The Heiress Effect Page 3

  “That noise you just made. It reminded me of our gardener. He has lumbago. There’s a poultice I make for him when he’s at his worst. Would you like the receipt?”

  “I don’t have lumbago.” The words came out of his mouth a little too curtly.

  “That’s precisely what our gardener says, but after the poultice, he always feels so much better. Do let me send it to you, Mr. Cromwell. It will be no trouble at all. You seem rather young for lumbago, but since you’re in service, such afflictions must come on early.”

  He swallowed. He thought of telling her that his father didn’t suffer from lumbago despite years spent farming. He thought of explaining. He might even have burst into laughter, but that would have embarrassed her.

  Instead, he inclined his head. “I’d be delighted to receive it, Miss Fairfield. Send it to my London address—Oliver Cromwell, care of the Tower, London, England.”

  For a bare moment, she paused. Her hand froze in the middle of reaching for her spoon. She looked over at him, her eyes wide—and then she looked away. “Well,” she said. “It would be improper to correspond with a gentleman. Perhaps you are right. Not such a good idea after all.”

  Dinner with Miss Fairfield was like—he hated to admit it—being beaten to death by feathers. He hoped, for her sake, that her dowry was truly massive and that somewhere in England, there was a man in need of a fortune. Someone who was going deaf and wouldn’t have to listen to her.

  It was extraordinary. She obviously meant well, and still…

  Dinner ended; the gentlemen slunk off to port and cigars, grateful for at least this temporary reprieve.

  There were no awkward pauses once they were established in the library together.

  “She is,” Whitting said to Oliver, “precisely as bad as I said. Wasn’t she?”

  “Really,” Bradenton said, with a shake of his head, “gentlemen. It’s unbecoming to insult a lady.”

  “Indeed,” Hapford echoed.

  Whitting turned, a protest on his lips—and saw that the marquess was smiling, a hard, evil smile. “Good one,” Whitting said. “God, if we couldn’t insult her, there’d be no fun to be had at all.”

  Hapford sighed and looked away.

  Oliver held his tongue. She was awful. But…he didn’t think she could help it.

  And there had been a time when he’d been the one saying all the wrong things. Speaking when he should keep quiet. Telling men like Bradenton that he only received respect because of his title—God, that was almost the worst thing she could have said to the marquess. If Bradenton zealously checked the fences of his prerogatives, Miss Fairfield had leaped over his efforts and trampled his fields.

  “She’s so irritating,” Whitting was saying, “that I can almost feel myself breaking out in a rash in her presence.”

  It didn’t matter how irritating Miss Fairfield was. Oliver had been on the receiving end of those snide comments one too many times to rejoice in making them.

  Instead, he poured himself a glass of brandy and stood at the window.

  He didn’t listen. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t join in, even though Bradenton tossed a few sentences in his direction.

  In the end, he was actually glad to rejoin the ladies.

  But it didn’t get better. Whitting glanced at Oliver after every one of her telling remarks, expecting him to join in his derision. The other men took turns standing next to her, drawing her fire in little batches. It bothered Oliver. It bothered him exceedingly.

  There was a small supply of little cakes on the back table; Oliver put several on his plate and wandered off to look out the window. But there was no escape; she left the other men and came to stand by him.

  “Mr. Cromwell,” she said warmly.

  He nodded at her, and she started speaking.

  It wasn’t that bad if he just listened to the sound of her voice. If he avoided parsing it out into individual words. She had a pleasant intonation—warm and musical—and a lovely laugh.

  She called him Mr. Cromwell. She commiserated with him on the difficulty of accounting. She mentioned—three times—how much respect she had for people like him, people who had to work for their living. It wasn’t bad at all, now that he’d prepared himself for the cyclone-force devastation of her conversation.

  And then, as he stood next to her, smiling and trying to be polite, she reached out and took one of the cakes off his plate. She didn’t even seem aware that she’d done so. She smiled, holding his cake in her fingers, waving it about as she gestured during the conversation.

  That only meant that everyone could see what she had done.

  Behind her, the others were grinning. Whitting made a loud remark about pigs feeding from any trough. Oliver gritted his teeth and smiled politely. He was not going to break. They’d laughed at him, too.

  “So,” Miss Fairfield was saying, “I’m sure you’re most proficient with numbers. That’s an excellent talent to have—one that will serve you in good stead in the future. I’m certain any employer would think of you so.”

  She took another cake as she spoke.

  “It’s a wonder that they found enough lace to wrap all the way around her,” Whitting said behind her.

  If Oliver could hear it, so could she. But she didn’t react. Not so much as a flicker of pain crossed her eyes.

  He’d been wrong. She was going to break him. Not because she was so awful; she meant well, at least, and that made up for a great deal. She was going to break him because he couldn’t stand beside her and listen.

  It reminded Oliver of an afternoon twenty years ago, back when he’d still been at home. A pair of boys had called his next-youngest sister, Laura, a plump little calf. They’d followed her home making mooing sounds. That was back when Oliver could solve problems with his fists.

  Miss Fairfield wasn’t his sister. She didn’t seem to notice. But she might be someone’s sister, and he didn’t like what was happening to her.

  He’d come here to try and talk to Bradenton of reform. He’d come here to change minds. He hadn’t come here to see anyone mocked.

  So he kept silent.

  And when she reached out for another cake, he handed her his entire plate instead.

  Her eyes widened for a moment. She stood in place, looking at him, and he was reminded—temporarily—that when Miss Fairfield held her tongue, when he was able to forget the monstrosity that she was wearing, she was actually quite lovely. There was a dimple in her upper arm, the kind that made him want to reach out and explore its dimensions. She looked up at him with eyes that were adorably brilliant.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’ve been holding these for you, but I must go…talk to a man.”

  She blinked. He inclined his head and left her.

  “What is it with him?” he heard Whitting wonder.

  It was simple. He didn’t like to laugh at anyone. He could find too much of himself in the object of their amusement. And while much had changed since his childhood, that never would.

  Jane shut the door to her sister’s room and let out her breath in one great whoosh. Her face hurt from the effort of smiling. She set her cloak atop a clothespress and worked her shoulders back and forth, relaxing muscles that were frozen to tenseness. It was as if she were becoming a real person once more, one with feelings and desires all of her own instead of a simulacrum, spouting whatever nonsense was necessary.

  It was nice to be able to have feelings again. Especially when the reason for this desperate charade was sitting on the edge of the bed in front of her, dressed in a nightgown.

  “Well?” Emily asked. “How did it go? What happened?”

  Somehow, returning her sister’s welcoming smile didn’t seem to use the same muscles that she’d employed all evening.

  They didn’t look like sisters. Emily had soft, blond hair that fell in natural curls; Jane’s hair was dark brown. Emily’s features were delicate—an artist’s application of thin, arching eyebrows and fine lashes. Jane—well, t
here had never been anything delicate about her. She wasn’t the sort of woman that one typically called plain. She was pretty enough, she supposed, in a plump way.

  Nonetheless, when she and her sister stood side by side, Jane felt as if she were a draft horse. The kind of horse that people on the street eyeballed as it clopped past, whispering to one another. That beast is nineteen hands at the shoulder, I’d warrant. At least one hundred and fifty stone.

  Jane supposed they took after their respective fathers. And that was part of Jane’s problem.

  “Well?” Emily demanded again. “What did the new fellow think of you?”

  Some people confused Emily’s energy with childlike enthusiasm. Jane knew her sister better. She was always in motion—running when it was allowed, walking when it wasn’t. When she was forced to sit, she jiggled her leg impatiently.

  She jiggled her leg constantly these days.

  Jane contemplated her answer. “He’s tall, at least,” she finally managed. He was tall—maybe an inch taller than Jane in heeled shoes, which was a rare feat in a man. “And clever.” He hadn’t even paused to deliver that quip about the Tower of London. “Luckily, I managed to wear him down in the end.”

  She smiled faintly at the door as she spoke. Ah, the bittersweet taste of victory. He’d been impressive, really. He had tried so hard to be nice to her and her money.

  “How did you do it?”

  “I had to eat off his plate,” Jane admitted.

  “How perfectly lovely. You used my trick.” Emily glowed with a smile, jiggling her leg against the pink of her coverlet. “I thought you said you were holding it in reserve. I’ll have to think of another good one.”

  “I was holding it in reserve.” Jane blinked. “He was quite determined to be kind to me, and he was funny to boot. If I’d let him talk to me much longer, he would have made me laugh. I had to break him before that happened.”

  He’d had the strangest expression on his face near the end, solemn and brooding, as if he wanted desperately to like her and was upset at his own failure. His complexion was so fair, she wouldn’t have thought he’d have been able to brood. His eyes had managed the trick—those pale, troubled eyes, masked slightly by the glass of his spectacles.

  “We’ll need a new reserve trick.” Emily rubbed her chin.

  Indeed. Jane wouldn’t feel safe until Marshall was actually laughing with the others. She was almost going to regret breaking him. He’d been nice.

  But she’d given him no reason to be kind to her. No reason except the hundred thousand reasons that any man had, and that made him not nice at all. She shook her head, dispelling all thoughts of kind-eyed, bright-haired men, and turned back to her sister.

  “I have something for you.” She turned back to the cloak she’d tossed aside and rummaged through the pockets until she found the gift.

  “Oh!” Emily was sitting up straight now. “Oh, it has been forever since the last one.”

  “I found it this afternoon, but Titus said you were not to be disturbed during your nap, so…”

  She held out the volume.

  Emily’s face lit and she reached out eagerly, taking the book with a reverent sigh. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you forever.” She brushed one hand gently down the cover. “I hope that Mrs. Blickstall didn’t raise too much trouble over it?”

  Jane waved a hand dismissively. She had an understanding with her chaperone. Their uncle had chosen Mrs. Blickstall to accompany Jane, but it was Jane’s fortune that paid her salary. So long as Jane augmented the woman’s quarterly payments, Mrs. Blickstall was willing to alter the reports she delivered to their uncle…and to allow a little contraband from time to time.

  Contraband like novels. In Emily’s case, dreadful novels.

  “Mrs. Larriger and the Inhabitants of Victoria Land,” Jane said. “Really, Emily. Where is Victoria Land?”

  A dreamy look stole into her sister’s eyes, and she clutched the book closer. “It is the land of ice and snow at the South Pole. At the end of the last volume—the one where Mrs. Larriger was kidnapped by Portuguese whalers and held for ransom—she talked them into letting her go. The whaler captain, in a fit of spite, deposited her on the icy shores of Victoria Land.”

  “I see,” Jane said dubiously.

  “I have had to wait two entire months to find out what happened to her.”

  Jane simply shook her head. “I didn’t know there were inhabitants of Victoria Land. I had thought that a land without soil would be a harsh environment to support human life.”

  “There are penguins and seals and who knows who else? It is Mrs. Larriger we’re talking about. She escaped execution in Russia after proving herself innocent of the murder of the Czarina’s pet wolfhound. She singlehandedly put down an armed revolt in India. She foiled the combined armies of Japan and China, and only then was she captured by whalers.”

  “All those governments around the world,” Jane mused. “All wanting to execute the same woman. Surely they can’t all be wrong.”

  Emily laughed. “You just don’t like her because she’s too much like you.”

  “Oh, I’m like a fifty-eight year old woman?” Jane put her hand to her hip in mock disgust.

  “No,” Emily said cheekily. “But you’re bossy and argumentative.”

  “I am not.”

  “Mm hmm.” Emily lifted the book to smell the fresh-cut pages. As she did, the sleeve of her night rail slipped to her elbow, exposing two round, shiny scars.

  “Bossy or not, that book is tripe,” Jane said. But her throat felt too tight, and her fingers curled into a ball. She didn’t think she could ever forgive Titus for those scars.

  If Emily took note of her altered tone, she didn’t remark on it. “There’s no smell quite so good as a newly printed, unread book. As for this one… It’s educational. How else am I to learn about other countries?”

  There was nothing to be said about Emily’s scars, and the fact that she had them was no reason to stop teasing her. So Jane bumped her sister’s shoulder and adopted a severe tone. “You realize these books are fiction? That each separate volume is probably written by a different man, one who has likely never left London? They’re not educational. They’re made up, and I imagine that the actual residents of Russia, China, and Japan would be quite disturbed to hear what the supposed Mrs. Larriger says of them.”

  “Yes, but—”

  The door to the room opened without warning, interrupting the argument. Emily jumped and jammed the book under her skirts. Jane stepped in front of her sister. But the damage was already done.

  Titus Fairfield looked from Jane to Emily and then back again, more slowly. He shook his head sadly.

  “Oh, girls,” he said.

  Their uncle Titus was balding and had heavy jowls. That, combined with his deep, somber voice, made him appear perpetually dour and disapproving—an appearance that he no doubt rejoiced in. Jane suspected that he practiced that glum expression in the mirror.

  He probably thought an air of moroseness made him seem more intelligent.

  “I am not fooled,” he said.

  Jane looked at Emily. Emily looked back at Jane.

  “Uncle Titus!” Emily said. “How lovely to see you.”

  Their uncle held out one hand and tapped the finger of the other against his palm. Emily heaved a sigh. Slowly, she stood and pulled the book out from underneath her. Uncle Titus strode forward and took it from her.

  “It’s an improving work,” Emily told him. “A very moral tale, about…”

  “Mrs. Larriger and…” A sad sound escaped him. “Victoria Land.” He spoke those last words as if he were reluctantly reciting the name of a brothel. “Jane, my dear, what have I told you about leading your younger sister astray with novels?”

  Jane would have been delighted to have Emily give up Mrs. Larriger and her string of unlikely, ridiculous exploits. It wouldn’t take much to divert her attention—just allowing her out in company. Even letting her
outside for longer than ten minutes at a time might do the trick.

  She’d tried to argue that point too many times.

  “Oh, but Uncle,” Emily said, “it’s an educational tale, replete with…geographical features of interest.”

  “A novel.”

  Emily set her jaw determinedly. “A true story, covered with the thin veil of fiction to protect the identities of the innocent.”

  Titus Fairfield opened the book, turned a handful of pages, and began reading aloud. “‘Having convinced the seals to pull my raft and catch my fish, it only remained for me to find some way to train the voices of the penguins.’” He looked up. “A true story, covered by the thin veil of fiction?”

  No. Even Titus wasn’t that gullible.

  Emily clapped her hands to her ears. “You’re ruining it. Don’t tell me what happens.”

  Titus looked at her. “If that is what it will take to stop this. You’ve disobeyed me, and disobedience has consequences.” So saying, he shuffled slowly to the end of the book. “You should not be allowed to take pleasure in your willfulness. If you do not want to hear the ending, then…” He bent his head and began to read. ‘Chapter Twenty-Seven. After the sharks had come—’”

  “La la la,” Emily sang, drowning out his words. “La la la la.”

  He stopped and closed the book, his expression even more grim. “Emily, my dear. Who taught you to tell untruths? To flout the authority of your elders? To speak as your guardian is speaking?”

  You, Jane thought. Necessity.

  But her uncle, apparently, had a different thought. His eyes traveled to Jane.

  He didn’t look at her with accusation in his eyes. There wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. His expression was just pathetically, droopingly sad. He sat gingerly next to Emily and patted her shoulder.

  “Now, Emily,” he said quietly. “I know you to be a truthful girl. And I know that you feel a great affection for your sister.”

  He didn’t know Emily at all. He’d never bothered to know either of them.

  “It’s quite natural,” Titus said, as if Jane were not in the room. “But you need to keep in mind that your sister is lacking in moral character.”