Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (11 page)

“It’s a pleasure, Captain, seeing you properly kitted out again,” said Griggs, as he moved behind Alistair’s back, brushing his coat. “The fellows would be glad.” Alistair didn’t know if other officers gave their batmen such tremendous license, but Griggs was remarkable in many ways and a certain degree of familiarity was unavoidable after enduring the rigors of campaign. Griggs was proud, ugly, and foul-mouthed, but Alistair liked him much better than Cyril’s valet, a long-faced man with obsequious manners who spoke in gravelly whispers.
 

“They’ll see for themselves soon enough,” Alistair said. The brush stopped.
 

“Orders have come?” Griggs asked.
 

Alistair nodded.
 

“You make my heart glad, Captain,” said Griggs, resuming work with cheerful zeal. “London’s well enough for a spell, but it will be good to be back where we belong.”
 

Lord, Griggs was a bloodthirsty fellow. Alistair was a dreadful employer, only managing to pay Griggs’ wage at spotty intervals. Griggs made up the difference, however, picking off the dead, and doubtless did very handsomely. But even when pickings were slim, Griggs was entirely happy with the army. The dampest billets, the dreariest rations never disheartened him. If Alistair were half as stalwart, he’d set off for Spain with a light heart.
 

“Going to headquarters?” Griggs asked.
 

Alistair shook his head. He’d seen the surgeon there yesterday after calling on his aunt.
 

“Why the rig out then? No one’s out and about this early,” Griggs said, scrutinizing Alistair’s uniform.
 

“Thought I’d go to church.”
 

Griggs laughed. When he realized that Alistair wasn’t hoaxing, he composed himself, pretending he’d never lapsed. “An excellent notion,” he said, his voice bland, but his eyes suspicious. As well he might be. The last time Alistair attended services, he’d gone on a dare. Today’s challenge wouldn’t net him fifty pounds, but on the bright side, he was less likely to be arrested for disturbing the peace.

The congregation gathered in the church on Basil Street was a large one. A good number of eyes followed Alistair as he found a seat, but none of them belonged to Anna Morris. No one ventured to speak to him and he didn’t recognize a soul. The sermon was well begun before he finally found Anna and her mother. He couldn’t see their faces, for they sat at the front of the church and wore simple, close-fitting bonnets. The memorial plaque on the wall above them was the telling clue. It was for one Richard Fulham, lost at sea, 1804. A brother, probably. An older man, the right age to be her father, sat beside them on the pew. Alistair couldn’t see well enough to note much more than his abundant side whiskers and thinning hair. His shoulders were a little stooped, unlike the ramrod posture of his wife and daughter.
 

Their combined attention didn’t waver the entire sermon. Watching it was exhausting, for someone used to letting his eyes travel over the congregation, waiting for the tinted light from the stained glass windows to make a man’s nose turn blue, or give a prim spinster a rosy blush. Alistair joined in the hymn singing, thinking it ought to go some way to offsetting his complete lack of attention to the sermon. He had a fine baritone and performed well in drawing rooms. He’d hoped—ignominiously, to be sure, that the sound of his voice might make Anna Morris glance over her shoulder, but the congregation sung with such enthusiasm he doubted she would hear him. The woman down the row from him warbled atonally, and ahead of him a passel of children sitting between their parents, orderly and well-behaved as a wall of bricks, sang in rousing unison.
 

It wasn’t until after the service that he caught Anna Morris’s eye, while fielding questions from the local Divine—a worthy gentleman who accosted Alistair the moment he exited the chapel.
 

“And are you connected with any of the families in this flock?” the vicar asked.
 

“Er, no,” Alistair answered. “Merely acquainted.” Anna dodged his eyes, but her mother smiled at the sight of him.
 

“Captain Beaumaris. What a surprise.” She took her daughter’s hand. Anna couldn’t escape, but she’d apparently decided against looking at him. Well, he could charm her mother instead. Alistair bowed over Mrs. Fulham’s hand, wishing her good day, being generous with compliments—he’d hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her here, and how fortunate this was, that his wish had come to pass.
 

“You must dine with us today,” Mrs. Fulham said, ignoring the start given by her silent daughter. “Unless you have other plans?”
 

“You do me too much honor,” Alistair said, “But I am happy to accept. I have no other engagements.”
 

“How fortunate. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to the vicar.” She turned away, marooning him and Anna on a silent island amid the chatter of the dispersing crowd.
 

“Using my mother isn’t fair,” Anna said, her face devoid of expression.
 

“Yes, but I make much better progress.” Time was slipping fast.
 

“Ahem!”
 

Alistair turned. It was the father, side whiskers and all, frowning at him. Anna made introductions while Mr. Fulham looked him over, unimpressed by the lacings of gold braid crossing Alistair’s (he was told) admirable chest. “How do you come to know my Anna?” he demanded.
 

Interrupting Anna’s lie about a friendship with her late husband, Alistair said, “I met her at a dance. It was quite unforgettable.”
 

Fulham snorted. Anna sent him a kindling look.
 

“You knew Morris then,” he said. Plainly, that was no endorsement.
 

“Not really.”
 

Fulham harrumphed something that sounded almost like ‘ruddy blighter.’
 

“Do you mean me, or Mr. Morris?” Alistair asked, making a lightning decision. Better to ride to the charge than try flattering this fellow. “Because if you mean me, I must inform you that I’m generally referred to as a bang-up cove. I won’t presume to classify the late Mr. Morris.”
 

“Well, I will. He was a rogue,” Fulham said.

It was a toss up whether Anna was preparing to snarl or swallow her tongue. Alistair forestalled her with a raised hand. “Flying to your husband’s defense? Very proper. But I can’t say I wish to hear about him.”

“You wouldn’t want my tears spotting your coat,” Anna interjected sarcastically.
 

Alistair pretended to consider. “Well, as to that, I’d hazard that most men would put up with a great deal to put an arm around you. Spots are not too bad, weighed in the balance.”
 

Fulham choked back a laugh and Anna’s cheeks bloomed with color—angry or embarrassed, he couldn’t tell.
 

“I’ll say no more on that head, sir,” Alistair said. “Your wife has been kind enough to ask me to dine. If I infuriate your daughter too much, I won’t get any dessert.”
 

This time Fulham allowed himself a chuckle, looking at Alistair with a kinder eye. Anna, on the other hand, looked ready to slice him into quarters. Before her mother finished talking with the vicar, she attached herself to her father, leaving Alistair to take her mother’s arm. They set out for the Fulhams’ house, Anna walking ahead with her father and Alistair and Mrs. Fulham following behind.
 

He managed to evade her close questioning about the sermon by agreeing with everything she said and quickly turning the conversation by inquiring about her activities at the church the other day. Her half-hidden smile suggested she knew he was dodging, but she didn’t seem to mind. By the time they reached the house, Alistair had learned a great deal about the Basil Street Benevolent Society, but nothing at all about Anna or her secrets. Mrs. Fulham turned to her daughter at the door. “Do you intend to walk more today?” she asked. Anna hesitated, and Alistair was too quick to let the opportunity pass.
 

“Allow me to accompany you,” he said.

“I’d hoped to call on Henry,” she said, stalling, her eyes on her mother.
 

“Who is Henry?” Alistair asked, looking round.
 

“My son,” Anna said.
 

He blinked. The boy didn’t live here? “Where is he?”
 

“He lives with his guardian. My brother-in-law.”
 

Ah. This must be the source of her difficulty. “I’d still like to come with you, if I may,” he said. He turned to Anna’s mother. “We crossed paths in the park once, Master Morris and I, but at the time, his mother didn’t see fit to present me.”
 

“I can’t think why,” Anna said. The edge in her voice made her mother glance between them.
 

“No reason why you can’t bring along the Captain,” Mr. Fulham said.
 

“I can see no reason why Captain Beaumaris should be interested in my concerns,” she said.
 

“Can’t you?” her father asked, giving her an admonitory look. “Go on, both of you.”
 

It was a subdued Anna who took his arm.

“We’ll take a hackney,” she said. “I’m not being seen with you in the park.”
 

“Are you always so decided? I thought I looked rather well today,” he said. “My man assured me of it.”
 

She gave him a look as he took her arm and steered her down the street. “My parents already think you are courting me. If we walk together through the park others will too.” The paths by the serpentine would be busy on a Sunday afternoon.
 

“Yes, but that’s less remarkable than you climbing out of a hackney with me in the middle of Mount Street.” Walking with a lady in the park was nothing singular. Being alone in a carriage was. Surely she knew that.
 

“I’m not dressed for a promenade,” she said, still scornful.
 

“Yes, you don’t show as well in that drab gown. What happened to the red boots? I liked them,” Alistair said, using the smile that usually let him get away with impudence.
 

“My mother doesn’t think they are appropriate for church,” she said.
 

“Do you agree?”
 

“It wouldn’t matter how I look if you weren’t done up like a peacock. No one would notice us then.”
 

“I don’t mind being noticed,” he said. “I usually am—so are you, I expect, even done up like a Quaker.” He’d rather have people speculating about unfamiliar beauties on his arm than hashing over his broken engagement.
 

They turned north onto Sloane Street. “Why doesn’t your son live with you?” he asked.
 

“Frederick Morris doesn’t permit it. He is Henry’s guardian and his trustee.”
 

Aunt Georgiana had told him this, but he hadn’t expected Morris would keep the boy from his mother. Alistair waited for a gap in the carriage traffic and stepped off the pavement into the street. On the other side the park unrolled before them like a bolt of green velvet. A stream of Sunday strollers progressed down the paths, congregating in patches of shade. “Is that why you wanted Bagshot? To get your boy back?”
 

Her eyes darted up to him. “Yes. My father—he’s tried, but he’s too pliant and Frederick Morris too determined. He’s within his rights, after all. The lawyers who would talk with me wanted more money than I could afford. My widow’s portion isn’t large, you see, and Henry has the bulk of my fortune. Or Frederick, rather.”
 

“Your father wouldn’t pay a lawyer?”
 

She sighed. “He did try, until I told him not to waste his money. Legal action would take years and I’m unlikely to win. My father already settled most of his money on me when I married. He kept only a modest sum for himself. My husband oversaw the contracts, and my father was too awed by the Morrises to haggle for a better bargain. I was too in love with Anthony to allow it, if I had considered the matter at all. I was young then, you see. Father feels badly about it now, but I was more taken in than he was.”
 

He covered her hand as they passed into the dappled shade of the park’s giant trees. “I’m sorry.”
 

“Not as sorry as I am,” she said, drawing in a deep breath and straightening her shoulders. “Live and learn, they say. Are you certain you want to accompany me? I can always give my parents your excuses.”
 

“Why don’t you want me with you? I’ve behaved admirably today.”
 

She didn’t smile at his jest. “Why waste your time? I can’t afford you, and you need a wife with money. That’s why you were engaged to Sophy Prescott, wasn’t it? I may not have caught all the intricacies of society, but I did absorb enough to know the plight of extra sons. And I read the newspapers.”
 

He stopped walking, taking a moment to iron his face smooth, managing to keep his tone civil, if not his words. “You’ve a lovely mouth. It’s fascinating—like a viper’s. Did you talk to Morris this way?”
 

“My marriage isn’t your concern. Nothing to do with me is.”
 

“You have a very low opinion of me, ma’am.”
 

“What of it? Need I remind you of your first opinion of me?”
 

She had him there. “Pax,” he said, lifting his hands. “It means peace. A truce,” he explained, seeing her blank look. “Let’s pretend none of that happened, that we met today at church, not at that ridiculous masquerade—”
 

“What of your bout of fisticuffs in Green Park?”
 

“I’d appreciate you forgetting that too.” He offered his arm again, and a conciliatory smile. They walked on, the gravel crunching softly beneath their boots.
 

“What was your fight about?” Anna asked.