Page 29 of Miss Desirable
“They are thieves, to hear him tell it. The usual overcharging for services rendered, but they would also under-report inventory delivered and sums paid, and over-report expenses. Their larceny is one of the reasons I spend much of my time in London handling the family business personally. Dorcas does not like to think of Miss Fairchild’s fortune being managed by such as them.”
MacKay couldn’t abide the notion either, and Fournier, who had not liked Belcher on general principles, had to resist the urge to make straight for Miss Fairchild’s garden gate.
“What do you expect me to do about a pack of crooked English solicitors?” The oldest Dorning brother was Earl of Casriel, a distinguished if impecunious title. Casriel was respected, no fool, and to all appearances took his role as patriarch seriously.
He was the ideal party to intervene on Catherine’s behalf, but he had not yet come up to Town from Dorset.
“I expect you,” MacKay said, “to come to dinner tomorrow night. A quiet, informal meal with a few friends. Miss Fairchild has agreed to come as well. Dorning will not be there—he’s off to Richmond tomorrow—but Goddard and his lady will join us.”
Fournier tried to consider angles and outcomes. Catherine was grieving, and appearances to the contrary, no lady was at her best when sorrow was new. She was the equal of greedy attorneys, Fournier was almost sure of it. But then, why hadn’t she sent Deems packing? Why slip away to buy wine in the middle of a downpour?
Why tell Fournier, pointedly, that nothing could come of her casual indulgence in a little affection with him…?
Though then—most intriguing conundrum of all—she had kissed him. A sweet, tender, unexpected gesture of trust shot through with a tantalizing hint of hope.
“I will cheerfully accept your invitation to supper. For our next meal, might we not dine at a little establishment I favor in Soho as opposed to abusing our palates at the Aurora?”
“Aye,” MacKay said. “Give me soup, sandwiches, and a bit of shortbread, and I’m a happy man.”
Also a good man. Fournier did not generally take non-French guests with him to émigré establishments, but MacKay was a decent fellow, and Fournier wanted the opportunity to study him further.
The Dorning family claimed they could not overtly monitor Catherine’s situation, but they were concerned enough to find intermediaries who could. Fournier was concerned as well, but that aside—clandestine purchases of black wine aside and untrustworthy solicitors aside—he simply wanted to again spend time with the lady whose parting kiss could have awakened the sleepiest of princes.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Supper with family connections was the next step away from mourning. Catherine did not exactly dread the prospect—she was quite fond of Dorcas MacKay—but neither did she look forward to it.
What to wear, what jewelry to choose, how late to stay… Mama had developed unerring instincts for how to dress for a part. Catherine had learned from her, though Mama’s lessons had not encompassed the transition from first to second mourning.
“You have a caller, miss,” Harry said, nearly startling Catherine out of her chair. Harry held out the salver, and Catherine was assailed by ambivalence. Caesar, sitting at her feet, also looked to Harry with a question in his doggy eyes.
She wanted to see Xavier Fournier again—she wanted to kiss him again, speak with him, hear his voice, see him, and more, truth be told—and she did not. He was temptation and consolation and deliciously wicked longings tied up with a lacy violet bow.
That ambivalence was not to be her most pressing challenge, apparently. The ink on the card was plain black rather than imperial purple, and the name was not Fournier’s.
“I can tell him you are not at home, miss.”
“I’m in mourning, Harry. Where else would I be? He’ll just call again tomorrow if I dodge him today.” Lord Fortescue Armbruster was nothing if not persistent when pursuing a goal.
“Shall I bring up a tray?”
“You shall. We’ll show him every courtesy, and then he can congratulate himself on having looked in on the bereaved.”
If that was his lordship’s aim. Catherine had initially dismissed Lord Fortescue Armbruster as just another spoiled younger son drifting about the Mediterranean coasts in the manner of the peripatetic Lord Byron. Fortescue, by contrast, saw himself as a master of the subtle game, the bored sophisticate drifting from diversion to diversion, dropping philosophical asides and flirtatious smiles by turns. Whatever he truly was, Catherine had ceased to be a diplomat’s foolish daughter.
She chose a wing chair, did not check her appearance in any handy mirror, and schooled her features to the pleasant civility Mama had taught her to summon at will.
“Catherine.” His lordship stopped just inside the door, a mannerism Catherine detested. To an observer, Lord Fort would appear to be tactfully waiting to be acknowledged. In fact, he was doubtless assessing her, the décor, the dog, the housekeeping, and the most advantageous manner in which to complete his entrance.
And, should Catherine be so hen-witted as to again fall for his theatrics, he was allowing her a moment to delight in his manly beauty and rush into his welcoming embrace.
Caesar glanced from Fort to Catherine, then yawned hugely.
Lord Fort approached her, both hands held out. “How are you bearing up?”
She gave him one hand, rose, and dipped a curtsey.Let the bearing-up begin.“My lord, good day. You are among the first to offer condolences.”
He kept hold of her hand, another of his favored bits of farce. “I am so sorry for your loss, my dear. I’m sure you miss your mother very much. Shall we sit? You do look a trifle pale.”
