The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress (7 page)

“You wanted an idea and I gave you one. Now it’s up to you.” Phineas’s eyes narrowed slightly as they did when he had some sort of idea. “I know writing stories that are less than truthful for the
Messenger
bothers you.”

“I have accustomed myself to the realities of my profession,” Cam said wryly.

“But your paper also runs serials, doesn’t it?”

Cam nodded. “They’re extremely popular.”

“Then write
The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress
as a serial. As pure fiction.” Phineas leaned over his desk and met Cam’s gaze directly. “Don’t even pretend that it’s real. And use this American for your inspiration.”

“My muse,” Cam murmured. It was a good idea. He simply needed to convince Mr. Cadwallender of the merits of Cam’s writing fiction. It would not be the first time he’d attempted to do so, but the publisher already employed several accomplished writers of fiction. “It might work.”

“Might?” Phineas snorted. “It’s brilliant and you bloody well know it.” He grinned. “You may thank me later.”

“Indeed I will. So . . .” Cam said slowly, “the only thing I need now is the name of this daring heiress.”

Phineas laughed. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Of course you can. She’s not your client.”

“No, she’s not. Still, it seems to me I’ve done enough. You should make some effort on your own.”

“I intend to. Her name is just the beginning.” Once he had her name, he could locate her and observe her exploits or adventures or whatever she did that would provide inspiration.

“Besides”—Phineas shrugged—“I don’t know her name. This is all Miss West’s endeavor. I have nothing to do with it.”

“Then perhaps I should ask Miss West—”

“You can ask her, but I’d wager you won’t get any usable information. Miss West doesn’t trust you.”

Cam gasped. “Me? Why, I’m most trustworthy.”

“Nonetheless, she is not an admirer of your work or your paper.”

“She’s made no secret of that.” Indeed, Miss West’s opinion of the
Messenger
was much like his father’s.

“If she thinks you’re looking for a story, she won’t tell you anything. She has a very finely developed sense of honor for a woman.” Phineas shook his head.

A sharp rap sounded at the door, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a key inserting in the lock.

“And she’s back.” Phineas rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“So much for your holiday.”

“So much indeed,” Phineas muttered, then lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “The means to pulling information from Miss West is not to directly ask her anything you wish to know. One never knows what one might learn in the course of casual conversation.”

The door opened and Miss West stepped into the room. Both men got to their feet at once, Phineas with a show of some reluctance.

“Good day, Mr. Chapman.” Her gaze slid to Cam. “And Mr. Fairchild. It’s been some time since we’ve seen you.” She nodded and proceeded to her desk.

“Far too long, Miss West.” Cam smiled.

“The two of you look as if you are plotting something.” Her gaze slid from Cam to Phineas. “Are you?”

“Why are you here?” Phineas asked.

She pulled off her gloves. “I am doing quite well, thank you. And you?”

“That’s not what I asked.” Phineas huffed. “I thought we had agreed that you would not be coming here while you are in the employ of the American.”

“I don’t really recall agreeing to that, nor is it something I would ever agree to.” She sat down behind her desk. “However, I shall indeed be too busy accompanying Miss Merryweather to fulfill my usual responsibilities here.”

Phineas slanted Cam a pointed look. It wasn’t necessary. Cam had already noted the name.

“Are you enjoying your new position with the American?” Cam said politely.

“He told you about that, did he?”

“Naturally I inquired as to where you were,” Cam said in a gallant manner. “Mr. Chapman told me you had taken a temporary position as a companion to an American.” He paused. “I apologize if I have overstepped. If this position is confidential in nature or your activities a secret of some sort.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Fairchild.” She scoffed. “It’s the most straightforward and least secretive venture I’ve been engaged in since joining Mr. Chapman.”

Phineas blew an annoyed breath.

She ignored him. “I’ve only started today, so whether or not it will be enjoyable remains to be seen.” She opened a drawer and peered down into it, rummaging through the contents. “She’s a lovely woman and gives the impression of being somewhat scattered, although I suspect that hides an excellent mind. But, yes, Mr. Fairchild, I do expect it to be a most enjoyable employment. Rather like”—she raised her gaze to Phineas—“a holiday, I should think.”

Cam choked back a laugh.

Phineas’s eyes narrowed.

“It will be most refreshing to be around someone with a pleasant disposition for a change.” She smiled and pulled a notebook from the drawer.

Phineas huffed. “I can be pleasant.”

“I know you can be, you simply choose not to be.” She shut the drawer and rose to her feet. “I only came by to fetch my notebook. Now that I have, I’ll be on my way.”

“I assure you, I had no intention of reading it while you were gone,” Phineas said. “It was perfectly safe in your desk.” Phineas prided himself on never needing to write anything down. He never forgot anything he wished to remember.

“And now it is even safer.” She moved toward the door.

“Might I inquire as to where you will be staying during your employment?” Cam said smoothly.

“Why, Mr. Fairchild?” She studied him coolly. “Do you intend to call on me?”

Cam hesitated, then nodded. “I had considered it.”

She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. “You have not.”

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Phineas said under his breath.

“One can only hope.” She considered Cam thoughtfully. “As you have never before indicated so much as an iota of interest in me in a personal sense, I can only conclude that you have an ulterior motive in doing so now.”

“Good God, Phineas.” Cam glared at his friend. “What have you done to her?”

Phineas shrugged, but laughter glittered in his eyes.

“Which would further indicate to me your interest lies in my new employer.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you intend to make her the subject of one of your scandalous stories for your paper?”

Cam widened his eyes in surprise. “Not at all.” He clasped his hand over his heart. “You wound me deeply, Miss West. I have long been meaning to ask if I could call on you.”

Phineas snorted.

“My apologies, Mr. Fairchild. I should not have jumped to such a conclusion.” In spite of her words, it was obvious from the look in her eyes that she neither believed nor trusted him. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss West.” Cam paused. “But perhaps, as your employer is a guest in our country, might I offer you my services as, oh, a guide of sorts?”

“Miss Merryweather has a very specific list of things she would like to see and do during her stay in England. So, while your offer is very kind, your services will not be necessary. I am well able to show a visitor the city I have lived in all of my life.” She smiled in an overly sweet manner.

“The offer remains open should you decide I could be of some assistance.” Cam tried to hide the note of eagerness in his voice.

“Thank you, Mr. Fairchild, but I very much doubt that I will.” She moved toward the door. “Good day. Good day, Mr. Chapman.”

“Miss West,” Phineas said abruptly.

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Do take care of yourself and try not to do anything foolish.” His tone was brusque, but his gaze caught Miss West’s and for a moment they stared at each other. Cam had absolutely no idea what it meant, but obviously these two had secrets Phineas had not shared with him.

Her gaze softened. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Chapman. I shall be fine.”

“See that you are.” Phineas shuffled through the debris on his desk. “Wouldn’t want to have to train someone else.”

A slight smile played over her lips and she opened the door, then paused and looked back. “Oh, one more thing. Do either of you have any idea where I might be able to purchase a dog? And possibly a parrot?”

“Clara.” Lucy leaned closer to the other woman and lowered her voice. She did so hate to sound like a frightened schoolgirl and in truth she wasn’t the least bit scared. On the contrary, it was most exciting. Still, she did think Clara should know. “I didn’t want to say anything before, but now I’m fairly certain there’s an extremely attractive gentleman who seems to be following us.”

Clara pulled up short and scanned the street. “Where?”

“I don’t see him now.” Lucy glanced around. There were a fair number of people passing by but no one she recognized. “I noticed him yesterday and the day before, but he’s very good. Every time I look in his direction, he ducks behind a carriage or steps into a doorway.”

“The next time you see him, let me know at once.” Clara’s tone was firm. She took Lucy’s arm and they started off, her pace a bit faster than before. “Come along, Lucy. It’s entirely too cold to linger.”

It was indeed far colder than Lucy had thought when they’d set out from Channing House. But their destination was no more than a ten-minute walk and both women agreed a carriage wasn’t necessary. Lucy pushed her hands further into her fur muff, her small reticule dangling from her wrist.

They’d spent the last three days deciding on a course of action for accomplishing as many of Great-aunt Lucinda’s adventures as possible. Except of course when they were busy making the acquaintance of Albert, the small Yorkshire terrier Clara had brought home. It was most thoughtful of her and something else that could be crossed off Lucinda’s list. Clara said she had run into an acquaintance and discovered, in the course of their conversation, that he knew of a well-trained dog in need of a new home. If given her choice, Lucy would have preferred a dog with a bit more substance to it. Albert was extremely small, less than ten pounds, and didn’t even come up to her knee. Nonetheless, it was love at first sight on all sides. He was indeed a clever little fellow and refused to leave Lucy’s side, as if he knew she was his new master. Albert had been quite indignant today when they had left him behind.

“I don’t like that,” Clara said under her breath. “I don’t like that at all.”

Lucy glanced at her in surprise. “Surely we’re in no real danger. It’s the middle of the day, after all, and we’re in Mayfair. What could possibly happen to us here?”

“One never knows,” Clara said darkly. Lucy was beginning to suspect Clara was far more worldly than she appeared. “Robbery, kidnapping, seduction, murder—”

“That’s enough.” Lucy laughed. “You have made your point. Still, he didn’t look like someone who was out to do us harm. Did I mention he was exceptionally attractive?”

“Goodness, Lucy.” Clara shook her head. “A man doesn’t necessarily have to look like a brigand to be one. I would wager the very best of them don’t look like what they truly are. Life would be much easier if they did.”

“It is a shame though . . .”

Clara slanted her a wry smile. “Because he was exceptionally attractive?”

“Well . . .” Lucy grinned. “Yes.”

Lucy really wasn’t accustomed to thinking of men as exceptionally attractive in anything other than a detached, objective way. After all, she was supposed to marry Jackson and whether she did or did not think of a man as handsome and dashing really hadn’t mattered. Now, however, she was free. And he, whoever he was, was tall with dark hair and broad shoulders and, when he wasn’t hiding in doorways, had a walk that said he was a man of determination. She didn’t get more than a fleeting glimpse of his face—he was too smart to come too close—but she suspected it was quite handsome. Or perhaps she simply hoped. After all, a man of mystery should be handsome and dashing. The man watching them was certainly mysterious enough even if she was fairly certain she knew exactly who—or rather what—he was. Clara had nothing to worry about.

“This is it.” Clara paused in front of the walk leading to a house too small to be accurately called grand but entirely too formidable to be called anything else. “The residence of James Rutledge, Viscount Northrup.”

“This is where Lucinda’s mother, my great-grandmother, was born.” In her mind, Lucy placed a checkmark next to
Visit the place my mother was born
. “Shall we?”

“Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“One never knows how people will greet long-lost relatives. However”—Lucy squared her shoulders—“it is on the list.” She nodded, stepped up to the door, lifted the brass knocker, and rapped it smartly against the back plate.

The door opened almost at once and a butler stared down his long nose at her. “May I help you, miss?”

“I do hope so.” She cast him her brightest smile. “I have come to see Lord Northrup.” She presented him with her calling card. “And this is my friend, Miss West.”

“Is he expecting you?” The butler glanced at the card. “Miss Merryweather?”

“He couldn’t possibly as I didn’t expect to be here myself.” Again she smiled.

Clara stepped forward. “Miss Merryweather has recently arrived from New York and, as she was uncertain as to the length of her stay, she did not think she would have time to pay a call on his lordship. She certainly would have made prior arrangements if she had. Fortunately her plans have changed and she would like nothing more than to pay her respects to his lordship,
her cousin
.”

“I was unaware that his lordship had any American relations,” the butler said coolly.

“Then isn’t this a delightful surprise for you.” Lucy beamed. She had recently learned the enjoyment of saying exactly what you thought and allowing people to think you had no idea what you had just said. Because you were short and blond and perky. “My dear Mister . . . ?”

“Clarkson.”

“Mr. Clarkson.” Lucy leaned toward him in a confidential manner. “Would you rather have us come in, out of the cold, and be right when your suspicions are confirmed that we are not who we say we are, or refuse us entry and be wrong?” She shook her head regretfully. “I can’t imagine his lordship would be happy about that.”

The butler’s gaze swept over them, no doubt judging the quality of their clothing and their overall appearance. Apparently, they passed his inspection.

“You have a point, miss.” He opened the door wider and waved them in. “If you would be so good as to wait here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clarkson,” Lucy said pleasantly.

The butler nodded and left them in the foyer under the watchful eye of a young footman who looked more curious than vigilant.

“I have always fought to have my intelligence acknowledged,” Clara said in a low tone for Lucy’s ears alone. “Perhaps I would do better to rely on a brilliant smile and a pleasant demeanor.”

“Oh, I am unfailingly pleasant.” Lucy tried and failed to keep a smug note from her voice. “It works quite nicely.”

A minute later the butler returned and ushered them into a parlor. Decorated in the furnishings of another era, there was a worn and vaguely tired air to the room. The weak winter sunlight filtering in through the tall windows did nothing to dispel the sense that this parlor had seen better days. A distinguished-looking gentleman, who appeared a little older than her father, stood near the mantel. A lady, obviously his wife, who must have been quite pretty in her youth, perched on a nearby sofa. They appeared more intrigued than forbidding and relief washed through Lucy.

“Well, well,” Lord Northrup said with a smile. “Clarkson informs us I have a cousin that I am unaware of.” His gaze shifted between Lucy and Clara. “Which one of you—”

“I’m Lucy Merryweather and this is my friend, Miss West.” Lucy smiled. “Your grandfather’s sister was my great-grandmother.”

“My grandfather’s sister . . .” The older man drew his brows together thoughtfully.

“It was a very long time ago,” Lucy added.

“Of course,” Lady Northrup said. “You remember, dear. You said your grandfather used to talk about his sister. How she had married and gone to America?”

Lord Northup nodded slowly. “Priscilla, I believe her name was.” He studied Lucy curiously. “Your great-grandmother, you say?”

Lucy nodded. “I know this must strike you as being very odd, but my Great-aunt Lucinda, one of Priscilla’s daughters, always wanted to know why her mother never spoke of her family. When she died she left me her, well, a journal of sorts, and one of the things she regretted in life was not knowing what happened between her mother and her mother’s family. And, as I was in London, I thought I would try to find out.” Saying it aloud did sound a little silly even if it was the truth. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“As you said, it was a very long time ago,” Lord Northrup said slowly. “Perhaps you should follow me into the library.”

Lady Northrup rose to her feet. “There is something you might like to see.”

Lucy and Clara traded glances, then trailed after the couple into a room lined with bookshelves divided by rich, dark wood panels. Portraits and paintings, landscapes and country scenes covered every bit of wall space, and the overall impression was one of a room nearly ready to burst with books and memories. It smelled of sweet pipe tobacco and that wonderful mustiness that can only come from very old books, better loved through the years than cared for. Unlike the parlor, this room seemed more comfortable than merely worn.

“I have always agreed with that old adage about a picture being far more effective in the telling of a story than mere words.” Lord Northrup chuckled. He and his wife stopped in front of a large portrait of a family, the paint crazed with age, the gilded frame chipped at the corners as if it had been moved and hung more than once through the years.

“The shorter boy, who looks as if he would rather be anywhere but posing for a painting, is my grandfather. The taller boy is his older brother. Note how the artist caught that gleam in his eye. As if he’s just waiting for adventure to present itself.”

Lucy nodded and studied the painting. There was indeed a sense of restrained excitement about the figure of the older boy, as if, with very little effort, he would leap out of the painting and seize whatever opportunity came along.

“Although spirit in the heir to a title is not especially encouraged,” his lordship said. “The gentleman who looks as if his cravat is tied entirely too tight is my great-grandfather, the third Viscount Northrup, and the lady who appears from her expression to have just eaten something sour—”

“Now, now, dear,” Lady Northrup murmured.

“Well, she does.” He grinned at Lucy. “I’ve thought that since I was a boy and I think the same every time I look at her. I’ve always wanted to commission a painter to change her expression just a bit, but apparently the original artist was quite accomplished, even if nobody remembers him now, and my wife insists tampering with his work would be wrong.”

Lady Northrup’s lips curved upward in a tolerant smile.

“But, as I was saying, that’s my great-grandmother, and the little blond girl”—he glanced at Lucy—“that was Priscilla.”

“She’s lovely,” Clara murmured.

“Indeed she was.” His lordship nodded. “And just as lovely when she grew up. But she made the mistake of falling in love with an American.”

Lucy’s brow rose. “Mistake?”

“According to my great-grandfather it was more than a mere mistake, it was the gravest of sins.”

“Just because he was American?” Lucy frowned in patriotic indignation. “That was rather unfair of him.”

“He didn’t see it that way.” Lord Northrup shook his head. “You have to remember the times they lived in. He saw Priscilla’s choice as a betrayal of her family and of her country. Understandable, when you think about it.” He nodded toward the portrait. “The older boy, Robert, was heir to the title. Naturally, he had been trained for his position as the next viscount and, from what I’ve been told, would have been most successful. He was said to have had a brilliant mind when it came to the management of finances. Something that eluded my grandfather, my father, and myself. We’ve all had to marry well to shore up the family coffers.” He cast an affectionate look at his wife. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“It is something of a family tradition.” In spite of her agreement, the twinkle in Lady Northrup’s eyes said their marriage was based on more than her dowry.

“A tradition that will unfortunately have to continue. Such is life these days.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “But I digress. As I was saying, that adventurous streak in Robert led him to purchase a commission in the army, against his father’s objections. Young men do tend to think they’re invulnerable, you know.”

Lucy and Clara nodded.

“He was killed during your Revolutionary War in one of the Carolinas, I believe. My grandfather said his father never got over it. He disowned Priscilla and never forgave her.” His lordship shook his head. “My grandfather never forgave himself for not standing up for his sister. For allowing her to leave.” He paused thoughtfully. “I don’t know if he ever wrote to her or attempted to locate her. I do know he never saw her again and that was one of the great regrets of his life.”

“How very sad,” Lucy said softly.

“It is always sad when families have irreconcilable rifts.” Lady Northrup sighed.

“I daresay your Lucinda would have appreciated your efforts to set to rights this regret of hers.” His lordship cast Lucy a genuine smile. “And I must say I’m delighted to have at last reunited two halves of my family.”

Lucy stared at the little girl in the painting. “It’s such a shame it couldn’t have happened when they were still alive.”

“Unfortunately, what’s done is done.” Lord Northrup shrugged. “One cannot change the past, only reconcile oneself with it.”

“Now then, it’s nearly time for tea. I do hope you will join us.” Lady Northrup hooked her arm through Lucy’s and led the group back to the parlor. “I know we are both wondering how Priscilla fared in America and curious as well about the rest of your family. It isn’t often one finds an entire branch of the family one has no knowledge of.”