Elisabeth Fairchild (13 page)

She maintained her composure. “You are a trend-setter, sir. I shall listen for your approach this evening with great anticipation.”

Her remark won a laugh.

Aurora took her leave of Miles Fletcher with a smile. Pleased with the way her time had been spent and imbued with the same galloping rush of energy she was used to experiencing after a cross-country race, she spent several hours in and about Tom Coke’s remarkable barn, examining the condition and conformation of his stock. Aurora could not have planned a more pleasat day.

Informed by one of the grooms that her brother was returned she fairly skipped into the library, her heart as buoyant as her step.

“Rupert, I have passed a most delightful day!” she blurted, before even she laid eyes on her sibling.

He was there, and from the looks of his attire only recently returned from outdoors himself, but Aurora was brought up short halfway across the room, amazed by the changed atmosphere of her brother’s sanctuary. The fire had gone out, no candles or lamps had been lit and Rupert sat without any signs of animation, in one of the darker corners of the room. His face was obscured in the shadow.

“Aurora,” he said huskily. “A letter is come!”

Four words, no more, and yet she knew the letter brought bad news.

“Who writes?” She could see in the shadow of his lap, a white square against dark kerseymere breeches.

“Roger.”

“Roger?” She stared at the folded bit of paper as if it were a viper, ready to strike her hand should she reach for it. Her gaze sought Rupert’s. Roger was not much given to letter writing. “What does he say? Has his illness taken a turn for the worse?”

Rupert closed his eyes and lolled his head back against the chair. His voice was as lacking in energy as his body. He lifted the letter as if it were a thing of weight and held it out to her. “It’s Jack. He suffers reverses.”

Aurora’s fingers leapt to unfold the letter. Rupert did not stir to see her reaction as she crossed to the window, the only place bright enough to read. With deep foreboding she scanned the crossed and recrossed lines. “No!” she gasped. “Oh God, Rue! How could he?” Her hand flew to her throat. The truth danced before her eyes. She dropped the letter, sank into the nearest chair and stared blankly out of the window.

“He has lost the land?” she said unsteadily.

“The hall as well.”

Aurora clapped a hand over her mouth lest she cry out. “Dear God, Rue! He paupers us. How could he?”

“How could he?” His voice was acid with sarcasm. “Exactly the same way he has done away with everything else of any value he ever owned.”

“We must leave at once,” she said uncertainly.

“Why?” Rupert’s tone was flat. “We’ve nothing to return to. What’s the hurry?

As all light faded from the rosy sky, so too all light and color faded from Aurora’s face.

Aurora’s haze of euphoria over a day spent pleasantly in Miles Fletcher’s company, a day in which she had learned flirting and flattery and the pleasure of two minds well-met, a day in which her plans to marry Lord Walsh seemed a distant and unnecessary objective--had dissipated. With the arrival of a folded and franked piece of paper, a great weight had been yoked about her neck. An unfriendly fist squeezed her heart. Her brother, Jack, her foolish, wastrel of a brother, whom all of London referred to as Rakehell Ramsay, lived up to his name once again.

The Ramsay lands, all that was left of a once respectable fortune, were lost to a superior hand of cards. The only way to save Jack’s disreputable hide from a debtor’s prison would be to sell everything--house, land, cattle, sheep--the lot. The silver, the family portraits, the furnire, the coach and four, all had already gone to pay off Jack’s obsession with betting--dice, cards, horses, it did not matter to Jack as long as there were odds to wager. There had been nothing left to lose but that which mattered to Aurora most: the land, the cattle, and her flocks.

It was Roger who wrote--Roger, who had his own cross to bear in the form of the wasting illness he had brought upon himself by frequenting too many brothels. He offered little comfort and even less assistance. Roger was more often out of the family picture than in it, of late. Damn the letter!

Damn Jack! How could he? She wanted to weap, scream or throw something. How could her own flesh and blood so carelessly lose those last few things into which she had poured the very essence of her soul? Her happiness was squashed, the sunlight dimmed, all laughter made hollow. Choice, and the luxury of time, was swept from Aurora’s grasp--all choice but Walsh. He was her only hope.

She thought of nothing but winning his attention as she and Rupert went quietly in to dinner and pushed food about Tom Coke’s exquisite bone china plates. Walsh was her last hope, her best hope--the answer to all of her ills. Odd, how she had passed the whole morning with scarcely a thought entering her head with regard to him. Now she could think of nothing and no one else. Miles Fletcher tried to catch her eye as the soup was served and again when the main course was delivered, but she paid him no mind. Her eyes, her attention, her very soul’s intent, were fixed on Walsh.

He sat at the far end of the table, on the opposite side. They were not in good position to exchange glances. And yet, she was determined to share, if not conversation, at least a passing glance with the man who, all unknowing, held her Fate in his pocket.

The letter from Roger--poor pox-ridden Roger, who could not save himself much less his debt-burdened brother-- redirected her thinking, reminding her how precarious her very survival might be without success where Walsh was concerned. The urgency of marrying, and marrying well, increased one-hundredfold.

Over dessert her objective was finally met. Walsh looked absently along the line of diners across the table from him. Their eyes met briefly. His gaze traveled past her and then returned. He inclined his head ever so slightly. She inclined hers. That was all, but it was enough to give Aurora hope, and fire her with enthusiasm to get on with the transformation that Miles Fletcher promised to wreak on her wardrobe that evening.

Miles, she realized, had watched her exchange with Walsh. She could tell, because he inclined his head exactly as Walsh had and then raised his glass in ironic salute.

He approached her when the table was cleared and leaned down to whisper provocatively, “I shall join you, in your room, in a quarter of an hour.”

For a moment, the heat of his breath on her neck closed Aurora’s eyes and mind to the troubles of the day. For an instant her heart was light again. “I shall listen for your bells,” she quipped.

He pulled back to smile his tight little smile, offered a courtly bow and left her to explain to Rupert, “What bells?”

“No bells at all,” she replied, her smile fading. As the crowd swallowed Miles, her spirits sank.

“Come,” she tugged at Rupert’s arm. “You must accompany me, though it means mounting the stairs.”

Rupert was exhausted and surly by the time the stairs had been navigated.

“Damn!” he exclaimed as he sank into a chair in her room and flung aside his crutch. “I do not understand this wardrobe business in the least! What is wrong with your wardrobe? I think you have always presented yourself quite nicely. As to the business with Walsh . . . you know I am dead set against the idea of putting on airs to attract the eye of a man who cannot recognize your strong qualities without you dress them up for him. Love surely does not require such studied pursuit.”

“Love? I suffer no illusions of love. I seek security and survival, not love.”

“Yes, but why must your avenue of survival be determined by
Jack’s
fool-hardy antics?” He spat out the name. “I do not see why you feel it your responsibility to rescue the scoundrel from his financial woes yet again, when it is his own folly landed him in this royal mess.”

She sighed impatiently. “Rupert, surely you are familiar enough with British law to realize I have no choice. The moneylenders will take everything without Charles here to stop them. I cannot halt the inevitable liquidation of all that remains of father’s estate, of all that is dear to

me . . .” Her voice faltered. She took a sobering breath and squared her jaw. “I cannot stop it any more than I could stop Jack’s gambling, or Theo’s drinking, or Roger’s whoring.” She blinked angry tears from her lashes. “All I can see to do is to arrange my own life as wisely and as swiftly as I am able. If that arrangement requires Mr. Fletcher’s assistance in refurbishing my wardrobe in such a fashion as to catch Lord Walsh’s eye, then I will do what I can. I must.”

Rue sank back in the chair and dropped his head into his hands. “But at what price, Aurora? Your happiness? Your future? I beg you do not sell short what must be dearer than land, cattle of flocks of sheep.” He pulled at his hair. “Would that I might sell my scribblings . . . or that I had two legs to stand upon so that I might go to Jack and uncork his nose . . .”

She sank down beside him and ran a soothing hand through his hair. “Your stories will sell, Rue. Do not throw yourself into a pet, my dear. You are the best of brothers, in every way. You need not try to make up for the rest of our wayward siblings.”

“As you do?” His voice was hoarse, his face haggard when he lifted it to look at her.

She frowned. As she did? Whatever did he mean? Did she try to make up for her siblings?

A knock on the door saved Aurora from troubling with an answer. She smiled half-heartedly. “Cheer up! Things will work out.”

Expecting to find Miles Fletcher, she opened the door. It was not Miles, but Rue’s water-colorist from the lawn who stood waiting, the swanlike female who seemed capable of enchanting every young man who laid eyes on her. She was, Aurora discovered, even more beautiful up close than she had seemed from a distance.

“Good evening. Is Miles here?” she had the effrontery to ask.

Aurora blinked at her. “No. Shall I inform Mr. Fletcher you seek him out?”

It was their visitor’s turn to blink. “Did he not tell you to expect me, then? I do beg your pardon. He asked me to come along this evening. I hope you do not mind.”

Of course Aurora minded. She did not want this pretty thing observing this evening’s work, but she could not say so to her face. She opened the door wider and waved the young woman in. “Not at all,” she lied.

“Oh!” The girl stopped short when she spotted Rupert, who had done a manly job of rising to greet their guest. “I’d no idea you were to be here.”

“I would introduce you,” Aurora said with forced mildness, “But we have, ourselves, never been introduced.”

Rupert looked dumbfounded, but had presence of mind enough to extend his hand, his eyes never straying from their visitor’s face. “We have met.”

The swanlike creature smiled prettily and dipped a graceful curtsey as she placed her hand in his. “We have.”

Aurora had no more opportunity to pry from the stranger

her name, for in that instant Miles Fletcher arrived and walked boldly through the open doorway with yet another woman in tow.

“Mrs. Hall, the local seamstress.” He presented the lantern-jawed woman as though she were a duchess. “I see you have already met Gracie.”

Aurora was given no opportunity to contradict. Like an admiral commandeering his fleet, Miles swept across the room, made his greeting to Rupert and flung open the wardrobe where Aurora’s clothes were neatly hung. His mission required immediate attention.

“Gracie!” He emerged from the wardrobe, arms full. “You will arrange these for me on the bed, please, according to color.”

Without demur, Aurora’s unexpected female guest did as she was bid while Mrs. Hall also answered Fletcher’s beck and call, pulling from a basket he had carried into the room for her a number of fabric swatches in varying hue.

“You!” Miles Fletcher rounded on Aurora. “Sit here!” He arranged a chair in front of the long mirror that hung from one wall. Frowning, Aurora sat. There was no question who was in charge of these proceedings. Miles Fletcher filled the room with his scented, polished and coolly controlled presence. He made it his, studying Aurora, once she was seated, from all angles, as if she were no more than an object to him, a chair perhaps that required a change in upholstery.

Such remote objectivity in Mr. Fletcher’s regard was disturbing. Judgmental assessment ruled his searching perusal of her now. His gaze made her feel like a prize cow. For a brief but alarming moment, she was a child again, with nanny peered down and directing her to,” Turn about, miss, that I might see what damage you have done your poor tattered skirts out climbing trees.”

“Here we have the possibilities.” The woman Aurora knew only as Gracie began to hand Miles garments one by one, her gaze searching the mirror with a frown as they were held up in front of their mistress.

Aurora’s favorite muslin gown was eyed with disapproval. Its critic spoke to the intrusive Grace over the top of Aurora’s head, as if this stranger had more role in this discussion than the owner of the dress.

“Hopelessly outdated,” Fletcher dismissed the garment and would have flung it across the bed, had not his Gracie stopped him.