Midnight Star (5 page)

Chauncey grabbed her skirts and ran toward the stairs. She was hurtling down just as the knocker sounded at the front door. Owen was closing behind her, yelling crude curses at her. She realized vaguely that no one was about, none of the servants, not her aunt or uncle, not anyone.

She shouted at the top of her lungs, “Come in!”

The front door eased open, and a small man with bushy side whiskers thrust his head through the door. Chauncey shouted, “Yes, come in! Help me!”

Frank Gillette stared in astonishment at the young lady who was rushing down the stairs
toward him. Her hair was disheveled, her gown torn to her waist. Behind her was a furious-looking young man who looked fit to kill.

Good God, he thought blankly, he had interrupted a rape. “What,” he asked firmly, “is going on here?”

Suddenly the foyer seemed to erupt with people. Mrs. Penworthy and her rather unprepossessing spouse flew from the salon to his left. A man whom Gillette believed to be the butler came from the dining room to his right, his black coattails flapping.

“I repeat,” Gillette said sternly, holding out his hand to the girl, “what the devil is the meaning of this?”

“What are you doing here?” Aunt Augusta yelled, her face pale with consternation. “You were not supposed to come again until tomorrow!”

Chauncey felt her terror begin to fade. This was the man with the smell of the city. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“Elizabeth, go to your room! I will come to you directly!”

Chauncey stared at her aunt and moved closer to the stranger.

“I am Frank Gillette,” he said in a steadying voice. “Are you, by any chance, Miss Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh?”

She nodded.

“I am delighted to find you in good health.”

“I am always in good health, sir.”

“Elizabeth, I will not tell you again,” Aunt Augusta said, her jaw clenched. “Go to your room. Owen, see your cousin upstairs.”

“Aunt,” Chauncey said, stiffening beside her
rescuer, “I have no intention of going anywhere with any of you. I am leaving this house.”

“Mr. Gillette,” Aunt Augusta said, her voice supplicating, even pleading, “my niece is not herself. I pray you will ignore her disordered outburst and come with me into the salon. We will call the doctor for her immediately.”

Money, Mr. Gillette thought, not overly surprised at what had obviously been transpiring—what it does to perfectly sane people! He was a fool, he realized belatedly, to have confided his purpose to this woman. “Madam,” he said calmly to Aunt Augusta, “I am come to see Miss FitzHugh. Now, if all of you will excuse us, we will take our leave.”

“You are going nowhere, Elizabeth!” Aunt Augusta shouted, so frustrated she was trembling. “If you dare to leave this house, miss, you will starve in the street! We will provide you no more of our generous bounty!”

“But then again, Aunt Augusta,” Chauncey said, drawing herself up straight, “I won’t have to worry about being ravished by Owen, will I?”

“Liar! She is lying, Mr. Gillette! Pay her no heed!”

“Mr. Gillette, may I fetch my valise—’tis already packed—and my maid?”

“Certainly, my dear. If I am correct, I believe I saw a young woman who could be your maid waiting on the corner, with her bag. I will await you here.” He touched her shoulder. “Miss FitzHugh,” he said very softly, “you will not starve, I promise you that.

“Mrs. Penworthy,” he continued to Aunt
Augusta, “I will call the watch if the young lady isn’t allowed to leave with me.”

“No,” Uncle Alfred said sternly, wiping his hand across his sweating forehead, “there will be no need for that. Augusta, you and Owen will go into the salon. It is over.” He added almost as an afterthought, “I never really believed that Elizabeth could be coerced. She is too strong-willed.” He turned away with those words, only to be brought up short by Cranke, who said in a faltering voice, “But, sir, what am I to do with the minister? He is drinking his third cup of coffee.”

“Good God, man, set him to polishing the silver! I don’t care!”

“A legacy! I have a legacy? I . . . I don’t believe it,” Chauncey whispered, her eyes wide on Mr. Gillette’s face. They were seated opposite each other in Chauncey’s small sitting room in the Bradford Hotel. “Oh, I had figured out that all their machinations must have something to do with money, but I had no real expectations, you understand. You have said, Mr. Gillette, that you in no way represent my father. Then where does this legacy to me come from?”

“I believe you now recovered enough from your ordeal,” he said, smiling at her. “Here is the whole story, Miss FitzHugh. Your godfather, Sir Jasper Dunkirk—do you remember him?”

“Why, of course I do, though it has been at least ten years since I’ve seen him.”

“I am, rather was, Sir Jasper’s solicitor. For the past nine years, he has resided in India. In fact, he made a great deal of money there. But,
unfortunately, he lost both his wife and his son in one of the native uprisings. As a result, he made your father his heir, for there was no other family, either there or here in England. Sir Jasper died of a fever some months after your father. He had, evidently, read your father’s obituary in a newspaper, for I received instructions from him shortly before his death. I suppose he knew of your family ties, for his instructions were quite clear. I was not to contact you about your inheritance until you turned twenty-one. You see, he wanted no relatives or guardians to have control of your wealth. I paid a visit to Heath House on your twenty-first birthday. I showed a lamentable lack of judgment, however. I told your aunt of my mission, then blithely accepted her word that you were ill and could see no one for a while. I was a fool, and I beg you to accept my profound apologies.”

Chauncey gave him a twisted smile. “Had they not been so very ungracious to me before, I might not have seen through their ruse. You see, they became so utterly devoted to my welfare that I would have had to be a perfect ninny not to see through them.”
But at first I didn’t want to believe badly of them.
“And Owen. They wanted me to marry him, of course.”

“Of course,” Mr. Gillette agreed. “As your husband, he would have had complete control over your inheritance.”

“Mr. Gillette, will my inheritance make me independent? It doesn’t have to be too much, of course, just enough to keep me and my maid in simple lodgings.”

To her surprise, Mr. Gillette leaned forward
in his chair and laughed heartily. For a moment Chauncey gazed at his nearly bald head, contrasting the pitiful few dark hairs that were combed carefully over the top of his plentiful side whiskers. “I have said something amusing, sir?”

“Miss FitzHugh,” he managed at last, “not only are you independent, you are likely now one of the premier heiresses in all of England. My dear, you have inherited some two hundred thousand pounds.”

Chauncey could only stare at him. “Two hundred thousand pounds,” she repeated stupidly.

“Yes, my dear. At least I was wise enough not to tell your aunt and uncle the amount of your inheritance. I told them only that it was sizable. I imagine if I let slip the true amount, they would have whisked you willy-nilly to Gretna Green with their obnoxious son in tow.”

“Two hundred thousand pounds,” Chauncey said yet again. She rose jerkily to her feet. “It . . . it is too much! Oh dear, whatever am I to do?”

Frank Gillette was silent for a moment, watching the lovely young lady pace in front of him. “I believe you are an intelligent young woman,” he said. “And you are twenty-one and in entire control of the money. I would suggest, my dear, that you have two alternatives: you can either find yourself a husband to control your holdings, or you can learn to manage for yourself.”

“But I have never even seen
one
hundred pounds!”

Before Mr. Gillette could reply, Chauncey suddenly burst into loud laughter. “Oh dear,” she gasped, hugging her sides, “surely I have stepped
into the pages of some fairy tale, and you, sir, are my fairy godfather!”

“Well,” Mr. Gillette said dryly, “this fairy godfather owns ten percent of your wealth.” He downed the remainder of his tea and rose. “I suggest that you think about it, Miss FitzHugh. Rest assured that your inheritance is quite safe. Here is my card. When you have decided what you wish to do, please contact me.”

After showing Mr. Gillette out, Mary returned to where Chauncey stood staring blankly into the small fireplace.

“Is there anything else you wish, madam?”

Chauncey, startled, looked at Mary, who stood stiffly in front of her. “You’re acting awfully starchy, Mary,” she said. “With all that money, I am suddenly become a madam instead of a miss?”

“Well, I only want to do what is proper—”

“Oh, Mary, cut line! Sit down and have some tea. You and I need to discuss what the devil I’m going to do with all my ill-gotten gains!”

The next afternoon, Chauncey, with Mary in tow, entered Mr. Gillette’s office, not far from her Uncle Paul’s, on Fleet Street.

The single black-frocked clerk was evidently expecting her, for he was on his feet in an instant. He bowed low to her, as if she were royalty. “Miss FitzHugh? Mr. Gillette is expecting you, ma’am. If you will follow me, please.”

What servility, Chauncey thought, now that I am rich. She winked at Mary, and entered Mr. Gillette’s office. It was large and dark, with heavy mahogany furnishings and two walls lined with
bookshelves. Thick brocade draperies were drawn across narrow windows.

“Ah, my dear Miss FitzHugh. Welcome. Sit down.”

“I have come to a decision, Mr. Gillette,” Chauncey said without preamble, once she was seated across from his imposing desk.

“Yes, my dear?” he asked in a carefully neutral voice.

“I wish to control my own money. I have done a bit of studying in the past twenty-four hours, and have learned that a woman has absolutely no control over anything once she is married.”

“That is quite true.”

Chauncey lowered her eyes to her clasped hands in her lap. She toyed with the idea of telling Mr. Gillette of her plans, but decided not to. It really didn’t concern him, after all. “I realize that in order to be able to handle my money with some astuteness, Mr. Gillette, someone must teach me about finance and business.”

A thin dark brow arched upward.

Chauncey drew a deep breath. “I will apply myself, sir. I have allotted myself two months to learn what it is I need to learn.” At his continued silence she added with some asperity, “I am not stupid, sir, nor am I a fluffle-headed female!”

“No. No, you are not,” he said.

“I would imagine that most men would treat me in an odiously condescending manner were I to tell them what I wished to do. I ask you, sir, can you recommend someone who would help me, truly help me?”

“Yes, Miss FitzHugh, I know of someone who would help you.” He grew silent again, and toyed
with a pen on his desk. “You say you have chosen a time period of two months. May I ask what you intend to do when the two months have elapsed?”

Chauncey gave him a wide smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which grew cold and hard. “Yes, Mr. Gillette. I am leaving England. I am going to . . . America.”

Mr. Gillette sucked in his breath in surprise. “This is quite a surprise, Miss FitzHugh—”

“Please, sir, call me Chauncey. My aunt thinks it is a dreadfully common nickname, but I am comfortable with it.”

“Very well, Chauncey. Perhaps you will tell me why you have chosen America?”

“Perhaps,” Chauncey said coolly, “I might just decide to live there awhile, and of course I understand it is a vast place. I shall doubtless travel.” She shrugged. “We shall see.” She leaned forward, her eyes intent on his face. “I trust you, Mr. Gillette. I wish you to remain my solicitor in England. But you will have to explain to me how I am to transfer a portion of my funds to America.” A vast portion, she amended silently.

“I will be delighted to explain all that to you, Miss Fitz . . . Chauncey. I would also be delighted to teach you myself, had I all the knowledge you need. But alas, I do not. Are you free this evening?” At her nod, he smiled. “Good. Expect me around seven o’clock tonight with a gentleman. His name is Gregory Thomas. He is one of the most astute and knowledgeable gentlemen of finance in all of England. I am certain that he will not disdain you because of your sex, my dear, I can promise you that!”

“I believe, sir,” Chauncey said, grinning impishly, “that I should prefer you.”

“Yes, I myself always prefer the known to the unknown. But you will like Mr. Thomas. He has much free time on his hands now, and will likely treat you like a beloved granddaughter.”

After Frank Gillette had shown Chauncey from his office, he returned to his chair and sat down. He steepled his fingers and thumped them thoughtfully together. He was not blind. He had seen the implacable determination in her expressive eyes. What, he wondered, is the girl up to? Why does she wish to go to America? Perhaps, his thinking continued, if Gregory agreed to take the girl under his knowledgeable wing, he could discover what she was after. He disliked mysteries.

“Really, Chauncey, you must pay attention!”

Chauncey started guiltily and raised contrite eyes to Gregory Thomas. Indeed, she thought, taking in his thick wavy white hair and twinkling brown eyes, he did look like her grandfather. He had taken her under his wing with a good deal of enthusiasm, for, she guessed, he was very bored since he had left his business dealings in the hands of his son. “I’m sorry, Gregory,” she said. “It’s just . . .” Her voice broke off suddenly.

“Chauncey, what are you up to?”

No, she thought firmly, I won’t tell him. No one is to be involved, no one but me. She smiled warmly, praying that she was convincing, for Gregory Thomas was exceedingly perceptive, making her feel on occasion as if her mind was a
story eager to be read. “I was just thinking about my aunt and uncle, if you must know!”

He looked instantly diverted. “What have they to say this time?”

Chauncey gurgled with ready laughter. “You won’t believe this, Gregory, but my Aunt Augusta has sent me a bill! For my room and board for six months. Also for the gowns and things she had made for me that fateful week.”

“I trust you told them to go to the devil.”

“Gregory, such language for a sweet young lady! No indeed, sir, I instructed Mr. Gillette to send them fifty pounds. I can just imagine the look on my aunt’s face. She has been trying to blacken my name, you know. I find it most diverting.”

“Wretched woman! I think we should put a stop to it, Chauncey. After all, a good name is quite important—”

“Particularly for a woman?” she asked blandly.

“Yes, I won’t lie to you, and neither should you lie to yourself.” He waved a slender hand. “Now that you have successfully gotten me off our fascinating subject, I must tell you that your aunt and uncle have been to see your father’s solicitor.”

“Uncle Paul? Good heavens, whatever for? When? I visited him last week, you know, and he mentioned nothing of it to me.” Indeed, she thought, Paul Montgomery’s kindness to her had turned to stilted formality during the past weeks. He had been hurt, she had thought in explanation, to learn that she had no intention of allowing him to administer her vast wealth. No, he hadn’t mentioned anything about her aunt and uncle on her last visit. Indeed, he had seemed
perturbed when she finally confided her plans to him.

“But you can’t do that! ’Tis unheard-of, Chauncey! For God’s sake, my dear, let it go!”

She had gazed at him intently, wondering at his unwonted display of emotion. “No, Uncle Paul, I shall never let it go. Delaney Saxton will pay. Once he is broken, once he knows that I, Elizabeth Jameson FitzHugh, am the person who has ruined him, I shall consider getting on with my life.”

His jaw had worked spasmodically and he had paled under her intense gaze. “But, Chauncey—” he began.

“Uncle Paul, don’t worry about me. I know what I am about, I assure you. And please don’t tell me how much money it will cost. I can afford it, after all.”

Chauncey, aware that Gregory was regarding her questioningly, shook off the memory of that meeting and asked more calmly, “What did they want with Uncle Paul, sir?”

“They wanted to discover if there were some way they could get part of your inheritance. Nearest relatives, former guardians, and all that sort of nonsense.”

“I trust,” Chauncey said tartly, “that he sent them to the rightabout!”

“Oddly enough, he didn’t,” Gregory said. “My sources of information tell me that he is quite busy at this moment trying to manufacture evidence, shall we say, that you were guilty of a breach of promise, that you had, in fact, been engaged to marry Owen Penworthy, and broke it off when you learned of your inheritance. These
are some of the rumors they are busily spreading, my dear. I am surprised you did not know of them. But you needn’t worry yourself about it, Chauncey. I have discussed the matter thoroughly with Frank Gillette. If such a charge were true, it would be likely that you could be sued for a good deal of money, but of course, it isn’t true. Your
Uncle
Paul doesn’t have a prayer of succeeding.”

One thing Gregory Thomas had taught her during the past weeks was to sift calmly through facts when faced with a problem. She forced herself to do that now. After several moments she said, “I can understand my aunt and uncle’s actions, for as my nurse Hannah used to tell me, a cat remains a cat. As to the rumors they are spreading, I had heard only that they were calling me coldhearted, an unnatural niece, and the like. What I do not understand is why Paul Montgomery would be willing to assist them.”