded me very much of my brothers. And tall as well. Taller than you, and I would think that would be a most attractive—”

“Lucy.” Clara halted without warning and stared. “If I didn’t know better I would think you were trying to make a match for me.”

Lucy gasped in feigned indignation. “Why, I would never think of such a thing.” Although she had thought exactly that. “But now that you have brought up the idea—”

“Now that I have, we may put it behind us and go on.” Clara nodded and started off again. “I am not in the market for a husband, thank you very much.”

“But you’re not opposed to a husband, are you?”

“Not in principle.”

“Freddy does seem like a good sort. Besides, it was obvious, from what his father said and the vaguely shabby state of the house, that he too will have to marry well. You have a fortune and he needs one and—”

“Lucy!” Clara stopped in midstep and laughed. “My financial circumstances are quite sound, but not nearly grand enough to be a suitable match for a viscount.”

“But—”

“I don’t know how things of this nature are done in your country, but in England the daughters of merchants, no matter how wealthy, do not marry future lords. It simply isn’t the way things are done here.”

“Well, that’s just silly.” Lucy sniffed. “Why, it’s eighteen eighty-eight. We’re approaching the twentieth century. It’s not the Middle Ages after all. It seems to me if two people care for each other, it shouldn’t matter who they are or what they have or don’t have.”

“Regardless, it does. All that history you are so admiring of here comes with a price. This is the way it has always been and the way it shall always be. Besides . . .” She resumed walking and shot Lucy a chastising look. “I’ve only just met the man and I’m not at all sure he’s to my liking.”

“What kind of man would you like?” Lucy adopted a casual tone. “I have brothers and—”

“Do you do this sort of thing in New York?”

Lucy drew her brows together in confusion. “What sort of thing?”

“Attempt to make matches.”

“Well, no, not that I can recall.” It had just seemed such a good opportunity as Freddy was so obviously taken with Clara. Still, it was probably time to change the subject. “I think that went well. I quite enjoyed our visit.”

Clara slanted her a knowing smile. “It was very pleasant. In addition, you now have the answer to your great-aunt’s curiosity about her mother’s rift with her family. And you’ve seen where she was born.” Clara nodded. “You may check those off your list.”

“Plus I have solved a mystery of sorts. Yet another thing Lucinda wished to accomplish.” Lucy thought for a moment. “Through no fault of my own, really. Although, I suspect Lucinda had in mind a mystery of a more adventurous nature than discovering—”

Without warning a man passing by jostled them, then sprinted off.

Clara huffed. “I must say that was—”

“He took my purse! He snatched it off my arm!” Lucy started after him. “Come back here, you cur!”

“Lucy.” Clara grabbed her arm. “You can’t go after him.”

“Of course I . . .” She huffed. “No, of course I can’t. Not in these shoes. And I suppose it would be unseemly to go running down the street.”

“And foolish. He might be extremely dangerous.”

“Damnation, if I was a man, I’d be after him without a moment’s hesitation.”

“I’ve no doubt of that.” Clara took her arm and fairly dragged her toward their destination. “But you’re not a man and there’s nothing you can do except return to Channing House as quickly as possible.”

“He took my handbag.” Lucy scowled, still looking in the direction the thief had gone. “The fiend.”

“You have others.”

“Well, I hope he feels his theft was worth it when he finds nothing of value except my second favorite pair of kid gloves and a few shillings.”

“Yes, that will teach him a lesson,” Clara said wryly.

“I should like to teach him a lesson,” Lucy muttered. She’d never had anything stolen from her before. It was . . . She should probably be frightened but instead indignation gripped her along with absolute fury. How dare he?

Clara’s pace was even faster than before, if possible, and in no more than a few minutes they reached the front entry of Channing House. Still, it was long enough for Lucy’s ire to fade, replaced by a dreadful sense of helplessness and yes, more than a touch of fear. Good God, Clara was right. They could have been in a great deal of danger.

“Miss?” A male voice called from behind them, and both women turned. The mysterious stranger she’d seen following them now hurried in their direction.

“Good Lord,” Clara murmured.

“Yes?” Lucy stared. She was right. He was handsome, with a square jaw, lips a shade full for a man but attractive nonetheless. His nose was a bit too straight and Roman for her liking, but it suited him, and his eyes were the darkest velvety brown she had ever seen. The oddest thing happened to her stomach. Still, how could he have allowed this to happen? Her annoyance returned.

“I believe this is yours.” He held out her purse.

Clara raised a brow. “You gave chase to that brigand? You?”

“It seemed the least I could do.” He grinned and again Lucy’s stomach fluttered.

She ignored it and took her handbag. “Indeed it is. I can’t believe you allowed that to happen in the first place. You’re not very observant, are you?”

“I do try,” he said slowly.

“You will have to try harder in the future. Especially given the exorbitant amount you’re probably being paid.”

“Lucy.” Clara stared in confusion. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Mr. . . . What is your name?”

“Fairchild, miss. Mr. Cameron Fairchild.” He swept an overly dramatic bow. “And I am at your service.”

“Of course you are.” She scoffed. “I knew it the moment I saw you.”

“Knew what?” Caution sounded in Clara’s voice.

“This is the man who has been following us.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You see, Clara, Mr. Fairchild is a private investigator.” She narrowed her eyes. “A watchdog.”

Cam stared at the short bundle of pretty, blond indignation. “I’m what?”

“He’s what?” Miss West said at precisely the same time.

“It’s obvious to me that he has been hired by Jackson to keep an eye on me. To make certain I stay out of harm’s way. To keep me from doing anything that might be deemed scandalous. Or interesting.” Miss Merryweather huffed. “I can think of no other reason why he would be following us.”

“Why else indeed?” Miss West shot him a scathing look.

“Tell me, Mr. Fairchild”—Miss Merryweather glared—“am I wrong? Because if I am, I want to know this very instant why you have been skulking around the past few days. Following us everywhere we go. And I think the police would like to know as well.” She poked him with a pointed finger. “Go on then. Are you up to no good?”

“I assure you my intentions are not dishonorable.” It was the first thing that came to mind and it was the truth as far as it went.

“And have you been engaged to watch my every move?”

“I . . . um . . . well . . .” He struggled to find the right words. Her accusation as well as her appearance left him nearly speechless. He hadn’t yet been close enough to get a good look at her face; Miss Merryweather was neither old nor ugly but quite lovely. Her features were delicate, her creamy skin heighted by a blush of annoyance, a few delightful freckles scattered over a pert little nose, and she had perhaps the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. In fact
delicious
was the adjective that came to mind. “I can’t really say.”

“No, of course you can’t.” She cast him a disgusted look and moved to the door. “Secrecy is a tenet of your profession, isn’t it?”

Cam nodded slowly. He still wasn’t sure what he should say, but at the moment absolutely nothing seemed like a good idea.

“This is exactly what Jackson threatened to do. And apparently, in spite of my objections, exactly what he’s done. He said he didn’t like leaving with no one to watch over me. So much for his belief in my competence.” The door opened and she swept inside. She glanced back at him. “Come in, Mr. Fairchild. I am not finished with you yet.”

“Nor am I,” Miss West said under her breath.

Cam followed the women into the house. This was certainly not his original idea but it might serve him well.

“I should have known better than to think, even for a moment, Jackson would accept my wishes. He gave in entirely too quickly.” Miss Merryweather nodded at the footman who had opened the door and continued without pause in an impressive display of righteous anger and mis-assumption. “His sense of duty has always been extremely annoying. And the man refuses to accept that I am no longer his responsibility.” She removed her hat and cloak and thrust them at the footman, then spun on her heel and glared at Cam. “Tell me, Mr. Fairchild, were you given a list of things to watch out for?”

“I . . . can’t say, miss.”

“That’s fast becoming annoying, Mr. Fairchild,” she said sharply, then drew a deep breath and turned to Miss West. “Clara, if you would be so good as to wait until Mr. Fairchild has removed his coat and hat, then please escort him into the parlor.” Miss Merryweather’s angry gaze met his. “I need a moment to myself.” She nodded, raised her chin, and strode off in a magnificent manner. It was most impressive, especially given how very wrong she was.

A moment later a small terrier bounded into the entry and skidded to a stop on the polished marble floors. His little head swiveled as if he were searching for something. Finally his gaze settled on Cam, eyeing him with suspicion.

“Parlor,” Miss West said firmly.

The little beast looked at her, obviously deciding whether or not she was trustworthy, then obediently trotted after Miss Merryweather.

Cam and Miss West handed their outer garments to the footman, then she steered him in the direction Miss Merryweather had taken. As soon as they were out of earshot of the servant, she leaned close and spoke in a low tone. “What are you doing here, Mr. Fairchild?”

“Why, I’m writing a story, of course. A series of stories, really.
The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress
. It has quite a catchy ring to it, don’t you think?”

She stared. “Are you insane?”

“Probably.” He chuckled. “They say there is a fine line between insanity and brilliance.”

“Whoever says that is an idiot.” Her jaw tightened. “You do realize the irreparable harm you could do by publicly exposing her in that scandal sheet of yours? Why, just the fact that she’s here unaccompanied is highly improper.”

“I’m not a cad, Miss West. I have no desire to harm Miss Merryweather. I am fully aware of the damage that could be done to a woman’s reputation by a misplaced word. Precisely why my works will be fictitious. No more than a product of my imagination. I am simply observing Miss Merryweather for, oh, inspiration as it were. I assure you, no one will ever connect her with my work. So tell me, Miss West.” He leaned closer. “I know she’s up to something. What is it?”

Miss West’s eyes narrowed. “Get out, Mr. Fairchild.”

“Or what, Miss West?” He had her and he knew it. And in a moment she’d know it too. “Or you’ll tell her who I am? That I’m not a private investigator hired to watch over her?” That alone might form the basis for his first story.

“Exactly.” She fairly spit the word at him.

“That would be most distressing.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “Because if you were to reveal my secret, I should be forced to reveal yours.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“While she might be annoyed by my little masquerade—one initiated entirely by her I might add—she scarcely knows me. It would be a moment of indignation, nothing more than that. Whereas you have obviously become quite close,
Clara
. If she knew you were the associate, indeed a partner of an investigator—”

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Fairchild.” Fury blazed in Miss West’s lovely eyes. “But I warn you right now, should these stories of yours cause her harm in any way, you shall have to answer to me.”

He met her gaze directly and realized Clara West might well be a formidable enemy if crossed. “Miss Merryweather has nothing to fear from me, Miss West. I give you my word.”

She studied him closely, then nodded. “Let us hope that is good enough.” She opened the parlor door and waved him in ahead of her, then closed the door behind them.

Miss Merryweather stood staring out the window at the deepening dusk outside, the small dog in her arms, a thoughtful expression on her face. Miss West cleared her throat. “Lucy?”

“I’ve come to a, well, a realization, Clara. As well as a decision.” She set the dog on the floor. He immediately sat down and stared up at her in an alert manner.

“Yes?” Caution sounded in Miss West’s voice.

“In spite of the fact that Jackson”—she glanced at Cam—“Mr. Channing, your employer . . .”

Cam nodded.
Who?
The name was vaguely familiar . . . Of course. Jackson Channing was the newfound American heir to the Earl of Briston. Everyone in London had been talking about it. The question now was what was the connection between that American and this American? Although it must be close if she was staying here at Channing House.

“. . . hired you without my knowledge and against my wishes . . .” Miss Merryweather smiled a distinctly smug sort of smile. “I have decided to make your job easier, Mr. Fairchild.”

“What do you mean?” Suspicion rang in Miss West’s voice.

“Now that we know who our mysterious stranger is and what he’s up to, it seems a shame to waste him.” She glanced at Miss West. “Don’t you agree?”

“I’m not sure,” Miss West said slowly.

“Given today’s incident with the theft of my purse, it strikes me that it would not be ill advised to be accompanied by a gentleman from now on. After all, as we learned today, two ladies alone present a target for any miscreant who happens along.”

“Regardless,” Miss West began. “I don’t think—”

“You said it yourself about the dangers to be found on London streets. He’s going to be dogging our every step no matter what we do, anyway. We might as well make use of him.” Miss Merryweather considered him coolly. “What do you say, Mr. Fairchild? Will you come out of the shadows and accompany us openly or do you prefer to hide in doorways in the cold?”

“I have never been overly fond of doorways and it is exceptionally cold outside,” he said with a smile. This was perfect, absolutely perfect. Miss Merryweather was indeed going to make his job, and his life, much easier.

“Good.” She nodded. “Clara, would you give us a moment alone? Perhaps you could write that note we discussed earlier today. You remember, to the gentleman who—”

“Yes, of course,” Miss West said quickly, then glanced at him and frowned. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“Oh, I’m certain I’ll be perfectly fine. After all, his job is to keep me safe.” Miss Merryweather’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Fairchild?”

He nodded. It did seem the less he said aloud, the better.

“Very well, but I’ll be no more than a few minutes.” A warning sounded in Miss West’s voice.

“I doubt we’ll need much more than a few minutes.” Miss Merryweather’s gaze locked on his. “However, Mr. Fairchild and I do have a few things we need to discuss.”

Miss West shot him a hard look and reluctantly left the room.

“She’s probably listening at the door, you know,” Miss Merryweather said. “I would be.” She crossed the room, the dog at her heels, and seated herself on a sofa. The terrier immediately jumped up beside her, rested its head on her lap but kept his gaze trained on Cam. Cam suspected the dog was not to be trusted, small or not.

Miss Merryweather indicated a nearby chair. “Do sit down, Mr. Fairchild.”

He sat.

“First of all, in spite of Mr. Channing’s belief that I need a”—her jaw tightened—“a watchdog.” The terrier growled softly and she absently rubbed his head. “I can assure you I am neither helpless nor stupid.”

“I never thought otherwise.”

“Your employer obviously did.” She studied him for a long, considering moment and he resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. No, it was apparent, at least to him, that she was far more clever than her delightful appearance might imply. “Given that your surveillance of my activities is no longer clandestine, I was wondering if you would consider leaving Mr. Channing’s employment in favor of working directly for me. Your retrieval of my purse today was most impressive. I will pay you whatever Mr. Channing was paying you,” she added.

He stared. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, miss.”

She blew an annoyed breath. “No, I didn’t think you could. Honor among thieves and all that.” She thought for a moment. “Exactly how much did Mr. Channing tell you about my plans?”

“I . . .”

“If you’re going to tell me again that you can’t say, you might as well hold your tongue,” she said sharply, and again the dog growled. “This is my life that is being meddled with and I resent not having my questions answered.”

“I can understand that.”

She arched a brow. “Can you indeed?”

“I would think it would be most annoying.”

She snorted. “You have no idea.” She rose to her feet, gestured for him to stay seated, then paced the room. The dog trotted along at her heels. “Were you to report back to him? About my activities?”

What was it Phineas had said about the lady who wished to hire him to watch Miss Merryweather? Ah yes. “No. My charge was only to make certain no harm befell you.”

“That’s something at any rate.” She continued to pace, then paused and looked at him. “I have no desire to have my plans interfered with, Mr. Fairchild. I could, of course, just throw you out right now, but I doubt that will stop your observation of me. You will simply go back to hiding in doorways. Am I correct?”

“I do have a job to do.” It simply wasn’t the job she thought.

“I suspected as much.” She resumed pacing, her brows furrowed thoughtfully. He could almost see the gears and wheels of her mind working, like a fine timepiece. Whatever she was up to, it went far beyond sightseeing. This was much more intriguing than he had expected. Perhaps she really was having adventures, after all. After a few silent moments, she nodded as if she had come to a decision, and turned toward him. “It seems if I am going to accomplish what I intend to accomplish, I am going to have to trust you. Can I?”

What on earth did she want to accomplish? “I have always been most trustworthy.”

“Although really, I have little choice. I can confide in you and hope it’s not a mistake. Or I can allow you to trail along behind us, hopefully keeping us safe from brigands and scoundrels, and let you draw your own conclusions. Which would probably be a mistake as well.” She shook her head. “I have never been fond of choosing the lesser of two evils.”

He waited.

“Very well then. Let’s get on with it.” She moved to a side table, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew a sheet of paper. She sat back down on the sofa, the dog resuming his previous position. “My fortune is the legacy of my Great-aunt Lucinda. When she was young, before she married, she made this list of things she wanted to do in her life, adventures, she called them. She never managed them, and instead of adventures, this became a list of her regrets.” She handed the paper to Cam. “I intend to accomplish as many of these as I can.”

“I see.” Cam scanned the sheet. Most of the items were exactly the kind of innocuous things a young girl might want. A few were profound, and indeed, if he had a list of his own, some of these same things might appear on his. And several were definitely scandalous. No wonder Mr. Channing, or Phineas’s client, wanted someone to keep an eye on Miss Merryweather. “You do realize some of these will be extremely difficult if not impossible?”

“That’s the challenge, isn’t it?” A wicked twinkle gleamed in her eyes, and for the first time, she cast him a genuine smile. It lit up her face and did something odd to the pit of his stomach. Good Lord, what had he gotten himself into? “And the fun.”