Page 23 of Miss Desirable
“Gabriella was practical. She would never have demanded that of me.” Nor, to be honest, would she have deserved such pointless devotion.
“Miss Fairchild is practical too,” Goddard said, “but you don’t want to put her off by being overtly protective, so you lurk in glass houses, interrogating her family connections.”
Fournier could dissemble, gather up a few fig leaves of dignity and discretion, but Goddard was nearly a friend and he was absolutely trustworthy.
“I was insufficiently protective of my wife. Gabriella is dead because I trusted too much to her confidence. She ran the château while I managed affairs in London. That was her scheme for getting through the war, and I acceded to it. I waited too late to send her to safety, and by then… she had lost the knack of listening to me, not that she’d ever been very good at it.”
Goddard munched another green bean. “I thought your wife died of influenza.”
“That’s what everybody thinks who even knows I had a wife.”
Goddard waited, but Fournier had already disclosed more than he’d intended. “Suffice it to say, I am concerned for Miss Fairchild. If I am too insistent about my worries, she will give me my congé. If I am too deferential, I will be useless to her.”
Goddard plucked another bean and resumed ambling between the rows of tables. “Are you building dungeons in Spain, Fournier? What is the worst that could happen to her? She can hire all the burly footmen she pleases, bar her windows, entrust her wealth to three different banks, arm her grooms.”
The question was helpful, because it clarified Fournier’s thinking. “Whatever concerns her, it has nothing to do with her wealth. I expect she’d rather not have inherited from her uncle and will end up giving much of that money away.”
“And your revolutionary principles admire her for that.”
“My human heart admires her for that. Children starve daily in London, or die for want of a blanket, as you well know.” Goddard looked after a small army of children who were otherwise at large on London streets, and they, in their way, looked after him.
“If you think somebody wishes Miss Fairchild harm,” Goddard said, “I will put the word out among my eyes and ears to keep watch. I can ask MacKay to do the same with his streetwalkers and send word to Powell’s connections among the old soldiers.”
MacKay and Powell were cousins to Goddard, also former soldiers with pronounced charitable interests. Fournier knew them casually, having played cards with them at the club, filled their wine cellars, and occasionally socialized with them.
“Thank you.”
He emerged from the glass house into spring sunshine. Goddard pulled an eye patch from his pocket and tied it around his head.
“The hardest thing about all the years I was in disgrace,” he said, “was keeping my distance from my sister. Jeanette thought I did not care, that I wanted nothing to do with her, when it was my fault she’d married that devil Tavistock.”
“Your fault?”
“Her marriage settlements included buying a commission for me in addition to paying off our father’s debts. She thought Tavistock was being generous when he was, in fact, making sure Jeanette had no allies in London.”
“And after the war, you were in disgrace,” Xavier said slowly, putting pieces together, “so you kept your distance and allowed her to think the worst of you.”
“Something like that. You have no reason to keep your distance from Miss Fairchild, do you?”
A thousand reasons. “Just the usual. I’m the wrong nationality, I claim no title, I am in trade, and she deserves better.”
“No reason at all, then. Ask her what troubles her, and she might simply tell you if something was truly amiss.”
No, she would not. She would smile, curtsey, and never speak to him again, which suggested the problem was damnably serious.
Goddard clapped him on the shoulder, and Fournier said nothing. He’d said too much already.
CHAPTERSIX
Lord Fortescue Armbruster paused inside the door of The Boar’s Bride to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, and also to give the Bride’s denizens a moment to gawk at him.
According to the matchmakers, he was more than an eligible, he was a fine catch. Perfect height, perfectly curling blond hair, perfectly arresting blue eyes, and a perfect physique. He also had a perfectly titled and wealthy marquess for a father.
This close to St. James’s, the pub patrons were doubtless accustomed to fancy lordlings passing through humble establishments. The ale was cheaper in the unprepossessing taverns, the women friendlier, and privacy more assured than in fancier surrounds.
“A lady’s pint for me,” he said, sweeping off his hat and smiling at the plump, red-haired barmaid. She smiled back, though she couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
“Aye, milord.”
