Miss Fanshawe's Fortune: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance (The Brides of Mayfair Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Sykes, holding the valise, said, “Is your guest staying, sir?” His sepulchral monotone echoed in the hall. Edward could not understand for the life of him, how Sebastian could stand such a dull plate for a servant. Why, if he, Edward, had a gentleman’s gentleman, it’d be a man with spirit, with conversation and suggestions. An energetic being, not a walking tomb like Sykes. Flustered at the unexpected question, however, he replied, “Yes, yes. Tell my mother. She’ll direct you to which bedchamber she wants for Miss Fanshawe.”

  With both servants gone, Edward looked timorously at the young woman. “Are you stopping elsewhere? I suppose I should have asked you first, if you were wishing to stay.”

  But she answered, smiling, “It is exceedingly generous of you to put me up. Indeed, I have no lodgings in the city. You see, it was part—part of my troubles; that I ended up without a place to lay my head. And my purse was nabbed—and—and—” Her eyes watered at this, and Edward, alarmed, said, “None of that now. As I said, we’ll get it sifted for you.” He brought her to the morning room, which thankfully, neither his mama nor brother had as yet entered. Frannie looked with appreciation through its arched window at a small garden behind the house, a welcome spot of greenery in the city.

  The sideboard, with delicious aromas wafting from an assortment of covers, beckoned, and lifted her spirits further. She’d been feeling the lack of nourishment, for she’d had nothing since her purse was snatched. Edward offered her a plate, and she chose what she wanted. When they were both seated with breakfast before them, eggs en cocotte and rolls, butter, a pot of chocolate and one of tea, he eagerly dug in but glanced her way, and stopped chewing.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  “Do you not—” she hesitated. “That is, do you mind if I give thanks?”

  Edward hurriedly put down his fork. “Forgive me. Not at all.” Sebastian must like this one, he thought with satisfaction as Frannie said a heartfelt prayer of thanks. Indeed, it rather astonished him, for she gave thanks for the mercy of having almost been run down, for it led him to help her. Such a detailed prayer from the heart was not something he often heard. Must be a Methodist, he thought, instantly resolving to say nothing of it to Sebastian, a staunch Anglican.

  When sheʼd done, he dug back in to his food, being famished. Heʼd been out half the night in pursuit of a fly-by-nighter, a man who’d promised to sell him a bang up equipage, a smart gig, just the thing for a whip-in-training, and for the smallest sum imaginable. All Edward had to do was convey said man from the low district club where they’d met to his home north of London. There, the transaction was to take place. But for this Edward was forced to borrow his brother’s curricle, which meant waiting until the small hours of the night to do it undetected.

  To Edward’s chagrin, when he was presented with the supposed prize, he’d never seen a sorrier looking equipage. Outdated, outmoded, its sides peeling with strips of languishing wood, and the wheels uneven. The man was not eager to lose the sale and harped on most unpleasantly about a gentleman’s word being his honour and other such drivel. By the time Edward got away (and only after pressing a few shillings into the man’s hand) it was well past morning light. He pushed the team hard to make time and was cracking along nicely—until Miss Fanshawe stepped into his path.

  Looking at her now, he wished he’d been less hasty in bringing her to the house, for it began to be borne in on him that it would be an uphill climb convincing Sebastian to take her case. He’d best learn all he could before facing him. The next half hour in the morning room was spent in earnest conversation as Frannie laid out her case for Edward. Many emphatic sighs with outstretched arms were heard and noted. Edward listened with a growing frown, rubbing his chin, nodding now and again. By the time he’d heard the whole sorry tale, he knew one thing.

  Sebastian wasn’t going to like it.

  Frannie and Edward had removed to the parlour by the time Sebastian appeared in the morning room for coffee and toast, his usual fare. Mrs. Arundell stayed abed with the headache, but her eldest son, in fitted trousers, dark shoes, a white shirt with a lightly pointed collar and unremarkable, though spotless cravat, sat down content to have the room to himself. Over his shirt was a hunter green waistcoat patterned in black thread. It brought out the green in his eyes, though Sebastian would never have chosen it for such a frivolous purpose. Light sideburns and a sensible hair cut showed him to be more conscious of propriety than fashion.

  His cutaway tailcoat in dark brown he began to remove, for he was alone, but he stopped at Syke’s report of Edward’s having brought a young woman home. Scowling, he allowed the servant to help him back into the coat. Edward, that fool pup, was an endless pest. The additional information, that said woman’s portmanteau had been placed into a guest bedchamber—chosen by Sykes himself, in order not to wake the mistress during one of her attacks—only deepened the scowl.

  He’d just opened his book to the page where he’d left off and taken one sip of coffee when Edward entered. “Beau, eat quickly! I’ve got a horrid scramble for you to untangle.”

  Sebastian eyed his brother dispassionately above a pair of narrow-rimmed spectacles, took a bite of toast, and chewing, returned to his book. “You will have a horrid scramble when I turn you out on the street for a thief.”

  “Oh, come, Beau! My entire object was to ensure that I never have to borrow your gig again!”

  “Don’t call me Beau,” was the sole answer.

  “It’s what Mama calls you, and I own it puts you in a better mood!”

  Sebastian lowered his book. “Nothing you say can alter my mood for the better. Stop blathering and explain to me why you stole my carriage, exhausted my horses, and brought home with you a street wench!”

  “I don’t associate with street wenches,” Edward replied haughtily, with his nose in the air. “And Miss Fanshawe’s genteel. She’s an heiress!”

  Sebastian’s look lost some of its fierceness, though his eyes betrayed stark doubt. “Do go on,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Let us know the reason, for there must be some extraordinary circumstance, why this heiress is to be our guest?” He returned his eyes to the book.

  “She’s in a tangle, that’s all.”

  Sebastian looked up with narrowed eyes. “How do you know her?”

  “Let me tell you the trouble, then we’ll get to that.”

  “What sort of tangle?”

  Edward stared at his brother. “On second thought, I’ll let her tell you.”

  Now hardness gleamed in his eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ve no idea how you stumble upon odd, low characters in your jaunts about town, rag-tag creatures from your gaming dens, no doubt—”

  “Not at all!” interjected Edward hotly. “I’ve not been gaming, upon my word!”

  But a gasp and a sob was heard in the corridor. Edward’s eyes widened. Had he forgot to ask Miss Fanshawe to remain in the parlour?

  Sebastian glared at his brother. “Is that her?”

  Edward nodded guiltily. “Must be.”

  “You brought her? Without informing me!” He threw down his napkin, stood, and with a grim look on his face, still glaring at Edward, said, “I will make quick work of your heiress!” He intended upon doing it too, turning her out before she could say Jack Robinson. But only seconds after he’d left the room, he was back, preceded by Miss Fanshawe, who held a handkerchief to one eye and was sniffling. Edward gave her a weak smile, hoping it was bracing.

  Sebastian had taken one look at her, instantly recognized a genteel looking creature, stifled the rebuke upon his lips, and, after a nodding short bow, said, “Please,” and motioned for her to enter. Having expected to see a doxy (whom he would have unhesitatingly sent from the house) he instead was treated to the sight of a respectable, handsome, well dressed young woman. And when his eyes clasped her ridiculously large, intelligent but tear-rimmed orbs, a jolt of surprise ran through him. Without a word, she’d disarmed him. One sight of her was all
it took. Was he a gudgeon? He’d almost offered his arm, by Jove, but checked himself.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said in the morning room, as he held out a chair, which she accepted. “I’m afraid I spoke rashly.”

  Edward breathed a sigh of relief. Sebastian was deuced particular, but never lacked manners in company, especially with the muslin set. It drove society belles near mad, as he never followed up his exquisite manners and courtesies with an offer. Edward wondered if his brother was waiting to come into the title before he’d wed. That would be Sebastian in a nutshell—doing everything strictly proper and in its time.

  Sebastian cleared his throat as he resumed his seat. “Have you had breakfast, Miss—er—?”

  “Miss Fanshawe,” put in Edward, who hurriedly went on to complete the introductions.

  “I have, thank you,” she replied, watching Sebastian tragically. “I am very sorry to interrupt yours, sir.”

  To her sweet, expressive countenance of sheer misery, Sebastian visibly softened. The hard lines of his jaw relaxed, and his eyes, behind the round spectacles, looked almost large as he surveyed her with something approaching kindness. He had not quite decided whether to trust this young woman’s account, whatever it might be, but he had lost the greater part of his suspicions.

  He looked at Edward. “I’ll deal with you and the matter of my curricle later.” Turning his full attention to Frannie, he said, “Tell me your trouble, Miss Fanshawe.”

  Frannie’s heart was in a tumble, for she was sure Mr. Sebastian Arundell was predisposed against her. Had he not referred to her as a street wench? And how alarmed she’d felt at his countenance when he’d rounded the bend. With spectacles and a book in hand, he was studious looking but with the fierce mien of a stern schoolmaster. The look soon changed, becoming less formidable, but his was a cynical soul, she was certain. Behind those spectacles she sensed the strict, proper countenance of a barrister or a cold clergyman, one that would stand upon the letter of the law and be anything but helpful to a woman in her circumstances. Yet what recourse did she have? The younger Mr. Arundell had promised this man would help. With little hope of success, she breathed a silent prayer that God would grant her favour as she spoke.

  “You will scarcely credit my history, sir,” she began, “for ‘tis most unusual. I was raised by my mama, who died, I am sad to say, a year and six months ago; and Mrs. Baxter, a wealthy widow—er, at one time wealthy, that is—the dearest friend of my mother’s.”

  “Your father?” Sebastian asked.

  Frannie blushed and swallowed. “Well, my father, sir, is a nobleman—.”

  “Who is he?”

  The blush deepened. “As I said, I was raised by my mama, and given the assurance that my father guaranteed a trust fund for my use upon my majority.”

  “And what is his name?” Sebastian persisted.

  Frannie looked apologetic and now the blush ran to the roots of her hair. She clasped her hands uncertainly. “My mother and father had a great falling out of some kind. She—refused to speak of him. She never so much as gave me his name, his full name, that is. She said my future was secure only so long as I stayed wide of his family. I assume his name was Fanshawe.”

  Only with careful control did Sebastian’s face not reveal his instant appraisal of this admission. Miss Fanshawe was a blow by!

  She continued on, having little choice but to lay out her circumstances as best she could. “I was given the name of Mr. Charles Fanshawe, of Cheapside. His identity was only just furnished to me by Mrs. Baxter.”

  “A nobleman? In Cheapside? By name of mister?”

  Frannie shifted in her seat. “Mrs. Baxter said he must be my uncle; the case is puzzling, I own, but that the trust fund exists there can be no doubt. We received annual sums all my life, and they came, I was told, from the interest of the trust.”

  “Did you never ask to meet your father?”

  She shifted again, her fingers gripping the edges of the seat. “My mother gave me to believe he had died, and so of course that is what I accepted as true. I never thought to question what I was told. But—a fortnight ago—Mrs. Baxter revealed that my father lives! Yet she had only the name of Mr. Fanshawe of Cheapside, which made me wonder whether it was he. Mrs.Baxter was inclined to think he must know all the particulars of my case. And if this is true, he will know the identity of my father.”

  She blinked back tears. “I—I know how irregular this must seem to you, sir. I assure you, I had rather not pursue the matter, for ‘tis mortifying! Only Mrs. Baxter left debts, you see. Apparently, while Mama and Mrs. Baxter allowed me to dress fashionably and for us all to live in comfort, debts were accruing all along. Mama should have given all of our income to Mrs. Baxter, whatever was sent on my behalf. But instead they chose to allow me to believe we suffered no want. I am afraid I—I gave all my means to cover the debts.” Frannie swallowed, valiantly not letting the lump in her throat that assailed her at every thought of her dearest Mama and Mrs. Baxter, get the better of her. Nor would she think about those horrible shopkeepers who descended upon the house and hounded her until she parted with nearly all she possessed.

  “She left debts, you say. Has she absconded?”

  “D-died, sir, a fortnight ago. Everything I’ve told you, she gave me to understand upon her deathbed.” Frannie hated the waver in her voice. But she added, “She’s in heaven now, God rest her soul.”

  His eyes pierced hers. “I am sorry for your loss. But you paid her debts? From your own means?”

  “I paid all I could. I gave almost all I had, but it wasn’t enough!”

  “Great Scot!” he said. “You gave all you had?”

  She stifled back a sob. “It wasn’t enough. They have taken the house and all we owned. I had to dismiss cook, and our manservant and laundrymaid; and then last night—as if my troubles were too small—my purse was snatched! I now have only what is contained in my portmanteau and a single trunk!” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “Had you no advisor? No one to counsel that you could not be held responsible for this Mrs. Baxter’s debts?”

  To his frowning look, she said, “Mrs. Baxter was ever, only, all kindness to me and my mother. How could I not endeavour to settle her accounts?”

  To himself, he thought, kind enough to leave you in debt! But all he said was, “Was she a relation?”

  “No, sir, a dear friend, the dearest of friends!” Again she blinked away wetness on her lashes and held a handkerchief to her nose until she’d conquered the moment.

  To Sebastian, the case was now utterly clear. Miss Fanshawe was, in plain terms, an illegitimate brat that had managed to grow up in genteel circumstances. But wishing to know as much from curiosity as from necessity, he asked, “And how old are you?”

  “I am but nineteen, sir.”

  “So, if there is a trust, you have no legal access to it yet.” Gently he added, “No way to ascertain, even, that it exists, or that your father, if he lives, will acknowledge you.”

  Frannie’s large eyes revealed the tumult in her heart. How foolish of her to suppose she could find help from a respectable gentleman of means! He had the disinterested mien of a magistrate and would of course find her case to be shocking. With a despairing heart, she said, eyes lowered, “Mr.—Mr. Fanshawe must be my connexion to the funds. That is what Mrs. Baxter tried to tell me. But sir, when I attempted to see him—as I told the younger Mr. Arundell—” here she gave a tearful glance to Edward, sitting silently in his seat; she swallowed, and finally conquering the urge to cry, finished, “This is the capstone of my misfortunes thus far—his wife turned me away! She—she said I was out to grabble what was not rightfully mine! So now it is quite impossible for me to discover more particulars of the case!”

  He folded his hands upon the table, listening keenly. “So you are in dire straits, with no funds until this, er, trust is opened?”

  Frannie nodded unhappily, her chocolate eyes pleading with him from their hopeless, troubled depths.


  A sudden doubt crossed Sebastian’s mind: that the whole presentation was a fabrication, a means of soliciting sympathy with an eye for financial gain. Everything about Miss Fanshawe appeared utterly earnest, herself a blend of innocence and sensibility, her grief for recent losses seemingly of the gravest nature; but he seemed to recall hearing of similar elaborate ruses done by such innocent looking actors as this woman, and perpetrated on those foolish enough to believe the lies.

  Miss Fanshawe leaned forward earnestly, looking quite pretty with cheeks rosy with emotion, and her large eyes appearing larger than ever.

  “Sir—despite the unhappy mystery of my heritage, which I know you can only despise—” she looked away. “Indeed, I despise it myself,” she said, looking down at her hands. She looked up. “I beg of you: only point me to the proper authorities, someone who might help me gain an audience with Mr. Fanshawe, and I will trouble you no more. Believe me, sir, when I say I take no pleasure in asking! I am beyond mortification! I am painfully aware that I am, at this moment, very little different from a common—street urchin!” She bit her lip, blinked back tears, and refused to meet his eyes.

  Sebastian, feeling his heart strings reluctantly moving toward this creature, said gently, “Normally such a dilemma could be easily resolved by applying to the benefactor of the trust; for he is the man, and the only man, with power to change the terms and relieve your current distress.” His look hardened as he added, “But for that you must know his identity.” He did not say the words that had flown to his mind, if he indeed exists.

  Frannie’s lips tightened as she fought to control a sense of panic or the urge to give way to tears. It was too, too, vexing! She didn’t use to cry easily; it must be because of Mrs. Baxter’s sudden death, and then, on its heels, the discovery that the inheritance she claimed to be leaving Frannie—enough to last until her trust could be obtained—was sadly dried up, according to the barrister who settled her affairs. It had all gone to long-standing debts that Frannie had known nothing about, the same debts that had swallowed up Frannie’s funds. And now even their home had been taken from her on account of the arrears! She’d end up in the poor house, no doubt! How glad she was now that neither her mama nor Mrs. Baxter had lived to see this day. Mrs. Baxter’s barrister had refused to take on Frannie’s case, to try and locate her trust monies. She should have known then that it was hopeless.