The Fortune Hunter (25 page)

“If you will follow me, my lord …” She hurried into the parlor, away from the man and his easy words that seemed so sincere. They must be no more than loud ones if Miss Dufresne had turned her back on him. Frye was well aware of her charge's fault in trusting those who were least deserving of it.

Her lips tightened as she wondered if Miss Dufresne's eyes would be opened to her stepbrother when he returned home. Mr. Pilcher had, in Frye's opinion, taken advantage of his stepsister, putting the burden of the household on her while he played at his drawings. Miss Dufresne should have been enjoying the swirl of Society instead of worrying about budgets and bills.

When she heard the viscount's assertive footfalls on the floor behind her, Frye warned herself not to think about matters that were unimportant now. She found comfort in the procedure of asking the lord to choose a chair among the collection scattered about the chamber. She selected the one where she usually sat when she joined Miss Dufresne and her guests. When she realized it would force the viscount to regard her from an uncomfortable angle, she wished she could move without appearing as though she was no more than a mooncalf.

Lord Windham smiled as he folded his hands on the knees of his nankeen pantaloons. “You appear ill at ease in my company, Miss Frye. Please be assured that I have not taken the owl with you. Any exasperation I might be harboring is directed at Miss Dufresne. I trust she is not at home this afternoon.”

“You are correct. Miss Dufresne is not at home.”

“But you are.”

“I can tell you, my lord, that nothing you say will convince me to try to woo Miss Dufresne into forgiving you for the distress you have heaped upon her.”

He laughed. “I do not expect the impossible from you.” Reaching under his dark brown coat, he withdrew a sealed page. “All I ask is that you give this to Miss Dufresne. The other letters I have had delivered here have been returned to me unopened.”

Frye did not take the letter. “You have wasted your time calling.”

“Only if you refuse to comply with this simple request.” He placed the folded page on the arm of her chair. “I must leave Bath tonight for several days, and I wish Miss Dufresne to understand why. Please give her this letter and ask her to read it.”

“I shall give it to her, for I would never think of failing to deliver a message to her, but I cannot guarantee that she will read it.”

Standing, he said, “I understand. Miss Dufresne's stubborn nature is without par.”

“I would not say that.”

A slow smile tipped his lips, but his eyes remained frigid. “You may tell Miss Dufresne, as well, that I would not have been so patient about her refusal to see me if I had not been in and out of Bath recently on a business she knows is very important to me. If fortune is with me, it soon shall be finished, and I intend to give her much more of my attention.” Giving her no time to reply to his outrageous statement, he added, “Good day, Miss Frye.”

The abigail sat in the chair until she heard the door close. Then she picked up the page. Not even Miss Dufresne's name blemished the cream colored vellum. Its very lack of address disturbed her, for it seemed to her that Lord Windham expected his every wish to be satisfied. Dread nibbled at her. This could bode no good for her lady.

“Then she said that she found the waters as tasty as a lemon tart.” Annis laughed as she climbed the stairs from the entry foyer with Nerissa. “No wonder dear Philip was struggling not to laugh until we returned to the gig. Dear Nerissa, I swear I was about to fall into whoops myself.”

Nerissa smiled absently. True, the discussion at the Pump Room had been amusing, but … she sighed silently. Nothing could lighten her spirits when her heart was so weighty. Knowing Annis would be expecting an answer, she managed to say something which sent her friend into another palavering monologue.

Not that she could fault Annis. Since the confrontation at
Madame
de Ramel's shop, Annis had made every effort to keep Nerissa so busy she would have no time to think of Hamilton. The simple truth was that he invaded her thoughts in the middle of a conversation as easily as he did in the middle of the night. Too often, she found herself scanning a gathering, looking for his teasing smile and eyes that taunted her into believing the warmth within them was for her alone.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Frye hurried toward them. Nerissa saw her abigail's troubled expression and interrupted Annis to say, “If you will excuse me, I believe I have some household matters that require my attention.”

“Perfect!” Annis hugged her before adding, “I shall take nine winks so I may be bright when Philip returns this evening. We are going to a performance at the Theatre Royal with Janelle and Mr. Oakley. How I wish you would go with us.”

Nerissa was able to smile with sincerity. “You know I have no wish to spend even a moment in Mr. Oakley's company.”

“Or Janelle's.” She laughed. “She has become too much of a good thing since her betrothal was announced. Do go and tend to your duties, Nerissa. I promise I shall remember every detail of the play to share with you when I return.”

Nerissa's smile ebbed as she opened the door to her bedroom. When Frye followed her in mutely, she was sure something was wrong. Her abigail seldom failed to ask her where she had been and had she had a good time. Frye's very silence bespoke trouble.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Frye said softly, “Lord Windham stopped by this afternoon.”

“Did he?” Nerissa slowly untied the ribbons on her bonnet, keeping her back to her abigail.

Until she had her errant emotions under control, she preferred to keep them hidden. She almost laughed with irony. Not a single person in the household could be indifferent to her ambivalent feelings toward Hamilton. Night after night, she dreamed of being with him, but she could not greet him at her door when he would return home to Mrs. Howe. Then her fantasy would turn to a nightmare as her head was filled with images of the tall blonde laughing at Nerissa's love for a man who preferred Mrs. Howe's easy virtue.

“Miss Dufresne?”

“Yes?”

“He wanted you to have this.”

When Frye added nothing more, Nerissa turned to see the sealed letter. She took it gingerly, then tossed it onto the table by her reading chair.

Frye said uneasily, “He asked that you read it.”

“I may.” Faking a yawn, she said, “Do let me rest, Frye. I never suspected how exhausting it would be to chaperon Annis about Bath.”

“You might be wise to read the letter at the very least.”

“I shall consider it. Now let me rest before I give a packing-penny to you.”

Frye hesitated, then asked, “Miss Dufresne, he seemed very anxious for you to read it. And he said—”

“What did he say?” she asked before she could stop herself. She was acting like a schoolgirl in the throes of her first calf love. Hamilton might feel desire for her, but he would treat her no differently than he had any woman since Mrs. Howe's betrayal. She would not be like those other women.

Frye opened and closed her hands, then locked her fingers together in front of her. “He asked me to tell you.… That is, he requested—”

“Do get on with it, Frye!”

“He said that he would have not been so patient with you turning him away if he had not been involved in business that you know is important to him.” She swallowed roughly. “Then he plans to turn his attention to you. What does he mean, Miss Dufresne?”

Nerissa turned away again. “I think it is quite clear, Frye.”

Frye nodded and scurried out of the room. Nerissa saw her glance back at the letter, fear on her face as if she expected Old Scratch to leap up from it. As the door closed, Nerissa picked up the letter.

She had not wanted to send the others back, but she had. If this was like his last “apology,” when he had lured her into forgiving him with an invitation, she must not let herself be tempted to pardon him again.

Even as she thought that, her finger slipped beneath the wax sealing the page. She sat on the chair. She brushed bits of red wax from her lap and glanced out the window, hesitating before she began to read. She had to own that she would want for sense if she let Hamilton invade her life anew. If she did, she was unsure if she could govern her feelings for the intriguing viscount. It was easier to act angry at his crass words than to own to her longings to be in his arms, to feel the throbbing of his heart against her breast, to delight in his tongue stroking hers in an invitation to rapture.

With a soft moan, she forced the enticing thoughts from her head. She must force him just as completely from her mind, but her body refused to obey her. Her hands lifted the letter up, and her eyes revealed each word to her.

My dear Nerissa,

How many letters have I begun this way? You would not know, unless you have kept count of how many you have sent back unopened. I hope you have acceded to good sense and are reading this one, for I can ascertain no reason to continue to write missives that will go unread.

For the past few days, I have been inundated with Philip's opinions of you and me. To paraphrase them—so I need not run this bottle of ink dry—you are a widgeon. As—he assures me—I am. Mayhap he is correct, but I shall not ask your forgiveness for any offense I might have inflicted upon you because of a promise I made my father while he was taking his last breath. Nor shall I ask why you assumed—as you clearly did—that a visit to a millinery shop was on Elinor's behalf. Tonight, when a lad brings a gift for Annis from her loving Philip, I think you shall realize I was placing that order with the milliner on his behalf. Mayhap, by the time I return from delivering Elinor to Town—where she will be distant enough not to vex me with her demands for what I cannot give her—you will have to come to your senses and will receive me when I call upon you.

I remain, until that time,

Your trusted servant,

Nerissa lowered the letter to her lap as Hamilton's handwriting blurred before her eyes. Happiness flowed into the emptiness inside her.

“Your
trusted
servant,” she reread aloud and smiled. Yes, she did trust him, cabbage-head though she might be. If only she could convince him to trust her … but mayhap this was a beginning. She hoped that was so.

Nerissa bent her head into the fine mist that was dampening the street and her shawl. It was not far to Laura Place, and she wanted to get inside before it began to rain in earnest. Because she had been going only a short distance along Argyle Street, she had not taken an umbrella to protect her when the massive clouds overhead vented their burden.

Hearing a shout behind her, she looked back to see a short man pumping his fist angrily at a man, who was driving a wagon along the street. She hurried on, not curious enough about their quarrel to stand in the rain and listen.

A smile tilted her lips. Philip had told her Hamilton was due back in Bath tomorrow. Although she did not know when he might call, she hoped it would be soon. No week had ever passed more slowly than this one.

She paused at the corner of Grove Street to look in the window of a bookstore. So frequently, she had stood here with Cole as they pointed out the books they wished they could read. Cole always selected technical books while she had been partial to Miss Austen's stories and Walter Scott's romantic tales. They seldom purchased anything, for books were a luxury they could scarcely afford.

A drop of rain bounced off her bonnet, and Nerissa knew she could not afford to dally. She went to the curb to cross the street. Looking both ways, she saw the same short man, who had been coming to points with the teamster. He seemed in no hurry. When he saw her looking at him, he stopped and looked in the window of another shop.

Nerissa wove her way through the maze of traffic, and hurried along the walkway. In spite of herself, she looked over her shoulder to see the short man negotiating his way past the carriages and wagons in the street.

When the man crossed the center of Laura Place as she did, Nerissa clutched her bag tighter. He could not be following her. It must be no more than a coincidence. This was a busy street, after all. She looked back and discovered he was closing the distance between them.

Her heart thumped wildly in her ears. Wanting to run, wanting to scream, she did neither. She continued to walk quickly, smiling with relief when she saw the steps to her house.

As she put her hand on the rail, her right arm was grasped. She tried to pull away, but was whirled to face a squat man. His hair fell forward into his narrow eyes, which were regarding her with a lasciviousness that wrenched her stomach.

“Take your hands off me!”

“I be needin' to speak with ye.”

“I am sorry,” she said primly. “I do not know you, and I do not speak with strangers.”

He stepped in front of her, still holding her arm. Hooking a thumb toward the front door, he asked, “Do ye live 'ere?”

She considered lying, but she wanted nothing more at the moment than to get inside the house and close out this horrible man. “Yes.”

“Alone?”

“That, sir, is none of your bread and butter.” She tried to pull away. When his dirty, cracked nails dug into her arm, she gasped. “You are hurting me.”

“I'll be doin' more if ye don't answer me.”

Nerissa choked as he thrust his face closer. The scent of cheap gin sickened her. Trying to lean away, she choked back a scream as he abruptly released her, and she fell onto the bottom step.

A tall form stepped between her and the odious man. She released her ragged breath as she looked up at Terry, the house's lone footman. In his hand, he held one of the walking sticks which Cole had inherited from his father, but had never used. As he glowered at the shorter man, he put a hand under her elbow to assist her gently to her feet.

“Begone from here,” Nerissa said in a shaky voice.