Yankee Earl (21 page)

      
Rachel turned with a weak smile on her face as her sister fussed with the tray. Soon the room was filled with the heady fragrance of freshly poured tea and warm scones ladled generously with apricot preserves. “I remember that when we were young you would hide in the attic when you were upset—not that I'm upset,” she quickly added.

      
Harriet scoffed. “Come and sit. We must discuss the earl.”

      
Rachel knew that when her sister got that look in her eyes, there was no arguing with her. She took a cup and inhaled the aromatic steam rising from it. “Ah, that is good.”

      
“Have a scone. You've not been eating property these past weeks. Why, just yesterday I remarked on it to Father. You'll be a wraith by the time your trousseau is completed, and then nothing will fit!”

      
Dutifully Rachel took one of the heavy pastries and bit into it, forcing down food for which she had no appetite. “All this talk of trousseaus is upsetting in the extreme, Harry. I would prefer not to discuss it.”

      
“Twaddle. I am not talking about your wedding clothes—although heaven knows you have not paid the least attention to what that seamstress in London is doing,” Harry upbraided her. Wiping a crumb from the edge of her mouth, she continued, “You must tell me how you feel about Jason.”

      
“I find him arrogant, irritating and annoying in the extreme. Is there anything else you wish to know?” Rachel said, turning her attention to sipping tea.

      
“Then it must be love.”

      
Rachel spit hot tea into her saucer. “Where ever did you get such a crack-brained notion as that?” She had been certain her sister was convinced that Jason was a horrible lecher who repelled his bride-to-be.

      
“From watching the two of you together these past days,” Harry replied shrewdly. “When it seemed the earl would die, I feared you might expire with him.”

      
Rachel blinked, studying her sister as if she had never seen Harriet Chalmers before. “Since when have you grown so wise?”

      
“Since when have you grown so chuckle-headed that you cannot see what is plain as the nose upon your face? You are in love with Falconridge, and he with you.”

      
Rachel shook her head and set her tea aside. “You are mistaken. He does not love me, nor does he wish to wed me. Only to…”

      
“So, my first assessment of his character was not terribly far off the mark after all,” Harry said dryly. “Well, no matter. He shall come up to scratch, and you shall win him over. The earl is the only man strong enough to match you.”

      
“I do not wish for a husband who will command me,” Rachel said stubbornly.

      
“Oh, you would have one you can command? I know you have always harbored the silly idea that if you were forced to wed, you would somehow convince Father to choose a jelly-kneed fellow. But that would never work. The Yankee will make you happy.”

      
“I do not think so. He is being blackmailed into the match. His grandfather is holding Fox and will refuse to release him until Jason has done his duty.” She wondered if this new, more sophisticated Harry would understand what she was going through.

      
“Cargrave is using that innocent boy as a cat's-paw?” Harry said indignantly. “Well, that certainly does not speak well of either the marquess or the earl, for being such a cake that he does not know what is good for him. So, we shall just have to give them both what they wish.”

      
The impish light in Harry's eyes worried Rachel. “I mislike your tone. How can we give two men what they wish when they wish opposites on the matter?”

      
“ ‘Twill be a brace of snaps, trust me. All you need do is get Falconridge to the altar, and 'twould appear the marquess already has that matter well in hand.”

      
Should she confide in Harry? Rachel hesitated only a moment. For all her flightiness, Harry was loyal to a fault and had always been willing to distract their father when he tried to take his eldest daughter to task for her hoydenish behavior. “The earl and I have concocted a plan to rescue Fox and spirit him from England. Then Jason will not be forced to wed me—and that is for the better, considering his feelings toward me.”

      
“Pah! Men never know what is best for them, especially reckless rogues like Falconridge. He's enjoyed cutting a swath through the London Cyprians too much to give over to domestic bliss easily. But reformed rakes make the best of husbands…or so I have it on quite good authority.”

      
“I do not want to marry a man who does not love me,” Rachel said, surprising herself with the plaintive cry in her voice.

      
“As I said, I have been observing him as well as you for some time now, and I believe he does love you. He simply does not know it yet. Men are such simpletons about the truly important matters in life.” Seeing Rachel's highly dubious look, Harry pressed on. “He follows you with his eyes. There is such a…” Harry coughed delicately in her handkerchief, then continued, “Well, a hungry look in them—as if he might try to devour you whole.”

      
Rachel snorted indelicately as she replied, “Indeed, he has tried. And I have nearly succumbed, God help me. But that is lust, m'dear, not love.”

      
“For men, that is the beginning of love. Without it, we would never land them, and England would be in a sorry state indeed. You feel a deal more than simple lust for Jason Beaumont. Do not even attempt to deny it.”

      
Rachel did not.

      
“I thought so,” Harry crowed with a self-satisfied smirk. “Well and good. You have fallen in love with him, and he desires you. Now all we need do is see that your plan goes off smoothly…with a few minor…er, alterations. Now, here is how we shall play this suit…”

* * * *

      
Jason stood in the library of the Cargrave city house, holding a note written in Rachel's tall, graceful penmanship. It matched the woman quite well—long, lithe, elegant yet bold. He crumpled the missive unread, balling it up in his fist. He felt angry with himself for being unable to get her off his mind, as if he were a mooncalf in the throes of first infatuation. How dare she send reminders to ensnare him?

      
His grandfather had left Falconridge, taking Fox with him, as soon as he was assured that his grandson was recovering from his brush with death. Cargrave had informed Jason that he would see the lad the week of the nuptials, which were to be held at St. George's in the alarmingly near future. In the meanwhile, Jason was saddled with Drum as his shadow. The little dandy was not only deadly with a rapier, but a crack shot with a pistol as well. If he had not enjoyed Drum's company, Jason might have been annoyed with this further high-handedness on the marquess' part. As it was, he was resigned to being guarded as if he were the Regent himself.

      
Since Rachel had not deigned to visit during his convalescence, he had been bored to distraction, able to think of nothing but how she had looked at that moment when he awakened in the Mountjoys' bedroom. Did she genuinely care for him? That was dangerous. Almost as dangerous as if he cared for her.

      
“I say, old fellow, if you don't want to read it, just toss it away. No need to squeeze it thus, unless you're attempting to make a diamond of it.” Drum strolled into the book-lined room and took a seat on one of the massive cordovan leather chairs, which dwarfed his small frame.

      
Jason looked down at Rachel's letter, balled up in his fist as if he were indeed pulverizing it into a gem. Why had she written him? He was a fool for not reading it, as it most likely contained information on how they were to proceed in spiriting Fox away.
Perhaps that is why you don't wish to read it
. Scowling, he tossed the note onto his grandfather's large desk and sprawled in the chair opposite Drum.

      
“Have you found any connection between Forrestal's chum Mountjoy and that footman who nearly did me in?”

      
Drum cocked his head, stroking his chin consideringly. "No luck. You had the right of it about the duke's youngest. He's as deep in dun territory as Etherington's heir. Gives 'em something in common, I warrant," he said dryly. "That and their love for cards. Mark me, I said ‘love for’, not ‘skill at’."

      
“But no way to link them to what happened to me at his grace's soiree?” It was a rhetorical question. Drum had experienced no more luck in finding a trace of the footpad who had shot at them in town than Jason had had in establishing the identity of whoever had attacked him in the country.

      
“Best to lie low until we are able to spirit young Master Fox away from the clutches of the marquess,” Drum advised. He had been brought in on Jason's plans, and having such an aversion to matrimony himself, had quickly been won over to assisting his friend and Miss Fairchild, whom he had yet to meet. “At least if these attacks cease once your engagement is broken, you shall know Forrestal was the guilty party.”

      
Jason stiffened at the thought of Frederick Forrestal anywhere near Rachel. “Rachel would never have him.”

      
Drum studied his fingernails intently, murmuring, “But would she have you, m’lord earl?”

      
“Don't be ridiculous. I've already explained how we're going to outwit my grandfather. 'Twas her plan.”

      
“And you appear all cock-a-whoop over it,” Drum replied.
      
“I ain't some chawbacon fresh out of Surrey, my good fellow. You've been blue-deviled ever since you returned to the city, and the cause is Rachel Fairchild.”

      
"The cause is nearly being poisoned," Jason shot back, unable to keep his eyes from straying to the wadded up ball of paper lying on the desk.

      
“Go read it,” Drum dared him.

      
“How the hell would you know 'tis from her?”

      
Inhaling a pinch of snuff from the back of his wrist, Drum sneezed, then replied, “I possess a keen nose. The perfume is far too subtle for a Cyprian. Must be your betrothed's. Wish I had as much skill at detecting who the devil is trying to kill you, but never fear. I shall continue to keep that most excellent nose of mine to the ground until I solve the puzzle.” He cocked an eyebrow at the earl and waited. “Well?”

      
Jason gave in and stalked over to the desk. Seizing the balled-up paper, he unwadded it carefully, then broke the seal and read it. Drum watched as an odd mixture of scowl and smile played about his lips.

      
“She is in London. For the fitting of her trousseau.” As he said the word, visions of Rachel swathed in lace flashed into his mind. Yards and yards of sheer ivory lace through which he could see the rich butterscotch of her skin.

      
“And she wants to meet with you,” Drum supplied as his friend stood staring at the leather-bound first editions on the walnut bookshelf in front of him without seeing them at all. The little dandy had a fair idea whom Jason was seeing inside his mind.

* * * *

      
“Honestly, Harry, I feel like a Bartholomew baby in this.” Rachel squirmed as the itchy taffeta chafed her skin. She stood in the fitting room of the most elegant mantua maker's shop in the Burlington Arcade, surrounded by day gowns, afternoon gowns, ball gowns and riding habits, not to mention piles of soft lacy undergarments and night rails. The dress she was trying on was a deep shade of maroon, which she detested. “I look dreadful in this color. It clashes with my complexion.”

      
“It would do no such thing if you would allow me to apply whiteners to your skin. You simply must stay out of the sun. I warrant you're as dark as Jason.”

      
At the mention of his name, Rachel felt her face heat even darker until she was certain she must perfectly match the shade of her dress. She could still recall the sun-stained splendor of his big, muscular body with its patterns of black hair covering his chest, forearms and…lower.

      
She had sent a missive at her sister's urging yesterday morning, as soon as they arrived in the city. Thus far she had received no word back from Jason. Yankee clodpole! The least he could do was favor her with a reply of some sort. He was probably off with his latest bit-o'-muslin having a fine time while the day of their nuptials drew closer and closer. If they actually went through with the marriage, would he continue to take lovers? In the ton, most men did, she knew.

      
The thought did not sit well. Then she realized that Harry was speaking to her. “Oh, no, I will never bleach my skin with any of your poultices. 'Twould do no good anyway, since I plan to continue running the Hall, which requires that I be outdoors.”

      
“Have you considered that your husband may not wish to have you riding about in men's clothing?”