The Wrong Miss Fairfax - A Regency Romance

Chapter 1

As Different as Chalk and Cheese

MARCH 1816, MANFRED Park, England

Miss Emma Fairfax

I do not have a choice, Mrs. Pickett, I said again, trying not to sound impatient despite the housekeeper’s persistent objections to my journeying up to London today. Since early morn, Mrs. Pickett and I had been sorting through my belongings in order to determine which of my gowns and accessories I should carry with me. 

Of course ye have a choice, child, Mrs. Pickett countered. (To my ears, she was beginning to sound impatient.) Your aunt and uncle will sort out their troubles, same as they’ve always done. Can’t see why they summoned you to come running.

Mrs. Pickett, who served as my nanny when I was a child and later became my dear, departed mother’s housekeeper, knew almost as much about my aunt and uncle’s affairs as I do. But, this time I had not revealed everything to Mrs. Pickett, mainly because I, myself, do not know the whole truth behind my Aunt Eulalie’s Urgent Missive, received only yesterday. Aunt Eulalie, in her typical fashion, had rambled on and on about dire circumstances and threats to their home and well-being.  However, my aunt sounded rather too hysterical this time especially when she ended her letter with a demand that I come up to London at once as I was their only hope for salvation.

It clearly sounded to me as if my Uncle Leonard had once again gambled away more of the ready than he had in his pocket and the London Fairfaxs once again needed the Manfred Park Fairfaxs help in climbing out of the bumblebroth they had landed in. Such had been the case my entire life. Uncle Leonard was my late father, Sir Edward Fairfax’s brother, and while the two men resembled one another in looks, both being solidly-built with dark blond locks and blue eyes, in temperament they were as different as chalk and cheese. My father, rest his dear soul, was the kindest and most thoughtful man I have ever known. He was also shrewd in his business dealings, but very fair, and never once got himself into trouble, whereas my uncle was quite the opposite, thoughtless, quick to anger, loved his strong drink a tad bit too much, and very often whiled away his days, and nights, at the gaming tables. Much to my Aunt Eulalie’s chagrin, my Uncle Leonard would wager on any and everything, and unfortunately, he generally lost far more than he won. When my father was still alive, it was he who received the Urgent Missives from Aunt Eulalie, and between them my mother and father would sort out the trouble and more often than not, dispatch a generous sum to Uncle Leonard’s solicitor in London.

But, now, both my parents are gone and I, who recently reached the advanced age of eight and ten, am all that is left of the Manfred Park Fairfaxs. All too clear to me now was that Mrs. Pickett, who was busily folding up a pile of clean chemises and stuffing them into my valise, still thought of herself as my nanny.

Although my parents could have easily afforded to do so, they never kept a terribly large household. In the past year since Mama and Papa went on to their rewards, our servants have diminished to a few stable-hands, a maid of all work, and Mrs. Pickett and her husband, Mr. Pickett, who tends to estate needs and helps care for the few horses that remain in our now very nearly empty stable. Before he passed on, my Papa’s prized thoroughbred horses provided an excellent income for our little family. Papa loved his horses, as do I. He bred, trained and then sold them to those country gentlemen hereabouts who like to race them, and a good many more to Town gentleman who like to promenade about Hyde Park perched atop an exceptionally fine mare or gelding.

Do you mean to take a fancy-dress gown with you, Miss Emma?

I suppose one gown will do, I replied absently. Because my parents rarely traveled up to London and I had never had a London Season, I owned very few really nice things. I wondered now if Aunt Eulalie’s Urgent Matter had anything to do with bringing me, or my cousin, out this Season. Mama always wanted me to have a proper London Season, I murmured more to myself than to Mrs. Pickett.

Your Mama wanted no such thing! Mrs. P. fired back, sounding decidedly agitated now. But, then, Mrs. Pickett always did speak her mind openly, even to my mother, who could also be quite stern when she wanted to be. Even with my Aunt.

Mama and Aunt Eulalie were sisters and like my Papa and Uncle Leonard, they were also as different as chalk and cheese. Mama had been gentle and kind and sweet-tempered whereas Mama’s younger sister Eulalie, though generally good-hearted, had an odd way of turning into a goose-brained skitter-wit when she was anxious or overset. At those times, she’d speak non-stop without drawing breath, her words tumbling over one another in a jumble of unintelligible gibber-jabber. Which is why both her conversation and her letters often never made a great deal of sense.

Mrs. Pickett, I began, inhaling a deep breath of much-needed patience at this juncture, "I am not going up to London for the Season. I am merely answering my aunt’s summons in person this time in order to ascertain for myself what the trouble might be."

Just see you don’t go picking up any rackety ways from that cousin o’ yours, Miss Jemima. Mark my words, that one’ll come to some bad end, Mrs. P. grumbled.

Jemima is my Aunt Eulalie and Uncle Leonard’s only offspring. The pair of us are close on the same age, though I am the eldest by a few weeks. Because we were born so very near one another, our mothers decided to christen their baby daughters with sound-alike names . . . Emma for me, Jemima for my cousin. However, at about age five, Aunt Eulalie began to address her little daughter as Jemma, which meant our names sounded even more alike. Since we were small, Jemma and I have borne such a marked resemblance to one another that people began to declare they could scarcely tell us apart. Considering the circumstances of our birth . . . our mothers being sisters, our fathers being brothers . . . perhaps our resembling one another was not so very remarkable.

Just don’t let her hoydenish ways rub off on you, Mrs. Pickett said again, finally beginning to sound as if she might be coming around to accepting the fact that I am, indeed, going up to London for an undetermined length.

You needn’t worry on that score, Mrs. P., I replied with a smile, I gave up letting my cousin’s flights of fancy influence me long ago. 

Truth is, when Jemma and I were children, I did allow her to draw me into a good bit of mischief, teasing our parents by pretending to be one another and whatnot. Jemma and I both have blonde curls and blue eyes and are the exact same height. Our personalities, however, are also as different as chalk and cheese. Jemma is far more bold and out-going than I, getting herself into one scrape or another whilst I lean to more gentle, lady-like pursuits. For instance, I enjoy nothing better than curling up on a rainy, or any, afternoon with a volume of poetry or prose . . . although I admit of late, my choice of reading material might not be considered all that is proper. I confess (to no one in particular) that I have read nearly all of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. And, I yearn to read the latest poem written by that naughty Lord Byron. 

Another marked difference between Jemma and myself is that I wear spectacles (but only when I read), which has given rise to my aunt and uncle now referring to me as the bluestocking of the family, which of course, I am not; despite the fact that I also enjoy jotting down my thoughts in a journal, something I began doing the day I turned ten.

I blinked back a sudden rush of tears as I recalled the evening my dear Papa came home with a package for me, which when I carefully removed the ribbon and brown paper, I found a beautiful, red leather volume full of gloriously blank pages! Elated, I scampered at once to my bedchamber to begin filling those pristine pages with my thoughts, and later bits and scraps of my own rhyming verse. I have never ceased putting down my thoughts, and am now into my third or fourth volume.

There is another marked difference between my cousin and myself, but this one . . . does not show. Mrs. Pickett is the only other person besides myself, and Mr. Fuller, our village apothecary, who knows the extent and cause of my other infirmity. You see, I am completely deaf in my left ear, the cause due to a nasty fall I took one day whilst galloping pell-mell across a Manfred Park meadow on one of Papa’s ponies. I had just skirted, far too fast I own, past a huge old oak when a low-hanging branch snagged the sleeve of my Spencer and hurled me to the ground. Apparently, I landed quite hard upon the left side of my head and lay unconscious for a time until my dear Papa found me. Days after I had recovered from the unfortunate spill, I continued to suffer dizzy spells and in their wake, the hearing in my left ear began to markedly diminish. It is now completely gone. I do my best not to let it show but there are times when I am unable to hear what is being said to me and must ask the person speaking to please repeat what they just said. It is most embarrassing but I suppose it does serve to enhance the notion that I am a bluestocking, that I lose myself in books and then appear to spend a great deal of time lost in my own thoughts, when the truth is, I am oft-times only hearing half of what is being said in my presence. 

There is another reason why I am bent on traveling up to London today. Since Papa’s death, nearly all of his prized thoroughbred horses have disappeared from the stable! Every other week or so, a man who declares to be from London, has appeared at our door with an official-looking paper in hand and without uttering more than a word or two, makes his way to the stable to cart away one or more of the horses! I want to know where they are being taken, and why? The only few animals that remain are the gentle mounts that belonged to me and Mama, and their three small foals who are still suckling.

I fear the disappearance of Papa’s beautiful horses has been Uncle Leonard’s doing since it was he who inherited the bulk of Papa’s estate, and, therefore, can now do as he pleases with the horses. But, being a grown woman now and the only Manfred Park Fairfax left, I intend to learn the whole truth behind that murky business, and also about a few other things. I receive a quarterly allowance that has continued to arrive for me since my father’s death, but I need to know the exact amount of the funds I can count upon receiving to apply toward my future needs. I am aware of the quarterly rents coming in from Manfred Park’s tenant farmers, but I do believe there must be considerably more in my Papa’s accounts; I just have no idea how much more.

Every night I thank the dear Lord that Uncle Leonard cannot take Manfred Park from me. Papa was adamant during his lifetime, and in his Last Will and Testament, the words of which I have read myself, that as the elder of the Fairfax brothers, he could rightfully pass Manfred Park on to me, his only offspring, un-entailed. It is now my express wish and intent to live out my days right here at Manfred Park, with Mr. and Mrs. Pickett to look after things, the same as they have always done.

I have no desire to marry. Still I rather expect if my Aunt Eulalie has anything to say about it, and she no doubt will, I shall be affianced to a proper London gentleman before I leave Town. I fear, however, that no respectable gentleman will want a wife with an infirmity such as mine. I am a bespectacled miss (although only when I read) who is deaf in one ear. What self-respecting gentleman would want the likes of me for a wife?

Do ye mean to take all o’ your bonnets with ye, or just these few? Mrs. Pickett’s voice from where she stood before the tall mahogany cupboard in the corner of my bedchamber drew me from my reverie. 

P-Perhaps only the two I’ve set out will do. My chin trembled as I sat down heavily upon the edge of my canopied bed. Do forgive me. I was thinking about Papa.

Mrs. Pickett came to perch beside me on the bed and, as gentle and loving as my own dear mama would have been, gathered me into her arms. There, there, sweeting. Your papa would not wish ye to be sad. To be sure, ye’ll have a grand time in Lunnon. She withdrew a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it into my hand. Now, wipe away those tears. Mr. Trent’ll be a-coming for ye in no time. 

Sure enough, a scant second later, our sentimental moment was shattered when we both heard the clatter of carriage wheels on the gravel drive beneath my bedchamber window. Mrs. Pickett jumped up to fasten shut my valise. I declare that man should be a-takin’ ye all the way into Town. What would your papa say if he knew ye meant to ride the entire way on a common coach and all alone without a proper . . . her voice trailed off as she headed out the door carrying my valise and hatbox tied with a string in her hands.

Rising to my feet to follow her, I refrained from saying that since it was the Royal Mail, it was, therefore, not common. And since the distance into Town was not great, I would no doubt arrive at my destination by teatime this very afternoon. Instead, I reached for the book I was currently reading, scooped up my woolen shawl, and also the little basket containing the light luncheon Mrs. Pickett had thoughtfully prepared for me, and also quitted my bedchamber. I would most definitely be returning home to Manfred Park soon . . . once I had the answers to all of my questions.

Chapter 2

Yet Another Urgent Summons

MARCH 1816, LONDON, England

Devlan Hastings, Lord Townsend

I should not be away from Town long, I flung over my shoulder to Preston, my valet, who has been with me since my salad days as a reconnaissance officer on the Peninsula and continues to faithfully serve me now that the war is over.  "Apparently her ladyship is quite impatient to see me," I added to myself as I snatched up my hat and gloves.

Her ladyship was my grandmother, the Dowager Townsend Viscountess, whose country home was located a good hour’s ride beyond London. My grandmother’s note, which arrived before I opened my eyes this morning, had indicated that the matter she wished to take up with me was urgent. Which probably meant it was anything but. I rather expect it meant she simply wished to hear all about my latest diplomatic mission and to see for herself that I had made the return crossing from the continent all in a piece. 

Striding down the narrow alleyway behind the three-story brick building where my man-of-business had managed on short notice to procure a suite of rooms for me, I headed toward the Mews. I was, in fact, possessed of a town home right here in London that had belonged to my late mother, but after having toured the property I realized it was in dire need of refurbishing and at present was unlivable, therefore I had opted to temporarily set myself up in a less than fashionable quarter of town and in far less than fashionable accommodations. This particular morning, I had decided that rather than avail myself of the somewhat shabby gig and one, a vehicle meant to be shared by the four gentlemen tenants who occupied my building, I would instead ride horseback into the country.

Since returning to England a fortnight ago, I had managed only yesterday to make time to visit Tattersall’s and purchase myself a fine piece of horseflesh, a beautiful chestnut mare I dubbed Lady Magnificent, after no one in particular; although I had high hopes of soon meeting such a woman now that my military days were behind me and I was at liberty to turn my attention to more frivolous, or even serious, pursuits. Such as selecting a mate and getting on with the business of filling my nursery with a male heir, and how ever many little ones who might follow. Unlike some gentlemen, I enjoyed the company of children, but given a choice I would rather like to be in love, or at least, kindly disposed toward their mother. Meaning that I had every intention of taking my time in selecting and courting the woman I would eventually take to wife.

Stepping into the Mews, I saw that Lady Mag was already saddled and awaiting me. Picking my way through the city, I soon realized with chagrin that on horseback, rather than riding within the confines of a closed carriage, the air in Town smelled decidedly foul, and that truth was, I far preferred open country air to Town air. Once I finally gained the highway leading out of the city, I thoroughly enjoyed inhaling deep breaths of fresh country air filled with the pungent scent of new mown hay and in places, rain freshened earth. Still, by the time Lady Mag and I reached the Townsend country home, we both felt a bit fatigued and had also both worked up quite a lather.

Ah, at last you have arrived, Devlan; however not as punctually as I had wished, scolded my grandmother as I was shown into her private sitting room located at the end of a lengthy corridor that traversed the rambling Bath-stone country home built by a Townsend ancestor above two centuries ago.

"Yes, well, I might have arrived a half hour sooner if you had received me in the withdrawing room located at the front of the house," I somewhat irritably pointed out, knowing full well that my grandmother did not care a whit for my view on the matter.

Do sit here close to me, Devlan. The older woman indicated a high-backed chair positioned next to the reclining sofa upon which she . . . reclined. And tell me at once all about your . . . good God, Devlan, you smell like a horse!

Nothing wrong with her nose. Thank you, Grandmother. I daresay I could use a glass of cool lemonade, or even cool water, if . . .

"I should think a tub of cool water would better serve, she grumbled as she reached for the bell pull, handily situated within easy reach of her sofa. Why have you not been to see me before now? she demanded. I know very well you arrived in Town a fortnight ago; the Times reported a glowing account of your diplomatic career and your recent triumphs abroad. I want to hear all about Vienna and . . . "

The Congress in Vienna dissolved above a year ago, Grandmother, I patiently reminded her. And you have seen me since then. If you recollect, I and the other gentlemen from the Foreign Office returned home soon after Napoleon escaped from Elba, consequently the Congress in Vienna was quite hastily dissolved when Bonaparte made his way to France. Soon after that, if you recall, I was summoned to Brussels. Then, following Waterloo, I . . .

Yes, yes, I do recall all of that. She shushed me with a wave of a blue-veined hand. The upstart Corsican was eventually banished to some remote little island called Saint . . . Saint . . .

Helena. 

A short pause ensued, which a scant second later was shattered by the appearance of Briggs, my grandmother’s aged retainer, who shuffled into the room balancing a silver tray containing in addition to a pot of tea, one glass of lemonade and a plate piled high with a variety of delicate-looking sandwiches and assorted biscuits. I confess I was as elated to see the victuals as I was the lemonade. Because I had not yet managed to hire myself a competent cook, Preston and I very often took our meals at a nearby alehouse, although the fare there was best consumed quickly before one summoned the courage to question precisely what one was eating.

Devlan. Before I had time to question my grandmother as to the nature of her Urgent Summons this morning, she proceeded, without preamble, I might add, to enlighten me. It is time you married.

Bits of lemonade pulp spewed forth from my mouth. But, I-I have only just . . .

Nonsense! You have enjoyed your freedom quite long enough. It is time you present me with a proper heir. I will brook no objection on the matter.

While my mind scurried about in search of objections to which my grandmother might brook, I managed for the moment to forestall further discussion on the matter by snatching up the scrap of linen I spotted on the tea tray in order to mop up the soggy specks of lemonade pulp now decorating my waistcoat and breeches. Then after clearing my throat, I squared my chin and employed the firm tone that has served me quite well in diplomatic negotiations. Madam, I am not yet ready to leg-shackle myself with a wife.

Rubbish!

Rubbish? Apparently, my firm tone influenced only foreign ministers. My lips thinned and I found I had to grasp my own knee to forcibly control the agitated tapping of one booted foot against my grandmother’s plush Turkish carpet.

You are a handsome man, Devlan.

Well . . . no argument there. 

You take after your grandfather, tall, dark hair and . . . still plenty of it, she observed wryly. I daresay your shoulders are devoid of buckram padding. She looked me up and down. And from what I have seen of your wardrobe, you have excellent taste in gentleman’s finery.

Thank you, madam, I managed reluctantly to reply.

The Season will soon be in full swing and you should have no trouble snagging a pretty miss before Parliament recesses and Polite Society seeks refuge in the country. You may begin by attending Almack’s first assembly of the Season on Wednesday evening next.

Employing yet another delaying tactic, I set aside my empty glass and plate now devoid of all but crumbs, folded my arms across my chest and leveled a narrow-eyed gaze at my . . . apparently, new commanding officer. Even for a gentleman who has been absent from England a lengthy spell, I clearly recalled Almack’s Assembly Rooms were to be avoided like the plague. I had purposely set myself up in a less-than fashionable quarter of town in order to avoid becoming ensnared in this season’s social whirl. Even on the continent I had been subjected to ambitious matchmaking mamas who thrust their insipid milk-and-water misses upon me at every turn. Something I did not enjoy a whit, nor did I invite or encourage. "I prefer to not attend that particular Wednesday-evening function, madam."

I insist upon it, young man.

Again, my booted-foot of its own accord began to tap furiously upon the floor. Why visiting my grandmother nearly always reduced me to a whimpering cub who could do no more than tremble before this fierce lioness, I did not know.

"Furthermore, I insist that you escort me . . . and my protégée."

Your . . . protégée? One dark brow lifted. Apparently, my grandparent had already picked out the young lady to whom she intended to leg-shackle me; which meant that as the self-respecting gentleman I am, I had no choice but to have none of it. I squared my shoulders. "I regret that I shall be unable to