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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “And the lady flew into the boughs immediately?” he asked, his eyes keenly stealing glances at her while he maneuvered the equipage along the busy street. It wasn’t the highbrow shopping district of the upper class, and Sebastian wished they’d come in a closed carriage, for their presence was being noted by many on the street.

  Frannie nodded unhappily. “No sooner than I claimed the connexion. She seemed astonished and demanded to know how I’d found them; and then went on to insult and threaten me in the most horrifying manner!” She turned to him. “I cannot say I was entirely surprised, for I had no great hopes of being welcomed wholeheartedly by Mr. Fanshawe, were he my father, after he took such pains to remain aloof. And I can hardly blame the woman for not taking kindly to the knowledge of my existence—.”

  But here Sebastian interrupted her. “But it wasn’t that. She resented your appearing, which suggests she already knew of your existence. More, that you are in pursuit of something she hopes you will not acquire. Something, I begin to believe, she covets for her own daughter.” As he directed the team past a standing wagon, he added, “I daresay she has a cloven foot in the business.”

  Frannie looked admiringly at Sebastian. “Thunder! I warrant, sir, if you wanted employment, that Bow Street could do no better than to have you! To think, that you could see so much into the situation, when I, who experienced it, missed it entirely!”

  Sebastian smiled, pleased with the approbation given with shining eyes, though of course the thought of employment was absurd. He was a gentleman. Gentlemen did not work.

  “Is this the street you remember?” he asked as they turned a corner onto a bustling lane teeming even more with pedestrians and merchants of all descriptions. Carriages, berlins, calashes, wagons and carts were everywhere. Frannie scanned the scene, smiling faintly. “Yes. There’s the confectioners, and fan makers; there, the glass sellers and stationers, near the printer’s shop. I do not recall the soap and basket makers,” she said reflectively, “but the clock maker, yes, I remember, and there, a glove makers.”

  “You remember it well,” said Sebastian, wonderingly.

  “Mrs. Baxter’s sister lived….” She pointed at an apartment above the glovers. “There.” She turned to him. “Before she passed away. We called upon her once a month with…” she hesitated. “Supplies. She had so little. We brought vegetables from the garden, cloth, when it went on sale, for she was a seamstress, and other such things we could easily spare.”

  Sebastian swallowed. The actions were kind, but furnished more proof of Miss Fanshawe’s humble situation. This widow, Mrs. Baxter, had even humbler relations. He said hastily, “I see.” And then, “Where is this Mr. Withers we seek?”

  Frannie nodded and pointed. “Over there.”

  He pulled the curricle to a stop in front of a singularly unpromising establishment, an old Elizabethan style structure with a second storey protruding out over the first, leaning toward the street like the famed tower of Pisa. A sign, creaking from rusty hinges and badly in need of paint, proclaimed, “Peddler of All Good Things.” Inwardly shaking his head with a sudden conviction that he was on a fool’s errand, he motioned to Will, his boy perched on the rear of the vehicle, to take the ribbons and stand guard while he and Miss Fanshawe entered this strange mercantile.

  Upon entry, his first impression was confirmed. In the sudden darkness, he could just make out murky shelves loaded with baskets piled high with wares of a dubious nature. He wrinkled his nose as a mild odor he could not identify but which was instantly abhorrent accosted him. The floor, he noted, sported a gloomy layer of dust. He expected Miss Fanshawe to draw back in disgust or exclaim that it was no longer the place she remembered, but to his surprise she sailed along, crossing the main aisle and heading determinedly toward a back room. Moving aside a curtain that separated this apartment from the rest, she stuck her head in. “Mr. Withers?” she called loudly.

  Sebastian stood by, torn between perplexity and amusement. He wouldn’t have believed it possible that a gently bred young woman—even one of questionable pedigree—could be at ease in such a place. But Miss Fanshawe evidently wasn’t a typical squeamish miss. “Did you say Mr. Withers was also a relation of your Mrs. Baxter?” he said in a low tone, trying not to laugh.

  “He is her younger brother!”

  “This gets better and better,” he murmured sardonically, following her inside the room, where a little man was bent over a table at work. This apartment was brighter than the outer room, and fortunately better smelling. The man was examining something tiny with a magnifying glass and was so intent that he hadn’t heard them approach.

  “Mr.Withers!” Frannie exclaimed again at his elbow. He almost dropped the magnifier, but his face lit with delight when he recognized her.

  “Frannie, me dear! I’ve been that worried about ye!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet, taking her hands in his, and bowing over them. He was a small, wiry man, with a thin layer of gray curly hair, small eyes, but a beaming smile. His joyous visage turned into a frown. “When I ‘eard they’d possessed me sister’s ‘ouse—I tried to get word to ye. But ye was gone already!” His eyes were pained. “I—I ‘ave a small spare room,” he began, awkwardly.

  “There is no need of that,” she assured him smilingly, with a squeeze to his hand. “At least not yet,” she added, trying to sound light-hearted. She looked at Sebastian. “Mr. Arundell has provided a situation for me. I am companion to a very fine lady!”

  Mr. Withersʼ face crumpled. “Ye, a companion?”

  She smiled. “ʼTis only temporary.”

  “Me sister always said ye was raised to be a fine lady,” he said sadly, trying not to look too resentfully at Sebastian.

  Frannie shook her head. “And I may soon very well be, I daresay!” she cried with false bravery. She couldn’t bear to let him know that her future was uncertain.

  “Yer father was a right honor’ble gen’leman.”

  Frannie’s eyes widened and she gave Sebastian a look of undisguised hope. Turning back to Mr. Withers she asked breathlessly, “Do you know my father?”

  “Nay, me darlinʼ, but yer mother did.” Seeing this was not meant as a joke, she said, “Go on.”

  “’E was a man of means. Married her agin’ ‘is father’s will; that much is certain.”

  Sebastian’s brows knit as he listened keenly. He cleared his throat.

  Flustered, Frannie cried, “I beg your pardon. Sir, may I introduce Mr. Withers to you? He is almost like family to me.”

  “By all means,” said Sebastian graciously, though under most circumstances an introduction to Mr. Withers, or anyone of his sort, would seem quite curious if not repugnant. Before Frannie could say another word, however, the man quickly grabbed a small object from his worktable which ended in a miniature horn and placed it in his ear.

  Frannie turned to Sebastian with a knowing smile. “The little instrument I told you about. Now he’ll hear the introduction better.” The little man bowed respectfully to Sebastian as his name was given, but couldn’t help immediately volunteering the information afterward that surely when Mr. Arundell recognized Frannie’s worth, for she was a “real laidy,” this business of being a companion would no longer suit.

  Blushing, Frannie ignored this and told the little man why they were come.

  “Ah!” he said, smiling. “I’ve just perfected it with a little adjustment.” He pulled the gadget from his ear. “See, there’s the smallest device yeʼll find anywhere, now.”

  Sebastian peered curiously at it. He saw a metal object that looked almost like a miniature French horn with the minutest coils imaginable.

  “It’s wonderful!” breathed Frannie.

  Mr. Withers said, turning to rummage in a pile of gadgets on one side of the table, “I’ve got a few ‘ere like it.” He chose one, a pewter instrument, and handed it to Frannie. She admired it momentarily and passed it to Sebastian, who examined it closely. Mr. Withers gave him a lesson on how to adjust it in
the ear, pointing out that the tiny coils, if necessary, could be compressed yet further, but warned that, if done too often or too hard, the device might cease to work.

  “What do you call this?” Sebastian asked.

  “ʼTis an ear trumpet, sir.”

  “Like its larger counterpart,” Sebastian murmured. He turned to Frannie. “My mother will be in raptures if it works.”

  “Oh, it will, sir!” Mr. Withers assured him.

  Sebastian dug in his pocket for payment. The little man seemed embarrassed by that, but Frannie insisted he take it. After a tender goodbye, and many entreaties to come to him if she needed aught, they left, Sebastian commenting that if the ear trumpet worked, he would be back to buy another and give the man more for it than he asked.

  “Do not return without me,” she said. “I adore the chance to see Mr. Withers.”

  Sebastian regarded her with a little smile. She certainly had no pretensions about the society she kept. When they were seated again in the curricle, he said, “Before we take this to my mother, I think I must speak to Mrs. Fanshawe. May as well face the business and get on with it.”

  Frannie looked at him with undisguised hope. “Would you? I am certain she must behave more civilly to you than she did, me.”

  He nodded. “Let us hope.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  They progressed a mere two streets before traffic brought them to a standstill. Frannie took the opportunity to study the busy street with its stalls, carts and shops. She looked past the woollen drapers, patten makers, a pewterer, a stall of ribbands, and a fishmonger, before looking fixedly at a street vendor. “If I may, sir. That bakerʼs wares are superb! Mrs. Baxter and I always filled a basket from his stall before returning home.”

  Sebastian’s mouth twisted as he suppressed a smile. “I noticed you failed to eat this morning.” Frannie pursed her lips but said nothing of the fact that she had not been able to eat on account of their expected outing, as it meant spending time with him. She had awoken with a healthy fear of Sebastian, who seemed stern to her yesterday. But now she felt more at ease; especially since he seemed to have espoused her cause. He dug in a pocket, turned to Will and gave him a coin along with a motion of his head at the vendor’s stall. “Get whatever this buys,” he said, “and keep one for yourself.”

  “Thankee, sir!” Will cried. He hopped off the equipage and ran to the stall.

  Frannie continued to look around, bright-eyed, and suddenly gasped. “Oh, there’s the chestnut man!” Smiling, she added, “We roasted our own at home many a time; there’s nothing like a hot chestnut in winter, is there, sir?”

  Sebastian surveyed his young charge benignly. Her innocent chocolate eyes sparkled with light when she smiled. Her cheeks and nose were tipped with rose-red from the cold, and altogether she made an appealingly pretty sight. Her artlessness surprised him. He could scarcely imagine another young woman in society who would exclaim innocently upon the delights of roasted chestnuts. Too, he could little explain why this young woman should delight him with such raptures. He felt an uncustomary sensation of protectiveness, as though he was with a younger sister.

  When Will returned, he was sent immediately to the chestnut man. After that, they acquired apples from an apple cart, a needle from a needle maker (for Sebastian’s mama, he was assured, had broken a needle just the previous evening), and hot buns from another baker’s cart. Frannie held the paper-wrapped parcels upon her lap gingerly, guarding the treasures. The aroma of hot bread and chestnuts was unmistakable. At another traffic impasse, Sebastian looked over and sniffed. “A shame those buns will turn cold before we are back to the house.”

  Frannie looked at him with a question in her eyes. She looked down at the small bundle. “Indeed.” Her fingers were itching to unwrap the buns—just one taste would be heavenly. But well-bred people did not eat on the street. She peeked at him again, and he nodded toward the buns. “Letʼs just have a taste, shall we?” He grinned mischievously.

  She almost gaped in surprise. Smiling, she removed her gloves and undid the paper enough to extract one bun. It was still warm in her hands. Taking a furtive glance around, she broke off a piece and offered it to him. He held reins in both hands, however, and so opened his mouth, to her surprise. She popped it in, but blushed. She broke off another piece for herself. While chewing quietly, both their lips were turned up in smiles. Frannie felt absurdly delighted that he had allowed her to feed him by hand. It felt like an intimate gesture, a privilege. And on the street!

  Edward was wrong, utterly, in calling his elder brother a starched shirt. While she reminded herself that the action could hold no meaning to Sebastian, he said, “You were quite right. Excellent texture, and just the right hint of sweetness.” He turned to her with a little smile. “Thank you. We must have Spence send a man for these buns in future.” Frannie nodded, very pleased.

  Just before leaving that crowded thoroughfare, as they waited in line behind a farmer’s dray, Frannie’s hand grasped Sebastian’s arm. “Oh, the unfortunate creature!” Before he could reply or inquire, she scurried from her seat to a child at the kerb, a youngster who could be no more than seven or eight years old. She held out her hands to the ragged street urchin. “God bless you!” she said to the large, hopeful eyes upturned from soot-covered features, eyes holding a world of pain it seemed to Frannie. They glanced from Frannie’s face to her hands, and then the buns and paper sleeve of roasted chestnuts were torn from her palms. With a last wondering look at her, the imp turned and ran off as though a demon was at her heels.

  Frannie returned to the curricle and Will assisted her up. With rosy cheeks, she realized she hadn’t thought to inquire whether Mr. Arundell would approve of her feeding his newly bought nourishment to a vagabond child. But in truth she had scarcely thought at all. The sight of the large-eyed imp, gaunt cheeks and clothes coated in soot, had thoroughly silenced her brain to any thought except to aid that poor soul.

  As they rounded the bend of a corner, she turned to Sebastian. “I—I hope you don’t mind,” she said awkwardly. “I apologize for not asking your permission.”

  He gave her a mild look. “What I bought for you is entirely at your disposal, Miss Fanshawe.”

  “Thank you,” she said meekly. She could not tell whether he approved of her action, but he was at least not cross about it.

  After a circuitous route, they turned onto the bustling Cheapside. As they pulled up, the tower of St. Mary le Bow Church was visible, perched like a lookout over the busy thoroughfare. At Frannie’s motioning to a modest brick building of three storeys, Sebastian pulled up to it and slowed the carriage to a stop. In a moment, a curtain was pulled aside from the first floor window, though no face or figure could be seen.

  Handing the reins to Will, Sebastian said to Frannie, “I think it best you remain here. I’ll come for you if necessary.” She nodded, her face no longer merry. Sebastian said, “Chin up. I believe we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  She gave him a grateful smile from within her bonnet. “Thank you, sir.”

  To Will he said, “Do not allow anyone to plague Miss Fanshawe while I am gone; no street hawkers or anyone else who may come along.” With a twinkle in his eye, he handed Frannie a half crown. “Unless, of course, you see something else which you know to be superb and must have!” Frannie saw he was teasing her and blushed.

  Sebastian approached the door and rang, taking a little silver card case from his waistcoat pocket. He drew out a card to have at the ready.

  Watching from the curricle, Frannie saw a butler appear, to whom Sebastian spoke. She wished she could hear what was being said.

  “If neither your master or mistress is home,” Sebastian offered nonchalantly, “I will wait.”

  The butler hesitated, and swallowed. “That will not do, sir.”

  “When are they expected?”

  “I cannot say, sir.”

  “In that case, you must convey a message for your master.” He hesitated im
pressively. “If I must return at another time, inform your employer that I will come in company with an officer of the King’s Bench. I have reason to believe that some mischief is taking place on his part. And I intend to have justice in it.” Suddenly a woman came storming out of a side room, plump, with a starched mobcap, her face a picture of ill-usage.

  “What do you mean, threatening the King’s Bench on us? I am sure I have no notion of any mischief taking place! Who are you to accuse a body of mischief?”

  Sebastian observed her placidly. “May I assume you are the lady of the house? Mrs. Fanshawe?

  She glared at him and merely demanded, “And who might you be?”

  “If you will grant me an audience, madam, and five minutes of your time, I will explain everything to your satisfaction.”

  She eyed him angrily, received his card from her butler, and read it. She looked past Sebastian to the curricle on the street. Seeing Frannie, her eyes widened, but seemingly satisfied that Miss Fanshawe was not approaching, she gave a stiff nod, so that Sebastian entered.

  Frannie saw the angry countenance of the lady, and then watched as Sebastian disappeared behind the closed door. Her heart was a mixture of hope and despair. The more she thought on her position, the more she was forced to acknowledge there was little evidence to support her claims. What did she have but hearsay? If the Fanshawes pleaded ignorance of her existence, ignorance of anything having to do with her or a trust fund, what evidence did she have to prove it otherwise? With Mrs. Baxter’s possessions gone, she didn’t even have access to a single receipt or postal notice that funds had ever arrived for her. She had nothing.

  She felt numb at the prospect of having nothing, indeed, of being a nobody. All her hopes, she realized, now depended upon the integrity of Mr. Fanshawe, a man she had never seen and who had never, to her knowledge, seen her. And to think, she might be worse than an orphan, a mere blow-by, illegitimate!