by KJ Charles
THE GENTLE ART OF FORTUNE HUNTING
KJ Charles
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Reader Advisory
This book has references to emotional and financial abuse of spouses and children.
A full list of content warnings for all my books is available at my website.
Prologue
Brother and sister, pretty as a picture.
They walked through Hyde Park together, Miss Marianne Loxleigh on the arm of her brother. It was early October, before the Season had truly started, but near enough that other gentlemen and ladies were promenading. One should take advantage of the fine weather, after all.
Miss Loxleigh was taking advantage in full. Her lovely face was delightfully framed by a coquettish bonnet, and her new walking dress flattered her buxom figure, suggesting charms without displaying them too obviously. She was statuesque in build and fashionably dark; her brother stood barely an inch taller and was much lighter in colouring, with hazel eyes to her deep brown, and honey-coloured hair to her mahogany. Mr. Robin Loxleigh was as smart as his sister, in close-fitting pantaloons and a waistcoat of sober pattern but cheerful hue, and like her, blessed with striking good looks.
Two attractive, elegant, well-turned-out young people walking in Hyde Park: what could be more pleasant? As such, they received a number of glances, though no greetings. They were strangers to London, but if they felt isolated in the great metropolis there was no sign of it in their bearing. Robin walked with a confident gait; Marianne looked around with unaffected pleasure. She seemed content in her brother’s company, and quite unaware of the many admiring masculine looks that came her way.
Brother and sister, pretty as a picture.
Marianne smiled at Robin, and murmured, “There’s a man following us.”
“You or me?”
“Me, you fool. If I talk to him, you could try for his pocketbook.”
Robin prodded the rounded arm that lay through his in a playful manner. “Don’t tempt me.”
“We’ve got exactly three pounds and sevenpence left. And he’s annoying me.”
“Doing what?”
“Existing.”
“The bastard. Look, there’s no need to rush. We’ve got plenty of clothes, some of them paid for, and rent’s not due for six days. I’ll play tonight.”
Marianne heaved a pretty sigh. “You’d better win.”
They exchanged looks of glowing mutual affection for the benefit of watchers, and strolled on.
“What do you think?” Marianne asked after a few moments’ contemplation of the duck pond. “Group of women over there.”
Robin followed her gaze and saw three well-dressed young ladies, with an older companion walking behind. “They’ll do. Drop an earring?”
“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
Brother and sister made their casual way along a loop of path that would bring them up to the young ladies, where Marianne gasped and clutched her earlobe.
“Oh! My earring! Robin, I think it fell!—Oh, how very kind you are, thank you—I was so afraid I had lost it, it was Robin’s birthday gift to me. My brother, Robin Loxleigh, and I am Marianne. —Delighted to meet you. No, we are quite new in London...”
Robin stood back, smiling, as Marianne struck up the acquaintance, bowing to their guardian companion and looking on the young ladies with a respectful admiration that was sufficiently modest as to be flattering yet give no offence.
They’d been preparing the ground for two days already and would be doing it again and again for the next weeks, in haberdashers’ and bookshops and tailors, at theatres and at Tattersall’s, assemblies and coffee-houses. By the time the Season began, plenty of people would recognise the well-mannered Loxleighs—friendly but not encroaching, up from the country, modest but so charming! They would have dinner invitations. They would find their way into parties. They would slide into the notice of the lower Upper Ten Thousand without anyone quite knowing how they’d got there.
And then the hunt would begin.
Chapter One
Sir John Hartlebury surveyed the ballroom with a jaundiced eye and wondered how soon he could leave.
“There,” Mrs. Edwina Blaine said through a fixed smile. “There he is with Alice now. By the negus. Look, Hart.”
He looked. Despite their vantage point at the top of the steps, which was severely incommoding the flow of people in and out, it took him several seconds to locate his sister’s stepdaughter. After all, she wasn’t very notable.
Miss Alice Fenwick had not been blessed with Nature’s charms. She was short, undistinguished in build, and plain in looks, with a mass of freckles and mousy brown hair, and there was nothing in her birth to make up for it. Her father, a provincial brewer, had lost his first wife in childbirth and persuaded Edwina Hartlebury, just twenty-three but firmly on the shelf, to replace her. The marriage had not borne fruit, but they had been surprisingly happy for five years, until the brewer’s untimely death.
Edwina had loved Alice from the start and regarded her as her own daughter. Unfortunately the world didn’t share that view. The Hartleburys could trace their lineage back to the fourteenth century but plain Alice Fenwick had no claim on that distinguished heritage.
The joint lack of birth and beauty was enough to disqualify her from the notice of high society, which confirmed Hart’s view that high society was witless. Alice was a delight, a studious and strikingly intelligent girl, shy in company but amusing in private, sharp-witted but never unkind. She was a loving companion to Edwina, and she was also, thanks to her father’s will, a substantial heiress, with twenty thousand pounds to come to her on her marriage under no restrictions at all.
Society might change its mind about her if that fact was widely known, but the family had agreed to keep quiet about Alice’s wealth for her first Season. Granted the portion was her best chance for a good match, it was also all too likely to bring her a bad one. That kind of money without strings was bound to attract fortune-hunters, and both Hart and Edwina were all too aware of the dangers of being swept off one’s feet by a handsome face.
The siblings had agreed that Alice needed a little town-bronze, which was to say a little knowledge of humanity’s infinite capacity to disappoint, before it became common talk that the plain girl came with a very attractive dowry. And here was their chance to learn if their strategy had been right, because Alice was being squired by a handsome man.
Hart folded his arms and watched.
The suitor was very handsome, if not in a classical way. He was of no more than medium stature, and boasted neither an athletic Corinthian build, nor a graceful and willowy form. Rather, he was solid and compact in a way that brought the word ‘yeoman’ to mind. He was in his early twenties, with honey
-brown hair, an open, honest face, and a well-shaped mouth, full-lipped and promising pleasures. He looked like the kind of country youth they wrote ballads about, whether proclaiming his steadfastness as a faithful lover, or his enjoyment of a roll in the hay. Alice might count herself fortunate in such a suitor if his character and finances were as appealing as his exterior. Hart put a lot of mental emphasis on that ‘if’.
“Who is he?”
“A Loxleigh, of Nottinghamshire,” Edwina said. “Do you know the name?”
“It seems familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“That’s what everyone says. They aren’t anyone in particular, they’re quite clear about that. No presumption at all, pleasantly modest, and pretty-mannered. I find them both delightful.”
They. Yes. Hart looked away from the pretty-mannered pretty man with Alice. “Where’s the sister?”
“Dancing, I expect. Look, there she is with Giles Verney.”
Hart scanned the ballroom floor, found his best friend, noted his partner, and was forced to say, “Good God.”
“Isn’t she?”
Mr. Loxleigh was handsome, but Miss Loxleigh was extraordinary. Hart had a fair aesthetic appreciation of female beauty and she was easily in the top five he’d seen in his life. Dark hair, dark eyes, perhaps an overly sun-kissed complexion when milk-white skin was held up as a virtue, but that was countrywomen for you, and by God it suited her. Her gown wasn’t immodest by any standards, but still made the watcher aware of the lush curves it covered. She didn’t wear lavish jewels or plumes; she didn’t need them. She was quite simply lovely.
Giles Verney spun her round on the dancefloor. She said something to him, they both laughed, and Hart revised his opinion to top three. Maybe two.
“Good God,” he said. “Spanish blood?”
“Their grandmother, I think.”
Hart looked back at Alice and her squire. “They’re an exceedingly handsome pair.”
“Miss Loxleigh is the belle of the Season, even if they are nobody. I hear Tachbrook is taken with her.”
“How unfortunate.”
“He’s a marquess,” Edwina pointed out unnecessarily.
“He is a self-regarding, vindictive, pompous fool, and if she is encouraging him, I think worse of her. Do we know anything at all about these people?”
“They’ve been in London since autumn, I think. Several months. Invited everywhere. Florence Jocelyn and Miss Loxleigh have become great friends, I believe, and Mr. Loxleigh seems to be on terms with everyone.”
“Almack’s?”
Edwina had not attempted to claim those dizzy social heights for Alice. “I really don’t know. If Tachbrook is interested, one must assume they’re acceptable.”
“That doesn’t follow. He’s a fool.”
Hart contemplated the lovely Miss Loxleigh in his friend’s arms, then the not-quite-as-lovely but still damned appealing brother bowing over Alice’s hand. Alice had gone a murky red: she didn’t have the gift of charming blushes, and she’d never had a desirable piece of man-flesh casting lures before.
Loxleigh was too handsome for her. That wasn’t a flattering thought to have of his niece, or one he’d ever express in his sister’s hearing, but it was the way of things. Beauty was a valuable commodity, a fact that Hart, an ugly man, knew all too well; beautiful people made use of their advantages just as much as the wealthy or the titled.
Perhaps Loxleigh was wiser than that. Perhaps his pretty face hid a noble nature that prized character above appearance. Hart wouldn’t have put money on it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t rush into this, will you?”
Edwina tutted. “I’m not going to. That’s why I wanted you to see for yourself.”
“Let me ask around. Don’t encourage him too much yet. And I want to talk to Alice.”
He headed down to the floor as the waltz came to an end, walking up to Giles and his stunning partner.
“Giles. I insist you introduce me, or I shall call you out.”
Giles gave him an affectionate grin. “Miss Loxleigh, this is Sir John Hartlebury. Hart, Miss Marianne Loxleigh, of Nottinghamshire. Hart and I come from the same part of the world, and have been friends all our lives.”
She greeted him with charm, and he kissed her hand, as the only possible tribute. He did it awkwardly enough, not being a man made for flourishes, but Miss Loxleigh gave him a melting smile and assured him she was delighted.
“Sir John Hartlebury? Am I right in thinking you’re Miss Fenwick’s...?” She hesitated.
“Uncle by marriage. My sister is Miss Fenwick’s stepmother.”
“You’re Mrs. Blaine’s brother. Of course. I’ve had the honour of visiting Mrs. Blaine at her home. She is wonderfully kind, and so welcoming: I feel I have known her for years.” Miss Loxleigh’s smile illuminated the room better than the crystal chandeliers above. “And Alice is delightful. You are very fortunate in your family.”
It sounded so sincere that he couldn’t help but warm to her. He could see why she was making such a hit. “You’re new to London, I think?”
“Yes, this is our first visit. I am here with my brother.”
“Making your come-out?”
“Making new friends, I hope. We were told London would be unwelcoming, but we’ve been blessed with nothing but kindness.”
The back of a head presented itself to Hart’s face as a man shouldered his way into their little group. “Miss Loxleigh?” The pompous voice belonged to Lord Tachbrook. “You are to dance with me, I think.” He gave Giles a look down his nose, cut Hart entirely, and extended his arm. Miss Loxleigh bade Hart and Giles a smiling farewell, and went off with her aristocratic suitor.
Giles stared after the disappearing pair. Hart snorted. “His manners don’t improve. Probably doesn’t want her to talk to other men in case she realises what a prating fool he is. Walk with me?”
It was too cold to go outside, despite the heat in here, so they snagged a couple of glasses of champagne and headed for the library. This had been plentifully set up with card-tables, since their hostess, Lady Beaumont, was a notorious gambler. Lord Tachbrook must be keen: Hart doubted he would normally have attended one of her events. It was crowded, and sufficiently noisy that they could lean against the mantelpiece and chat in low voices.
“Have you met the lady before?” Hart asked.
“Miss Loxleigh? A few times over the last weeks.”
“Know anything of her?”
“What sort of thing?”
“Background. Parents. Brother’s antecedents. Means of support.”
“Ah,” Giles said. “Are you thinking about Alice?”
Hart grimaced. “Is young Loxleigh’s pursuit common talk?”
“Hardly that. Alice isn’t particularly interesting—to the gossips, I mean—and Loxleigh isn’t notable except for his sister. He seems to be paying her a great deal of attention, though. Is there something in the offing?”
“My sister believes so.”
“And you’re here to be the watchful uncle?” Giles’s eyes brimmed with mirth. “Marvellous. Will we see you acting the heavy moralist? I cannot wait.”
Hart glared. Giles smirked. Hart returned a quelling scowl, and Giles pulled a grotesque face in reply, the sort of expression one might find on a schoolboy rather than a sensible Foreign Office man. A passing dowager looked at him with shocked hauteur. Giles said, “I do beg your pardon,” with a deep bow, and they both hid shamefaced grins behind their champagne as she moved on.
Face-pulling aside, Giles was quite right that Hart would look absurd playing the moralist. He wasn’t a rakehell, or anything like, but his lack of social graces, some loud complaints of mortal offence from a few people of rank, and a single, highly notorious affair had added up to a rather blemished reputation.
It was, for the most part, undeserved. He spent the majority of his time blamelessly at home in Aston Clinton, managing his lands and running the brewery Fenwick had left to E
dwina. But his second life as a provincial brewer did nothing to improve his standing in London society, and on the rare occasions he attended social events, he didn’t help himself by his refusal to dance or flirt with young ladies. Society mothers found his misanthropic nature offensive, since he had a baronetcy and a reasonable income; the young ladies themselves seemed generally relieved by his lack of interest.
Hart didn’t care. His friends were mostly businessmen and Cits who knew the value of money and did something to earn it. He preferred gaming hells to social clubs; he had no interest in putting himself up on the Marriage Mart, no need to beget an heir since the baronetcy could descend to his sister’s son, and no family who took it upon themselves to interfere. In fact, at the age of thirty-two, Hart was very satisfied by his industrious country life, and increasingly uninterested in the goings-on of the Upper Ten Thousand.
But Edwina had demanded he assess the young man who was interested in Alice, and that cast him in the role of guardian, for which he had little inclination and no actual authority.
“Who are these people?” he demanded.
“The Loxleighs? Just people, Hart. Not encroaching or offensive. Modest, and very pretty-mannered.”
“So everyone keeps telling me. What do they have other than manners?”
“Charm,” Giles said. “Something you could do with cultivating. Loxleigh’s a decent fellow from what I can see. Plays, but not too high. Never quarrels, knows how to hold his drink.”
“That sounds like faint praise.”
“Does it? Perhaps. I couldn’t claim to know him.”
“You don’t like him.” Hart spoke with the certainty of a lifetime’s friendship.
Giles gave him a look. “You’re too severe, Hart. I don’t dislike him. I just... Well, if you will have it, there’s something a little...I don’t know. ‘Calculating’ is too harsh. As if he’s watching the room rather than being in it.”
“Acting a part?”
“You say that with such disapproval. Most of us act a part in society, you know, for everyone’s benefit. It’s polite to make the effort.”
