Page 74 of War of the Wedding Wagers
Dombey looked embarrassed, his face reddening as he busied himself with brushing invisible specks from the coat’s shoulder. When he didn’t respond, Sir Frederick pressed him. “And how did this joyful exchange come to pass? When did the pair of you discuss birthdays?”
“My sister, Jenny, is lady’s maid to Miss Fairchild while the visitors are here, and I had to speak a word to her just outside the door when Miss Fairchild was having her hair brushed.” Dombey’s accent grew broader with his nervousness. “She must’a overheard Jenny saying that our ma ’oped we’d both have an afternoon off to eat a cake for coming into my majority—as you gentry call it—and I heard her tellin’ me Jenny that she came into her majority the same day.”
“Oh. September 21, did you say?” Sir Frederick was glad he’d gleaned the date from what sounded like an innocent exchange. Three weeks’ time. He felt something expand in his chest. Enough time to plan a wedding. It would be a fitting date for a double celebration.
“Yes, sir.” Dombey hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “Me sister told me later that when I’d gone, Miss Fairchild put her head in her hands and looked like she were cryin’ and when Jenny asked what were wrong, she said she were set to lose everythin’ on September 21.”
“Good lord, she said that?” Sir Frederick’s reflection showed his shock.
Dombey nodded, clearly wishing he hadn’t spoken.
With his coat smoothed nicely and his cravat tied to perfection, Sir Frederick was about to head into the reception rooms in the hopes of seeking out Miss Fairchild when there wasa short rap upon the door. A few seconds later Dombey returned bearing a note addressed to him on a silver salver.
The paper was expensive, scented with lavender, and sealed with an ornate ‘P’. Breaking the seal, Sir Frederick unfolded the missive:
My dearest Sir Frederick,
I write in haste, my heart heavy with concern for your future happiness. While I have held my tongue these past days, I can no longer stand silent while watching you be ensnared by one who is so clearly unsuited to a man of your vitality and charm.
Miss Fairchild may present herself as a paragon of virtue and intelligence, but I have it on good authority that her “scholarly pursuits” mask a calculating nature. Even now she plots to secure you before her fast-approaching majority, when (as I have learned) she stands to lose what little independence she possesses.
Would you truly wish to shackle yourself to such dreary respectability? To spend your evenings listening to improving lectures while society laughs behind their fans at your dowdy bluestocking wife?
If you would know more, meet me in the library at midnight. I have evidence that will open your eyes to certain truths about your “proper” Miss Fairchild.
Your sincere friend, Catherine Perry
P.S. I have procured that volume of Byron you expressed interest in. The one containing certain… passionate verses. Perhaps we might read them together?
Sir Frederick’s lip curled as he crumpled the note in his fist. The paper’s cloying scent suddenly seemed sickly sweet, like decay masked by perfume. But the timing of this letter,combined with Dombey’s revelation about Amelia’s September deadline, made him pause.
What skullduggery was Catherine Perry planning?
*
He found MissFairchild speaking with her brother, Edward, in one of the large reception rooms. Sir Frederick had had few exchanges with the young man who was of a very different mold from his sister.
His nervous energy was palpable, and he had a mischievous smile that made him appear younger than the twenty-one years Frederick had learned was his age.
For a moment, Sir Frederick watched the pair of them before advancing.
“I tell you, sis, all is not lost,” the young man was saying. “Time is not quite on our side, but my motto is to never give up. If this plan doesn’t work—”
He broke off when he glanced up to see Sir Frederick standing by, mumbled something in embarrassment, and hurried off.
Feeling increasingly disconcerted, especially by the deep flush that rose to Miss Fairchild’s cheeks, Sir Frederick closed the distance to stand by her side.
“You look very lovely this evening,” he complimented her. And she really did. The deep blue of her gown matched her eyes, which had never looked so intense. In fact, there was an intensity to her whole manner that was as palpable as her brother’s embarrassment had been earlier.
“You’re very kind, Sir Frederick,” she responded, but he noticed that the easy manner she’d adopted towards him the past few days was absent. Her brow was furrowed, and shecouldn’t look him in the eyes as she added, “Lady Pendleton very kindly lent me something of her daughter’s. She said we were of similar build and that she couldn’t bear to see me appear so outmodish.”
There was a twist to her lips as she finished, this time slanting a look at him. “Unfortunately, that is what I am. Outmodish, bookish…” She shrugged. “Most gentlemen like a woman who has…more style than I do.”
Sir Frederick’s first instinct was to put his hand on her shoulder and say something bolstering. But there was something pricklish about her today. And her brother’s parting words returned to trouble him.
Mrs. Perry’s letter was malicious, but had she really discovered something that Sir Frederick didn’t know?
Carefully, he said, “But you’re beautiful. And you can dress as fashionably as you choose, surely, when you come into your inheritance?”
