Page 25 of Miss Desirable
“He were sacked.” Another pull from the tankard. “Called to the library and told to pack his things. Young miss were doubtless polite about it—she’s always polite—but Deems were in a right temper when Vincent and me hauled his trunk down to the mews. Good riddance, I say. Auntie agrees.”
Armbruster did not. Deems, with his stuffy airs, had served a purpose. “Where is Miss Fairchild off to?”
“Richmond. Harry tried to give me hell because she wanted to take the dog to the countryside. Happens Caesar and me was on one of our constitutionals when she left.”
“But her coach is still in the mews.” Armbruster knew better than to lurk in alleys, but he did occasionally detour from the main walkways.
“The Frenchie took her. Auntie says the Frenchie brought a note from somebody, and young miss were changing her dress not a quarter hour later.”
Good work, Auntie. “Find out where she went, Thurlow, and mind you don’t let that dog turn you into a sot.”
“Caesar is a perfect gent,” Thurlow said, lifting his drink a few inches in the dog’s direction. “A true gent, unlike some what just has a title and a bit of blunt.”
“We all need blunt, Thurlow,” Armbruster said, draining a third of his lady’s pint. “Don’t ruin a good thing that means some of my blunt becomes your blunt. Find out where Miss Fairchild went today and why she went there. I’ll see you again Friday.”
Armbruster left a few coins on the table, collected his hat, beamed another friendly smile at the barmaid, and sauntered out in plenty of time to keep his appointment with the tailor.
Fournier was a nobody, but he was an ambitious nobody, and he knew Goddard, and Goddard was connected to the Dornings. The situation wanted monitoring. If Catherine Fairchild ever found herself in difficulties—true difficulties—the fewer allies she had, the better for Lord Fortescue Armbruster.
* * *
Catherine settled onto the well-padded bench of Fournier’s coach, not sure what to make of the day’s outing.
Tea with Jeanette Dorning and Ann Goddard had been lovely and daunting. Both ladies were involved in the management of The Coventry Club. Mrs. Dorning took a mostly administrative role, overseeing inventories, auditing ledgers, and serving as Mrs. Goddard’s sounding board on menu ideas.
Colonel Goddard apparently supervised the club’s day-to-day operations—when he wasn’t immersed in his own wine business—while Mrs. Ann Goddard had turned the Coventry’s kitchens into the envy of the Mayfair hostesses.
Over tea, the ladies had offered Catherine condolences, and then the talk had been of food, of the entertainments at the Congress of Vienna, of the vast crop garden enterprise Sycamore Dorning had envisioned for his Richmond property.
“Was it difficult?” Monsieur Fournier asked, climbing into the coach after her. “To be sociable?” He hesitated between the benches.
Catherine drew her skirts aside, and he joined her on the forward-facing seat.
“To socialize was… not as simple as it should have been. A diplomat’s daughter learns the knack of attending conversations with half an ear, of keeping track of several discussions while appearing raptly focused on only the one. These ladies did not allow me to gather wool while I smiled and nodded politely.”
“They areformidables. Ann Goddard is passionate about her cooking. Jeanette Goddard is passionate about everything, especially about projects she undertakes with her husband.”
The coach moved off at a smooth walk. “You distrust her devotion to Mr. Dorning?”
Fournier removed his hat and put it on the opposite bench next to Catherine’s bonnet and parasol. “I envy Dorning and wish him and his lady only the best. I ought not to have presumed on your person on the journey from Town, Miss Fairchild.”
Oh, drat him. He would ruin what had been a sweet and unexpected comfort. “You ought not to bring up what needs no discussion.”
His gaze went from serious to impassive. “I will apologize for my forwardness.”
“I reject your apology. Had your overture offended me, I would have made that known at the time. And do not think I am the sort to be fortified by a good scrap, Fournier. I saw enough of intrigue and posturing with my father’s work on the Continent. Be honest with me, or be silent.”
To Catherine’s horror, tears threatened. This had happened when Fournier had given her Caesar—lent her Caesar—but dogs were allowed to provoke sentiment. Needless apologies were not.
“You are fortified by a good scrap,” he said. “So am I, especially in the fencing salon. I can be passionate there at the same time that I am self-disciplined.”
“You speak of fencing as if it’s lovemaking.” As a sheltered near spinster, she ought not to have offered such an analogy, though it fit.
“Have you been reading Latin poetry, Miss Fairchild?”
“Now you are changing the subject. You and I cuddled for a time, Fournier. I enjoyed it. Nobody touches me, beyond an impersonal, gloved hand to assist me from a coach. Even my lady’s maid can get me dressed and undressed without so much as brushing my arm. Now, you try to convince me you are covered in remorse over mere friendly affection, which I find more insulting than if you had hauled me into your lap.”
He muttered something in French about the English and their insistence on details.
