Flirting With Fortune (21 page)

She did have a point. “I suppose you are right. Well, if it is revenge, then I commend the author for using the experience for helping others.”

Sophie grasped her arm, leaning forward as if she had the most delicious of
on-dits
to share. “Did you hear then? About Miss Briggs?”

Drat it all, had she managed to miss
two
major events? This whole betrothal business seemed to be hindering her normal vigilance. “What happened with Miss Briggs?”

“Beatrice! You’re supposed to be the one who knows everything. I shan’t know what to do with myself if our roles were suddenly reversed. Although, if that were the case, then wouldn’t I already have known it to be so?”

“Sophie!”

“Sorry, sorry. All right, Miss Briggs. My sister—Sarah, that is; the others are much too young to have any good gossip—told me that Miss Briggs told Miss Chamberlain that she figured out from advice from the last letter that Lord Jenson was only asking the very highest dowered—is that a word? Anyway, he was asking only the ladies with the highest dowries to dance.

“Normally, she wouldn’t have minded such a thing, since she freely admits that her father hopes to purchase a nice title for the family, but she had actually quite liked Lord Jenson. Better to have seen his motives now than for her to have fallen for the man only to discover he was after her purse.”

“Are you telling me,” Beatrice said, trying to separate the meat of the story from all of her asides, “that Miss Briggs feels that the first letter saved her from the attentions of a fortune hunter?”

Sophie nodded, her brown eyes alight with the joy of having imparted information that Beatrice hadn’t already known.

“Well, isn’t that nice?” A grossly underwhelming summation of how she really was feeling. She had done it! Her words had saved an heiress’s heart. Instead of the mildly interested smile she offered her friend, she wanted to laugh with delight, to throw her hands up and declare victory for her fellow debutant.

“Yes, I’d say so. Heaven knows I’d never make it married to a man who didn’t love me. Not that I have to worry about a fortune hunter. It’s not as though we have pockets to let, but we certainly aren’t worth targeting. Not like you, you poor thing.” Sophie wrinkled her nose. “You must be constantly fighting off unwanted attention.”

“Well, it certainly won’t be a problem after this week.” She said it casually, but excitement once again sprang to life within her.

“Why ever not?”

“Because I’m getting married.”

“What?”
Sophie’s already-high voice went up an entire octave. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She grabbed Beatrice’s hand and jumped from the settee, pulling them both to their feet without any care for decorum. Swallowing her in an impromptu hug, Sophie squeezed her before setting her away. “I don’t care how dreadfully familiar that was, I’m just so happy for you I could bust. You must tell me, who is your betrothed?”

“I can’t say just yet. We still are waiting until we can get word to Papa and Evie. But I am very, very pleased.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be a certain painter’s son, would it? He was quite concerned for you at the musicale.”

At the mere thought of the man, Beatrice melted a bit, her insides going all soft and warm. She lifted her shoulders, a secretive smile curving her lips. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Of course you can. Either nod your head for yes or shake it for no. It’s quite simple, really.” She looked to Beatrice with beseeching eyes, begging to be let in on the secret.

“Only under threat of death, I’m afraid. But in a few more days, all will be revealed.”

“You dreadful tease, you. Very well, have your secrets. But tell me, is it a love match?”

She looked so hopeful, so invested in the romance of it all that Beatrice couldn’t help but indulge her.

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

•   •   •

“It’s a damn good thing you are already betrothed.”

“On that, we agree,” Colin said, not even looking up as he spread marmalade over his toast. “But in general, ‘Good morning’ is the proper way to greet one’s family.”

Setting his knife down, he took a bite of his breakfast and winked at his cousin. John shook his head and dropped a magazine beside Colin’s plate. “Good morning.” Snagging a sweet bun from the sideboard behind them, he pulled out the chair at Colin’s left and took a seat.

“Good morning to you as well,” Colin replied, the good cheer of the last several days still coloring his tone. With his toast in one hand, Colin picked up the periodical with the other. “Reading ladies’ magazines again, I see.”

“Very funny. I find myself in awe of the brashness of this person. And the magazine itself, for that matter.”

He skimmed the letter first, catching words like “fortune hunters,” “preying,” and “innocents.” As before, the author was providing possible ways to identify a nefarious fortune hunter, the very worst villain, in the humble author’s opinion. In closing, it read:
At least a highwayman robs only of possessions. A fortune hunter robs a woman of her money, her dignity, and her hopes for a contented future
.

Honestly, this woman was given to dramatics. Had she not thought to consider that some who seek fortunes do so with the best of intentions? She had no idea of the circumstances some may be faced with. She was probably some pampered heiress, sitting in her ivory tower with her jewels and morning chocolate, looking down upon all those whose lots in life were less fortunate.

“A bit extreme, I think.”

“Have you gotten to the engraving yet? Then we’ll talk extremes.”

Raising an eyebrow, Colin turned his attention to the drawing. The lines were bolder this time, the figures more realistically portrayed. As he took in the three figures and the finely detailed background, a sliver of dread worked its way between his ribs, like the slow winding of a silken ribbon being tied into an inescapable knot. There was no mistaking Godfrey this time—he couldn’t have been more plainly portrayed if he had posed for the thing.

But it was worse than that. It was the all too familiar balcony, the scene from a night he would rather forget. Synchronized watches, the hooked nose of Mr. Jones—all of it was there, as if plucked from his memory.

Or drawn by another who was there.

Beatrice.
Muttering a curse, he dropped the uneaten portion of his toast on his plate and came to his feet.

“Like I said, it’s a good thing you are betrothed. Someone in the
ton
is out to expose those intent on securing a well-dowered wife. I’d say you are damned fortunate, old man.”

Fortunate? Colin had never felt less fortunate in his life. He had known, thanks to Raleigh, of Beatrice’s clear aversion of fortune hunters, but he never imagined her revulsion was so strong as to prompt her to write the letters. “Indeed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have rather a lot to attend to today. Good day.”

Her immense dislike of men like him wasn’t even the whole problem. In writing this last letter, she opened herself up for Godfrey to recognize her as the author. Only three people had been privy to the scene. It wouldn’t take the man long to put together which of the two of them was the disgruntled debutant.

Stuffing the magazine into his jacket, he paused long enough to collect his hat and greatcoat before heading out into the frosty November morning. It might be entirely too early in the morning for society’s unwritten rules, but he hardly gave a damn. He had to see Beatrice, and he intended to do so at once.

T
he one true advantage to Granville House over Hertford Hall was that the morning sun, on those rare cloudless days, seemed to shine through the haze over the city differently than it did in the country, creating a soft, diffused pink-tinged light that seemed to glow in Beatrice’s studio.

On mornings like this, the inspiration was so heady, she could hardly seem to paint fast enough. Each stroke felt exactly right, every line just so—it was as if someone else guided her hand. She was so intent on her work, she didn’t hear the quiet clip of footsteps until they were practically at her door. Turning Colin’s portrait away from where it could be seen from the doorway, she slipped around toward another painting when the scratch at the door came.

When she bade them to enter, Finnington pushed open the door and dipped his head. “Pardon the interruption of your studio time, my lady, but I thought you might like to know that Sir Colin has arrived and is waiting in the drawing room.”

Colin? Her eyes darted to the clock. She hadn’t lost track of time—it was only eleven o’clock. “Thank you, Finnington. I’ll be down in ten minutes.” She waited until the door clicked shut again before yanking off her apron and scrubbing at the paint spots on her fingers. If he was here this early, it was either an exceedingly good thing or a terribly bad thing.

Eleven minutes later, with a fresh gown and tidied hair in place, she paused outside the drawing room door, drew a steadying breath to slow her pounding heartbeat, and glided into the room.

Colin stood by the window, his arms crossed as he looked out onto the square. She stopped just inside the room, watching him while he wasn’t yet aware of her presence. He looked . . . striking. His black hair, glossy in the late-morning sun, was combed back from his forehead. The sharp line of his jaw was even harsher than usual, the muscles tensed. So somber and serious—exactly the way she imagined he would look in a courtroom.

He looked up suddenly, his gaze going straight to her. The sternness didn’t leave altogether, but his brow relaxed considerably, and he held out a hand to her. “Good morning.”

The music of his voice so early in the day was like an unexpected present, tied with a satin bow and set in her lap. She was definitely going to like waking up to him each morning.

She went to him, a slight blush heating her cheeks and a not so slight grin on her lips. “Good morning to you as well.” Lifting onto her toes, she kissed him full on the lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your morning visit? And how can I make it happen again?”

He chuckled reluctantly, as if wanting to remain stern, but unable to do so. Good. If he was going to surprise her for a visit, she wanted it to be on good terms.

“I’d have come earlier, if I had known it was your wish. As it happens,” he said, his voice reverting to Serious Colin, “I came after my breakfast was interrupted with a certain magazine being dropped on my plate.”

Beatrice’s enthusiasm slipped, sliding backward toward caution. “Oh?”

He reached into his jacket and extracted a rather rumpled copy of
A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion
. “Imagine my surprise when I opened it this morning.”

His voice was soft, not at all accusing. How best to proceed? He didn’t seem angry or censorious, but clearly he wasn’t happy. Now that he was so close, she could see the faint lines creasing the skin surrounding his eyes. She accepted the magazine, looking over her handiwork once more. “Recognize my superior drawing skills, did you?” Her words were light and teasing even as worry tightened her throat. There was no telling what he would say.

“I recognized something, to be sure.”

“Sir Godfrey?”

“Him, the background, the point of the scene.” He shook his head, running a hand at the back of his neck. “Did you not consider that he would see this? He’d know in moments that it was one of the two of us, and we all know I am not the artist of my family.”

Dread coiled within her, just like when she first realized that she had unintentionally drawn Mr. Godfrey in the last letter. She lifted her chin. “I don’t know about that. All I know is that he had tried to ruin my life—and very nearly succeeded.” The familiar fire of righteous anger sparked to life within her as she looked at the scene again. “So what if he recognizes me? If he says anything, it will only be confirming that he is a heartless fortune hunter.”

“And once he sees this, do you think he will be feeling particularly rational about it?”

She put a hand to her middle to try to soothe the building turmoil. She wasn’t wrong. Perhaps imprudent, but not wrong. “And will you be ashamed of me if he does?” Her chin hitched up a bit higher, an almost unconscious defense.

He looked down at her, frustration dulling his stony gaze. With a sigh, he reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. “Never,
a stór
. But worry and shame are two very different things. I doona want you to be hurt if Godfrey should open his mouth.”

The warmth of his touch soaked into her skin, calming her. “I’m making a difference for the ladies of the
ton
, Colin. If it can help someone avoid a similar trap, then I can handle a bit of scandal.”

“A bit of scandal? Practically naming a well-liked son of a peer as a villain in a publication distributed to half the manors, halls, and mansions in England may qualify as something more than a bit.”

He was very good at putting things in a way that made them sound much worse than they were. She hoped. “I still stand behind it. I’m proud of it, actually. I had hoped you might be as well.”

He made no effort to hide his disbelief. “You were planning on telling me, then?”

“Yes, of course.” She paused, tilting her head. “Someday, anyway.” She grinned impishly, a sly, closemouthed upturning of her lips designed to elicit at least a small smile from him.

“Someday? You mean when we’re old and gray and I haven’t the strength to chastise you?”

“Something like that.”

Offering a very slight smile, he pulled her to him, slow but steady. “I’m fairly certain there is a statute of limitations on how long after an incident a confession holds value.”

“Well, there must be some mystery between us. How else are we to keep life interesting?”

“Somehow,” he said, dropping a soft, altogether too quick kiss on her upturned lips, “I doona think that will be a problem for the two of us.”

“I—” She paused, a sound from below catching her attention. “What was that?” She pulled away from him, hating the loss of his warmth but too curious not to investigate the muffled noises arising from beyond the partially closed door.

“What—”

“Shh!” She put her finger to her lips, dashing on the toes of her slippers for the door. She could hear voices, both male and female, rising from the entry hall below. The echo on the marble was distorting the words, making it impossible to discern what anyone was saying—or who was saying it, for that matter.

Grasping the knob, she pulled it open and poked her head out. A servant dashed by, rushing toward the entry hall and all of the commotion below. Just as the footman descended the stairs, someone came up in the opposite direction. All at once, Beatrice recognized the blond woman ascending the last few steps, and she gasped in surprise.

“Evie!”

•   •   •

Beatrice hadn’t been exaggerating when she had warned Colin of just how overwhelming her family could be when they were all together. Within the space of ten minutes, he went from having an intimate discussion with his betrothed to being swallowed up by the chaos of introductions to her sister, brother-in-law, niece, and, most unnerving of all, her father.

For someone who had been traveling for a day and a half, the marquis looked remarkably well put together. His graying hair was combed back from his forehead, revealing slightly tanned skin and a pair of piercing blue eyes, not so very different from Raleigh’s. He exuded authority as some might wear cologne. When they had been introduced, he had eyed Colin up and down as if surmising his worth in a single glance.

Unnerving, even for someone who was studying to be subjected to exactly that sort of perusal for the rest of his career.

After five minutes of chatter, Granville had put a hand to Colin’s shoulder. “Let’s have a talk, shall we?”

As much as his mind conjured images of being taken to a dungeon and questioned under duress, the marquis led him to a spacious and comfortable billiards room, full of masculine details like claw-footed furniture and the distinctive scent of fine tobacco.

The marquis gestured to an impressive humidor. “Can I offer you a cheroot? Cigar?”

“A kind offer, but no, thank you.” He doubted it would be a credit to him if he was coughing through the interview. His sister had weak lungs when it came to smoke and soot, so it was a habit he had never picked up.

Nodding, Granville bypassed the box and settled into one of the wide chairs, the leather creaking beneath his weight. Leaning back in the chair, he regarded Colin with a slight tilt of his head. “I imagine you expected me to lead you to the dungeon and interrogate you.”

“The thought had crossed my mind. You’ll be wanting to ensure your daughter’s happiness, after all.”

“You may be relieved to know that I trust my son implicitly. If he has deemed you a good match for Beatrice, then I will defer to his judgment. However,” he said, his voice ever casual, “that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish to get to know my future son-in-law. How has it been, stepping into society for the first time?”

“Well enough. People seem to have respected my father and are extending a certain amount of courtesy to me.”

“Courtesy or curiosity?”

Colin allowed a small grin. The man was astute. “Both, I think. Then again, I think my father was always a bit of a curiosity to the
ton
, so it stands to reason that I would be as well.”

“I met him once, you know. He didn’t necessarily frequent the same events we did, but he attended the Duke of Thornton’s ball a year and a half ago.” He gave a soft snort of amusement, shaking his head. “Damned if the man didn’t turn down my attempts to hire him.”

“So I’ve heard,” Colin responded, his voice dry as winter wheat. “My father didn’t possess the most prudent of souls.”

“No, but it is my understanding that you do. And to be honest, I find the situation has a rather impressive irony to it.”

“That is one way to look at it. I’m merely relieved you don’t hold his idiosyncrasies against me.” Actually, Colin was relieved about a lot of things. The marquis wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.

“A man can be responsible only for his own actions. Which brings us quite neatly to you.”

Here was the talk he had been waiting for. “Yes, sir. I’ve one more year at the Inns of Court—”

Granville’s upraised hand stopped him midsentence. “I’ve read quite enough about your prospects, Sir Colin. What I wish to know is how you will treat my daughter and what you expect from her.”

Not a question he would have ever anticipated from the Marquis of Granville. And not a question to be taken lightly. The older man watched him with keen eyes, a subtle warning that what Colin said mattered to him.

“Lady Beatrice is a remarkable woman, my lord. It is my wish to provide for her a house in which she can be comfortable, a studio in which she can paint, and a marriage in which she can be loved and honored.”

“And in return you expect what from her?”

“It is my wish for her to be a contented wife, a reliable mistress of my household, and a devoted mother to our future children. She already hails from a family that values hard work, so I have no doubt she will thrive as the wife of a baronet barrister.”

Granville’s eyes softened the slightest bit at that compliment to his work ethic. One didn’t run a thriving horse-breeding business without hard work and dedication. “I see. My daughter is accustomed to the finest things in life. Two thousand a year is a pittance compared to the wealth she was raised in.”

Is that what the man thought was important to Beatrice? Colin held his ground, refusing to be cowed by Granville’s blunt words. “Your daughter is accustomed to a loving family. She will be welcomed most joyfully into mine, I am certain. Her needs will always be met, and she will of course be able to spend her marriage settlement in any way she chooses. But it is my belief, sir, that so long as she has her paints, most everything in life is secondary to her.”

This time the marquis actually smiled as he leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. “It appears my son was correct. Clearly you have an understanding of what makes Beatrice happy. And only a simpleton would miss the fondness with which you speak of her. I am well aware that many of the
ton
believe love to be unnecessary to a marriage, but I couldn’t disagree more. As far as I am concerned, it is the cornerstone to a happy life.”

Colin blinked, working to keep the surprise from his face. Unexpected emotion welled up within him at the approval in the older man’s voice. Certainly not a sentiment he was used to from his own father. “Thank you, sir. I am deeply honored to not only be gaining a wonderful wife, but to be joining your fine family as well.”

As they rose and shook hands, Colin let go of the stress that had plagued him since the debt collectors showed up at his door. For a short amount of time, he would keep his secret from Beatrice, but once they were married, all would be well. He would have a wife he loved, a family he could count on, and the estate safely preserved for the next generation.

The wedding couldn’t come fast enough.

•   •   •

“Bonjour, monsieur!”

The old man didn’t even look up from his inventory as he held up a hand, more in acknowledgment than greeting. “I will be with you in just a moment.” The last word was said with a hard “T,” emphasizing the English version of the word.

Bent at the waist as he was, all Beatrice could see was the top of Monsieur Allard’s dark cap and the tufts of white hair poking out in disarray. She walked up to the counter and peeked over at what new supplies he had just received. “Oh, I love those broad-handled new brushes.”