Julia Justiss (3 page)

They reached the door to her chamber, but when she turned to go in, he retained her hand, halting her. “I’m sorry you must suffer through this all over again. I hope you indeed realize I will do everything within my power to make things as easy as possible for you.”

His kind words brought tears once again to the surface. “Thank you, cousin. I appreciate that.”

Grief and the coming child did exhaust her, for she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. She woke an hour later at Sancha’s knock, feeling much refreshed. Before she could decide whether to ride yet again, choose a book from the library downstairs, or take a carriage to inspect the selection at Hatchard’s, a footman knocked to inform her that she had callers below.

She wondered who it might be. Since she had no acquaintance in London beyond her husband’s family, it must be someone from the army who had learned of her return.

Ah, that it might be Major Hartwell or Captain Percy, good friends and two of her late father’s finest subordinates! Feeling a stir of interest for the first time since arriving in England, she instructed the footman to tell the visitors she would be down directly.

But her enthusiasm checked the moment she stepped across into the parlor. Rather than those old compatriots, smiling at her from the sofa was Mrs. Ada Anderson, wife to the colonel of the Fighting Fifth’s neighboring brigade.

Before she could utter a word, the woman spied her. “Jenna, so you left Brussels at last! I had to call as soon as I learned you’d arrived and convey my deepest, sincerest sympathy!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson.” Jenna pasted a smile on her face while mentally kicking herself for coming down
without first ascertaining the identity of her visitors. Now she would have to remain at least half an hour or be thought unpardonably rude. “Please, do sit down. How kind of you to come with—” she indicated the tall, angular woman in the modish bonnet and pelisse.

“Lady Fairchild, allow me to present my sister Persephone, Lady Montclare. You may remember I intended to send you back to her in London after your papa died at Badajoz. Except that you snabbled yourself a husband first! I was, you will recall, quite vexed at you for throwing away your chance at a London Season and entrusting your hand and fortune to a mere younger son. Who knew then he’d turn out to be viscount one day, eh, you clever girl?”

“Charmed to meet you at last, Lady Fairchild.” Lady Montclare rose from her curtsy to subject Jenna to a penetrating scrutiny. “My sincerest condolences.”

“Oh, yes—such a tragedy!” Mrs. Anderson lamented. “With his ability and your fortune, I expect he should have become a general. Not that he had any need of a military career, once he inherited, of course.”

“Given his responsibilities as the new viscount, after his brother was lost in that storm off Portsmouth, I am surprised Garrett did not immediately resign his commission,” Lady Montclare said.

“After Bonaparte escaped from Elbe, Garrett would not have considered leaving the army, nor, I suspect, would the Duke have permitted it had he asked. With so many Peninsular veterans dispersed from India to the Americas, he needed every battle-tested commander.”

“Given how things turned out, I imagine you now wish Lord Fairchild had not remained with the army,” Lady Montclare observed.

“I would not have had Garrett shirk his duty or dis
regard his loyalties,” Jenna replied stiffly, “regardless of how ‘things turned out.’”

“Well, ’tis no matter,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You must now think to your future—which means carefully evaluating the new contenders for your hand.”

“Contenders for my—?” Jenna gasped. “I hardly think it necessary to concern myself about that yet!”

“I know you were sincerely attached to Garrett,” Mrs. Anderson said. “But a widow with a fortune as vast as yours is not likely to be left to mourn in solitude. As soon as the ton finds out you are established here in London, you can expect all manner of invitations.”

“Your husband’s aunt is charming,” Lady Montclare said, “but I fear she doesn’t move in the first circles. Since you quite rightly wish to pay proper honor to poor Garrett’s memory, ’tis of the utmost importance that you know which invitations to accept, which you should refuse. Ada and I will be happy to assist you.”

“It will be our privilege! The first thing you must do—” Mrs. Anderson cast a pained look at Jenna’s three-year-old gown “—is procure a proper wardrobe.”

Reining in the temper that urged her to demand that the visitors leave immediately, Jenna forced herself to speak politely. “Mrs. Anderson, Lady Montclare, I appreciate your kindness in offering to help, but I haven’t the least interest attracting ‘contenders’ for my hand.”

“Come now, Jenna, you were with the army long enough not to be missish about this,” Mrs. Anderson countered. “You wed Garrett before your papa had been dead a month!”

“That was…different! I couldn’t remain with the army alone, and I loved Garrett.”

“Desire it or not,” Lady Montclare said, “your youth, beauty and wealth—added to the connection you now boast to the ancient name of Fairchild—will catch the
interest of every bachelor of the ton on the look for a bride.”

“Since you cannot avoid scrutiny, ’tis only prudent to plan on it,” Mrs. Anderson advised. “Reconnoiter the ground and use it to your advantage, my husband would say! And as one of Lady Jersey’s bosom bows, Persephone stands in perfect position to advise you on the most select entertainments—and most desirable gentlemen.”

Both ladies beamed at her, appearing supremely confident that Jenna must be thrilled at their offering to guide her in her choice of beaux. Appalled by the notion, for a moment Jenna contemplated informing the ladies of her pregnancy. Surely a widow who was increasing would be less appealing to discerning ton courtiers.

But though her condition would soon be obvious, for now she did not wish to share the news of her secret joy with these sisters whose supposed concern for her welfare barely concealed their relish for obtaining a social pawn they might manipulate.

As the mantel clock chimed, signifying the elapse of the requisite half hour, Jenna rose and offered a curtsy. “Ladies, I am quite…overwhelmed by your offer. Please know I will carefully consider it.”

Obligated to rise as well, the sisters returned her curtsy. “I’m staying with Persephone while Walter prepares for his next posting,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Call on us any day—your butler has the card with our direction.”

“Indeed,” Lady Montclare said. “I shall be very happy to take you under my wing, dear Lady Fairchild.”

Stifling the impulse to tell Lady Montclare just what she could do with that wing, Jenna made herself incline her head politely. “Good day, ladies.”

Long after Manson had escorted them out, Jenna stood staring at the closed door, recalling the various ton gentlemen she’d observed during her rides—Dandies and
Bucks in skintight coats and trousers, elaborately arranged cravats, ridiculously high shirt collars. She’d found their appearance quite amusing.

The idea of such men calling on her was less amusing.

Men who had remained safely at home while other men fought and bled to protect their liberty. Indolent men with nothing better to do than drink, gamble away their nights—and entice widows of large fortune into marriage.

The handsome face of one such dark-haired, gray-eyed man materialized out of memory, his lips curved in a sardonic smile that was half interest, half disdain. Heat rose in her cheeks as she forced the image away.

Cousin Lane seemed thoroughly familiar with the London ton. Perhaps she should ask him whether the sisters’ prediction about the interest she would arouse among its gentlemen was likely to prove true.

For if dealing with reprobates like Lord Anthony Nelthorpe was to be her fate in London, the convention about living with Garrett’s relatives be damned, she would start immediately looking for a residence elsewhere.

T
WO WEEKS
later, Jenna sat in the parlor, trying to keep a polite smile pasted on her lips while the notables of the ton paraded past to offer their condolences, their gimlet eyes and assessing glances evaluating the dress, manners and breeding of Viscount Fairchild’s widow. She’d even overheard one dandy, in a whisper just loud enough to reach her ears, compare her unfavorably to the Lovely Lucinda—the fiancée who had jilted Garrett for an earl.

Nearly as annoying, Mrs. Anderson and Lady Montclare arrived early “to support dear Jenna through her first public reception.” Effusing with delight at their thoughtfulness, Aunt Hetty had chairs installed for them beside Jenna’s, where the two were now dispensing sotto-voce commentary on each caller who approached.

Jenna had thrown an appealing glance at Lane, seated beside Aunt Hetty on the sofa, but he’d returned nothing more helpful than a sympathetic shrug of his shoulders. While Cousin Bayard, alleging anyone who wished to convey their regrets to him had had ample opportunity during the service at St. George’s, abandoned the parlor minutes after the reception began.

Not that she’d really expected to escape the function—or her two watchdogs. Apparently Lady Montclare did wield as much influence among the ton as she’d claimed, for Aunt Hetty had been both shocked and ecstatic to learn of her call, and did everything she could to promote the connection. In her listless state, Jenna had neither suf
ficient interest nor strength to oppose them, and had soon found herself trotted around to all the merchants Lady Montclare favored, pinned and prodded and led to purchase a vast quantity of items those ladies deemed essential for a recently bereaved viscountess.

She’d felt a twinge of conscience at expending blunt on gowns that in a matter of a few weeks she’d be unable to wear. Someday soon, when the simple business of waking, rising, and surviving each new day didn’t exhaust all her meager mental and physical reserves, she’d sort out what to do about the sisters—and her life without Garrett.

Onward the crowd continued—like buzzards circling a kill, Jenna thought—an endless progression of names and titles. In vain she looked for the real comfort that might have been afforded by the friendly faces and heartfelt condolences of “Heedless” Harry or Alastair Percy or other men from Garrett’s regiment. By now, she realized with resignation, her military compatriots had doubtless returned to their respective homes or rejoined the army.

Then a stir from the hallway caught her attention. As she’d hoped, a few moments later His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, walked into the salon, trailed by a crowd of well-wishers eager to shake the hand of the great general.

“Excellent! I so hoped he would appear,” Mrs. Anderson said in Jenna’s ear.

After exchanging a brief word with Lady Montclare and Mrs. Anderson, he took Jenna’s hand.

“It’s been a long and difficult road since India. England owes her safety to the selfless service of your father and husband. Take solace in that, Jenna.”

“I do, your grace.”

She blinked back tears as he kissed her hand, bowed and walked away, the crowd parting respectfully to allow the passage of England’s Savior. Who, it was said, had
wept while he wrote his dispatch after Waterloo at the loss of so many good friends and soldiers.

Napoleon’s Vanquisher would be going on to other important duties. What was Jenna Montague Fairchild, soldier’s daughter and soldier’s wife who had lost father, husband and army, to do with herself now?

Think of the babe,
she told herself, fighting back grief and despair.
Rebuild your life around the child.

“How excellent of the Duke to show so singular a mark of favor,” Lady Montclare murmured.

“We are old acquaintances,” Jenna replied.

In the wake of the Duke’s departure, the crowd in the drawing room began to thin. “My sister has presented you to everyone of note in London this afternoon, including most of the gentlemen who will be your potential suitors,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling her satisfaction.

“And your conduct has been excellent, my dear!” Lady Montclare reached over to press Jenna’s fingers. “A grave demeanor indicative of continuing grief, with just the right touch of hauteur.”

The woman obviously believed Jenna was assuming the role she’d been urged to play. She wasn’t sure whether to dissolve into hysterical laughter—or tears.

“Oh no—not
him!
”

At Mrs. Anderson’s gasp, Jenna’s looked to the door, through which a gentleman now strode with languorous ease.

Jenna exhaled in relief. Though the half-mocking, half-amused smile on the handsome face of the man now approaching was reminiscent of the grin she’d so disliked on
another
gentleman, this man’s hair gleamed guinea-gold rather than blue-black and his eyes were the turquoise of a tropic ocean’s depths—not, praise heaven, gunmetal gray.

“The effrontery!” Mrs. Anderson whispered.

“We’ll soon send him to the rightabout,” Lady Mont
clare soothed. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Jenna—a notorious rogue and gambler. ’Tis said he mended his ways since he beguiled a rich widow into marriage, but I doubt it. His aunt, Lady Charlotte Darnell, is the daughter of a duke and a Society leader, so you cannot, regrettably, cut him, but his reputation for seducing foolish women was well-earned. Take care to avoid him whenever possible.”

A moment later the blond man bowed before them. “Teagan Fitzwilliams, Lady Fairchild, at your service.”

As if fully conscious of the condemnation that had just been pronounced by her companions, after nodding to them, he seized Jenna’s hands and gave them a long, lingering caress that sent heat rushing to her cheeks.

She had just opened her lips to deliver a sharp set down when he gave her a quick, conspiratorial wink, so fleeting she wasn’t sure whether she’d seen or imagined it. Then he tugged on her hands and pulled her to her feet.

“By the saints, dear Lady Fairchild, your grief has rendered you pale as the shades of my Irish kin! Let me assist you to stroll down the hall, that exercise might return a little color to your lovely face.” Before she could think what to reply, over the sputtering protest of her chaperones, he nudged her into motion.

Not until they reached the hallway did she realize how great a relief it was to escape the confines of the parlor. Nonetheless, torn between amusement and irritation, she felt moved to protest.

“Gracious, Mr. Fitzwilliams, you are a rogue indeed!”

“That, Lady Fairchild, is for you to decide.” Turning to her with an unexpectedly sympathetic look, he continued, “Nonetheless, your expression so clearly called out ‘rescue me!’ that I could not help but respond.”

That reading of what she’d thought to be her impassive countenance belied the carelessness of the grin with which he had, she suspected, deliberately taunted her chaperones. Though she heard again Lady Montclare’s
warning to avoid him, she found herself curious to know why he’d called.

Besides, over her years with the army she’d encountered men who truly
were
seducers and reprobates. The instincts that had protected her on more than one occasion were now telling her this man was neither.

“You are right, Mr. Fitzwilliams. I
did
long for rescue.”

He rewarded her honesty with a smile of genuine warmth that lit his handsome face and set mesmerizing lights dancing in those intensely turquoise eyes.

Heavens! she thought, shaken by the force of his charm. If he
were
a rake, small wonder women succumbed!

“If what I’d heard of your adventures with the army had not already convinced me of your stalwart character, I knew Garrett would marry none but an enterprising lady.”

“You were…acquainted with Garrett?”

His eyes dimmed and she read real sorrow on his face. “I had that honor and so offer you my deepest condolences. I cannot boast to have been one of his intimates, but at Eton he stood my friend, and when I became the focus of some…unpleasantness at Oxford, he continued to recognize me when few others, including my own family, did. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

His heartfelt testament moved her more than all the grand tributes glibly offered by the influential of the ton. “He was indeed,” she replied, her voice trembling.

“Respecting Garrett as I did, I felt I must call today, even though my aunt, Lady Charlotte, is out of town and unable to lend me countenance—or protect you from the censorious who will take you to task for having strolled with me. For which injury, I do apologize. Despite the appeal in your eyes, by whisking you off, I fear I have doomed you to almost certain criticism. I really should
not have kidnapped you with you unaware of that danger.”

“I’m still most grateful that you did! I have no fear of idly wagging tongues.” Indeed, if a walk with Teagan Fitzwilliams rendered her less attractive to the potential suitors they were pressing on her, so much the better.

“When she returns, Aunt Charlotte will call upon you and set all to rights, so I may soothe my conscience by believing that I’ve caused you no permanent harm. Now, let me return you to the parlor.”

“Wait!” Jenna cried, halting him. “’Tis a privilege to talk with one of Garrett’s true friends. And I…I’m not ready to go back in. Not just yet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Already trying to pull and twist you into their mold, are they?”

“I shall have to fight them tooth and claw,” she said with a sigh. “Once I manage to summon the energy.”

He nodded. “It’s walking the hallway for us, then.” Tucking her hand back on his arm, he continued, “Did you really escape a bandit ambush in India?”

“It wasn’t so extraordinary as it might sound. Papa’s batman and I both had our Baker rifles—and faster horses.”

He laughed. “It’s a crack shot you are, I’ll wager!”

She grinned, warmed by his sympathetic understanding. “Naturally. I’ve spent all my life with the army.”

“I hear you fended off an attack in Spain as well.”

“So she did.”

At the sound of that deep, uncannily familiar voice, a chill of alarm raced up Jenna’s spine. She whipped her gaze toward the entry where, before her astounded eyes, the rogue she’d hoped never to meet again began climbing the stairs, limping slightly. “As I can personally attest.”

Jenna blinked, still not believing his audacity. “You!” she said in a strangled voice.

Viscount Anthony Nelthorpe reached the landing and swept Jenna a bow. “Lady Fairchild, how good it is to see you again.”

No doubt divining from the sudden stiffness of her body—and the low fury of her voice—that she did not welcome the newcomer, Fitzwilliams stepped forward to block the viscount’s approach. “Nelthorpe, I didn’t know you’d returned to England.”

“Just back from Brussels, Fitzwilliams.”

Though Fitzwilliams nodded pleasantly, his eyes stayed watchful as he remained between her and Lord Nelthorpe. “Lady Fairchild, may I take you back to the parlor?”

“Allow me,” Nelthorpe said, holding out an arm. “I served in the same command as Lady Fairchild’s late husband and can express my regrets as I walk her back.”

Fitzwilliams glanced from Jenna’s face to Nelthorpe’s extended arm and back. “Lady Fairchild, would you prefer that Nelthorpe escort you in—or that I escort him out?”

Jenna tried to shake her mind free of anger and outrage to determine what would be best. She’d already failed to deliver the cut direct she’d previously decided would be the most appropriate response, should her erstwhile ravisher ever approach her again. She might still have the satisfaction of turning her back on him.

But he had just demonstrated that, despite what had passed between them, he possessed the gall to confront her. Perhaps she ought to do the same and establish right now that though Garrett was no longer here to watch over her, she intended to have no dealings with Anthony Nelthorpe.

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliams, but for this occasion only, I shall accept Lord Nelthorpe’s escort.”

“You are sure that is your wish?” Fitzwilliams asked.

“It is.”

“Very well, ma’am.” He made her a bow. “Returning to an unfamiliar land, even the land of your birth, can be unsettling, as I have reason to know. Call on me if I may help in any way. My aunt will visit you soon. Nelthorpe.”

The two men exchanged stiff nods. After one last, quizzical look, Mr. Fitzwilliams walked away.

“You miserable cur!” Jenna hissed as soon as Fitzwilliams was out of earshot. “With Garrett barely cold in his grave, how dare you approach me? Not even you could be arrogant enough to think you might still recoup your fortunes by trying once again to force me into wedlock!”

For an instant he stood utterly still, surprise—or was it chagrin?—on his face, giving her the satisfaction of knowing her attack had rendered him speechless.

“Excellent as that idea might be,” he replied, “I must confess ’twas not my intention—for the moment. I wished only to offer my condolences and my sincerest thanks for the mercy that saved my sorry skin.”

Though she watched closely, she could find no undercurrent of mockery, no hint of arrogance in the tone of his self-deprecating words. Even the sardonic smile she’d come to associate with him had been replaced by an expression at once wry—and charming. Her face heating, she wondered if her harsh words had been overhasty.