Very Truly Yours Read online

  Gentle Reader,

  I know I've committed an unpardonable act. I should never have read Miss Liza Cranshaw's letters. I assure you I never intended to wrong her. But now that I've learned of her desperate straits, how can I ignore her plight?

  Miss Cranshaw is the daughter of a wealthy merchant. She is being blackmailed into marriage by a wretched nobleman greedy for her dowry. Naturally, I cannot ignore a damsel in distress— especially one so lovely and so charming—and am determined to prevent this disastrous union for her sake, though I must admit she has stirred my soul in ways I had not thought possible.

  I am aware of my reputation as a rake and one who has never had more than a passing acquaintance with constancy. And I admit I am a stone's throw away from debtor's prison—through no fault of my own, I hasten to add. Misfortune, however, is no impediment to heroism. I vow, Gentle Reader, that I will restore my fortune and rescue Miss Cranshaw—before I land in prison. Just, I beg of you, do not tell her about the letters!

  Very truly yours,

  Jack Fairchild, Esq.

  Jove Books, Berkley Publishing Group

  Copyright 2001

  Prologue

  n the shadows of his lodgings near Whitehall, overlooking St. James's Park, Jack Fairchild slowly raised his head. Behind his closed eyelids, light blinded him. It was the searing, painful light of inevitability, of a realization that came too late. He tried to swallow, but couldn't. His head slumped. It was over.

  Life as he'd known it would never be the same. Like a desperate man clinging to the familiar as it slips away, he reached out and combed the sleek, dark red mahogany Chippendale table where he'd dined privately with so many beautiful women. The satiny feel of the expensive wood on his fingertips, and the soft squeak of skin on polish, soothed him. He sighed and his eyes fluttered open.

  He consciously tried to memorize every lovely detail— the green striped silk wallpaper; the warm glow of dozens of candles in the tinkling crystal chandelier overhead; the smell of fresh flowers on the sideboard; the rich, almost

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  gaudy red Oriental dinner set imported by the East India Company, always plentifully dressed with fashionable delicacies—Russian caviar, Portuguese hams, Laplander reindeer tongues, lobster patties. Of course, he'd taken it all for granted. What a fool he'd been!

  Never again would he be admitted to the all-important and prestigious Almack's, he thought as he listened to the rumble of carriage wheels over the damp cobblestones below. Indeed, if he did not act soon, he would instead be listening to the uneasy breathing of those who spent restless nights in debtor's prison, desperately hoping for a reprieve that would never come, for Jack was thoroughly in dun territory. Overnight John Calhoun Fairchild, heir apparent to Baron Tutley, had become impoverished.

  The late-summer breeze fluttered around his perspiring temples, chilling his overheated skin, and knocked the dread letter to the floor. He did not retrieve it. He knew it by heart. He'd read it over and over again since its arrival this morning.

  My Dear Mr. Fairchild,

  Imagine my surprise learning upon my return from the East Indies that you are now the sole proprietor of the Fairchild Tea Company, having inherited said company from your late father who, I understand, died a year ago at his own hand. A gunshot wound to the head, wasn't it? I had hoped to collect money owed to me from him, but now find you responsible. I expect three thousand pounds by the end of the month, or I will take action, sir. You wouldn't be the first gentleman to land in debtor's

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  prison, so do not expect leniency from me. I shall visit soon and expect the payment in full.

  It was signed Lord Abbington. He was a shareholder in the import company that had put Jack's father out of business. Abbington knew very well that the Fairchild Tea Company was insolvent. Jack had spent the last year paying the rest of his father's creditors. Until the moment he'd been unfortunate enough to inherit the failing business, Jack had had no interest in it. He'd never wanted to follow in his merchant-father's footsteps. It had been expected that he would inherit his maternal grandfather's title. Therefore, he'd studied law to suit his own fancy, with no intention of earning a living from it. After all, work was beneath a member of the Upper Ten Thousand.

  He couldn't resist giving charity, though, and had spent untold hours in the Chancery courts, using his skills as a lawyer on behalf of indigent men who were one step away from debtor's prison, or there already. He'd worked tirelessly to keep honest, poor men out of the very place he would soon be headed, an irony that was too bitter to swallow tonight.

  Two years ago, however, the heir apparent of the Tutley barony had become the heir unapparent, as it were, when his grandfather had turned on Jack and his mother, cutting off all contact and financial support. A year later, Jack's mother and father had died from a combination of too much drink and too much crushing debt. His father had killed himself; his mother simply lost her will to live. His lovely, poor mother had lived like a betrayed waif in a netherworld of her father's making simply because she had not known what price she would pay for marrying a man she did not love.

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  Despite his parents' scandalous deaths, Jack had clung to his former social status as a member of the haut ton for the last year through sheer charm. But he possessed an inconvenient sense of honor that had compelled him to use all of the remaining funds in his trust to pay off his father's debts, and the illusion of fashionability he'd struggled to maintain could not ultimately survive this coup de grace to his finances. When this letter had come, announcing the very real possibility that he might be imprisoned for his father's debt, Jack's house of cards had crumbled. He didn't even have enough money to try to gamble his way out of this one. Last night, he'd lost his last hand at White's.

  That left him with only one way out.

  He reached for the duelling pistol his father had used to blow a hole in his head. With sweat streaming down his brow, he picked up the weapon, hating it, but needing more than anything in the world to end his sorrow this way. His hand was trembling, and he could hardly still it long enough to finish the task. He had just raised the pistol in the air when the door flew open behind him.

  "No, Mr. Fairchild, you cannot do it!" cried out his secretary. The portly Mr. Clayton Harding ran to his side and gripped Jack's wrist, jerking his employer's hand toward the ceiling. "I won't let you! The situation isn't that dire!"

  "Let go, Harding," Jack said with sangfroid, regarding him with as much perturbation as he would a pesky fly.

  "No, sir, I won't let you take your own life!"

  'Take my own life?" Jack blurted out a disbelieving laugh. "I had no such intention, I assure you. Now let go of my arm before it goes numb. Really, Harding, you have the most dramatic sense of perception. If I wanted to kill

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  myself I'd lie down in front a carriage in Hyde Park and save my creditors the price of a bullet."

  Still frowning, Harding loosened his grip and chuckled uncertainly. "You mean you weren't going to kill yourself? I saw that the pistol was missing and assumed the worst. I did not see you in your room and feared you—"

  "Lud, no! It is not even loaded. I was simply going to throw this blasted gun in the fire." Jack glared at the pistol in his hand. "If I can't melt the metal, I'll at least burn the handle until it's useless. I loathe the damned thing for all the trouble it's caused me."

  Harding looked suspiciously at the fireplace. It did indeed roar with more life than was warranted on a warm summer evening. Then he looked at Jack, who merely arched a brow and gave him a crooked half-smile.

  "Very well, Mr. Fairchild. I see your point. I wondered why it was so hot in here."

  "Yes, I'm sweating like a bloody pig. Now remove you
r hand so I can finish this nasty business. I can't keep the pistol that killed my father, nor can I sell it to some poor unsuspecting chap who doesn't know what a curse it bears. If not for this weapon, Henry Fairchild would be around to take care of his own debts. I blame him, and this weapon, for the burdens I now carry, so let me find some peace at last."

  When Harding let go, Jack threw the wooden and metal contraption in the fire, then dusted his hands, which trembled with the significance of the act. "At last I have some revenge against the fates that have contrived such an impossible future for me."

  He leaned his tall, languid body against the hearth and gazed fondly around his drawing room. "I shall miss this

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  place very much, Harding. It's been a good life here in London."

  Harding went very still, raising his nose in the air as if sniffing disaster. "You speak in the past tense, sir. I never like to hear you speaking of London in the past tense."

  "The plans are already made, I fear. I've corresponded with Mr. Pedigrew, an old family friend in Middledale who has retired. I've arranged to purchase his law offices. He's going to let me use them on credit for a year."

  "Middledale." Harding grimaced. "Why, that's in the Cotswolds."

  "Yes, it's rather picturesque there, I fancy."

  "Picturesque! You might as well move to the Scottish moors! Do you know how far Middledale is from London?"

  "Yes, and I don't care. If I never come to Town again I will be glad of it."

  "You may not care, sir, but I most certainly do. You test the limits of my loyalty if you expect me to resign my life of pleasure here for the exasperation of country life."

  "I don't expect you to come with me if you do not wish it, Harding," Jack said, pushing off the hearth and going to the window, looking down at the moonlit street with a wistful sigh. "But if I don't want to starve, or end up in debtor's prison, there is only one thing left for me to do—work for a living."

  "As a solicitor?" Harding asked, growing pale even by moonlight standards. "But then you'll be a man in trade. That will finish you off in the polite world. You'll be thrown out of the best clubs in Town."

  "What choice do I have? If I stay here I'm sure to land in debtor's prison. If I lose myself in the country, I'll have

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  at least a month, and maybe more, before Abbington can find me. I know the odds of paying off my debt are against me, but would you rather I simply loll around and wait for an arrest warrant?"

  "Earning money would be so much more palatable if you were a barrister," Harding bemoaned, wringing his hands. "Then you would not be cast out from good society. But no! You were too intent on charity cases to spend the required time eating with the benchers until you could be called to the bar. Now all you are is a lawyer, a solicitor who must hire barristers to plead your cases in court."

  Jack turned from the window and with a neat twist of his wrist straightened his starched, white cravat. "You make me sound like a blasted ragpicker, Harding. How can you possibly blame me for this predicament? I fully expected to be a wealthy baron, not a barrister. I did not know you'd take my plight so personally."

  Harding's eyes simmered in a pool of regret. "I have stood by you, Mr. Fairchild, because I knew your potential. You have greatness in you. I might have been secretary to a government minister, you know. But I chose you, sir."

  Jack swallowed hard, feeling the weight not only of his own future, but of Harding's as well. "Thank you, old boy. I know you've been loyal. I do not plan to let you down."

  Hearing his own declaration, waves of cold and heat washed over him at once. He had to survive. And he would. His fortune lay in Middledale, he was sure of it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  few days later, when Middledale was less than a mile away, Harding tried once more to dissuade his employer from country life. However, this time his arguments were punctuated by his own grunts and groans whenever the swaying carriage hit a bump in the road and jarred his gout-swollen feet.

  "It's not too late, sir," Harding said. "We can spend the night and turn back on the morrow." He pressed a kerchief to his florid brow and watched his elegant employer for signs of weakness.

  Jack merely turned the page of the book of poems he was reading.

  "If all you need is money, Mr. Fairchild, you could— ouch!—go to a money lender." After hitting a pothole, the carriage pitched left, then right. Harding heaved to and fro, while Jack casually shifted his weight.

  "Go to a money lender?" Jack replied without looking up. "And watch a three-thousand-pound debt multiply ten-

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  fold before I could pay it back? No, thank you."

  "Then plead with your grandfather."

  "He would never lend me, much less give me, a single groat." Jack's jaw muscles ticked at the insult. Then he looked up, pinning Harding with his infamously beautiful eyes. "He loathes me because I am my father's son. And since that is a fact I will never change, I do not expect him to reverse course at this point in time. He can't deny me his title in due time, but he can damned well keep his fortune from me and so he shall."

  "Then plead with your friends."

  Jack grinned sardonically, finally giving up and closing his book. "You know very well my friends are all women. Their husbands wouldn't take kindly to giving charity to their wives' lover."

  The secretary sighed forlornly at the truth. Jack Fair-child had wasted his talents and grace and good looks on impoverished men and the wives of powerful men, instead of cultivating the elite of the beau monde. For a sharp-witted man, he was impossibly oblivious to his own deficits and attributes, or how he might have used both for his own gains.

  He did not, for example, fully appreciate or take advantage of his own beauty, as Harding surely would have had he been so blessed. Jack Fairchild cut the kind of riveting figure that even men could not help but notice. Given Jack's natural grace, his dashing mane of onyx hair, and his high, ruddy, lean-cut cheeks, his conquest of women was taken for granted. Expected even. And the extent to which this behavior did not inspire jealousy was owing to the fact that everyone, including the husbands of his lovers, sensed that Jack just couldn't help himself. A beautiful man had to have women, didn't he?

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  This unspoken contract required gentlemanly discretion, naturally. While he might ruin a woman's ability to love her husband by having an affair with her, Jack would never be so inconsiderate or selfish to even think of stealing her permanently. So he was always forgiven. After a fashion.

  The one time Jack had been called out by a jealous husband, he'd quickly proven his skill with the pistol, lodging a bullet in the man's arm. Of course, the scandal had forced him to spend a year abroad, but his impudence had been forgiven by Society in due time, and ultimately only served to enhance his reputation as a rake.

  Did Jack feel remorse for his indiscretions? Not as far as Harding could tell. He'd told his secretary on more than one occasion that he was doing womankind a favor. He had seen his own mother's misery in a loveless marriage. And Jack knew that the majority of women were similarly locked into unhappy political arrangements, as the rich were wont to be. He considered one night of passion the least a woman might expect from life.

  "And what about the women?" Harding now asked with resignation. "Will you spend your time doting on them in Middledale, too, distracting you from the business at hand?"

  "No, I'm a changed man. I've done with the fairer sex. I must work now. I will not let anything keep me from my efforts to restore my fortunes." Jack looked out the window. "Ah, here we are! We've arrived." He cast Harding a sardonic grin. "And just in time to spare me an interview with the Inquisition."

  Jack and his reluctant secretary arrived in the perfectly charming town of Middledale on a perfectly radiant summer day. The village was tucked in and around the bends

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  and curves of a great hillside, so that one couldn't see the entire length of the main street at a glance. One had
to go exploring, shifting this way and that, rounding
  Jack ordered the carriage to stop at one end of town, determined to walk the length of it to his new offices.

  "Here we are!" he announced as he climbed down the carriage step. "What a lovely village, eh, Harding?"

  "Charmed, I'm sure, sir," Harding grumbled. His legs, already burdened by his weight and a nasty case of gout, hit the hard cobblestone street with a wobble from days of disuse during the arduous coach ride from London.

  "This is a cozy nest of humanity'." Jack enthused, his face alive with interest, his eyes taking in everything—the prettily weathered hand-painted signs over stores and taverns, the rainbow of fruit and flower stalls along the way, the simple-looking folk who did business here, the genteel ladies strolling down the thoroughfare with wide-brimmed bonnets and fringed parasols. "And the air is so fresh."

  "Fresh?" Harding moaned. "Foul smelling if you ask me."

  Jack let out a peal of joyful laughter, clapping him on the back. "Oh, Harding, you amuse me. You chafe at the smell of flowers on the breeze, loamy earth from the fields nearby, the smell of sunshine in your nose, and the pleasant aroma of horses? Good God, man, I suppose you miss the choking pall of fumes that hangs over London like a dreary shroud."

  "Yes, sir, I do, rather," he said, holding a kerchief to

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  his nose. "At least the stench of burning coal is familiar."

  The empty coach drove on to their destination at the end of the thoroughfare, leaving Jack to stride and Harding to hobble after him through the scenic village.

  Jack had fond, though distant, memories of Middledale from childhood. His mother used to take him here on shopping excursions from Tutley Castle and would buy him candied treats. She'd once bought him a pair of shoes here. They'd hurt like hell, but he'd been so proud of them. They'd smelled richly of leather, just as the shop did now when they passed by its open door.