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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “Thank you,” she said, but couldn’t help wondering if he meant he was eager to understand whether she was respectable or not. It was a lowering thought.

  “The captain was reluctant to help,” Sebastian continued, “but eventually he gave us to know that he tries always to set sail with the same 1st Officer if he can help it. So we will find out when Captain Jennings next goes to sea, and, if we have not already discovered Fanshawe on land, be ready to nab him before the last mooring rope is loosed. The ship that carries him will not set sail without our seeing him first.”

  Frannie thanked Sebastian earnestly. She was sure she hadn’t meant to put him to such trouble, nor Mr. Harley or any land agents. But she was equally certain, and could only thank him again on account of it, that without their help, and particularly Sebastian’s, she would be without hope or means in the world. Sebastian stood, bowed, and said, “I am pleased to be of assistance.” With a little smile he admitted, “I enjoyed the chase, if you must know. I fancy I now understand to a small degree what makes a man become a Bow Street Runner.” To Frannie’s answering smile, for with his spectacles on Sebastian did not look the part of a wily Bow Street man, he added, “I’ll leave you to your own amusements.”

  “Won’t you have tea?” she asked, with a glance at the unused cup.

  He hesitated. “A quick cup, then. Only because you’ve ordered it.”

  He watched as she poured and thanked her afterwards, their eyes meeting as she handed him the porcelain with hot liquid. “One would think you’d been to finishing school,” he said, with a little smile. Frannie beamed with pleasure. “Not finishing school, but my mama felt the importance of social graces, and, as I am a gentleman’s daughter—as she often reminded me, though she evidently told me precious little else about my father—she hired fine governesses.”

  “Which explains your love of literature?” he asked.

  She smiled sheepishly. “It explains only my appalling lack of familiarity with literature. My governesses only taught me useless things like how to pour tea, and how to walk and talk properly, and I had dancing masters to teach me to dance. But literature and mathematics were sadly neglected, as was history. My French is nominal at best, and Latin” she said with a little impish grin, “is Greek to me.”

  He smiled and sipped his tea. “But those ‘useless’ graces, as you call them, are not useless in society. Many ladies must have a servant pour, for example,” he said, with a glance toward the tea pot, “because they are clumsy at it themselves, to the point of spilling. And if you can dance nearly so well as you pour tea, you will enchant everyone who watches.” Their eyes met as he spoke. Frannie felt breathless. He finished his tea in a gulp, thanked her again with a polite bow, and left the room.

  Frannie remained in her seat, glowing from Sebastian’s unexpected praise. First, the kiss on the cheek in the morning, and now this! But did it signify? Did any of it signify? That, she could not be sure of. Sebastian was known as an unintentional tease, according to Edward. What had he said? That his brother’s manners toward the softer sex raised hopes everywhere he went, and dashed them with equal ease, for he never followed up what had appeared as a flirtation, with an offer.

  No, thinking on it, Frannie had to allow that Sebastian no doubt thought he was being only polite, not flirtatious. Kind, not admiring. His was the sort of attention that one got purely on the basis of availability. If Sebastian was present, he would be attentive. He would be kind, even offering compliments above the normal exchange, simply because he wished to please others. He was generous in nature. The only occasion when he seemed otherwise was if Edward was involved. Indeed, Edward called his brother a ‘starched shirt,’ but it was only to Edward that Sebastian was cold or stiff.

  Sadly, she concluded that she must not read affection into anything Sebastian said or did towards her, though coming from another man it might indeed be construed as such. She must harden her heart, for it yearned more and more, it seemed, in his direction each day. More and more she thought only of where he was, when she would next see him, whether he would read to them of an evening, and—most of all—whether he took notice of her not only on account of his mother’s affection for her. She tried to avoid such thoughts, remembering that she might yet be deemed illegitimate—how she loathed that word, now!—and had no right, no right at all to set her cap at a future baronet. Even were he not in line for the baronetcy he would be a world above her.

  Suddenly her musings ceased. Sebastian’s voice, in the corridor! It was followed by Mrs. Arundell’s higher tones. In a moment, the door opened and she swept in. “Upon my word! Such a conundrum!” She surveyed Frannie. “You must be downcast now. In the blue devils, I expect.” She came and sat across from Frannie, who could not help missing the son who had sat there earlier. With kindness in her eyes she continued, “We thought it was all to be sorted at last, only to find it a deeper muddle! But I must tell you, Frannie dear, that my inklings are never wrong. And I have a prodigiously strong one about you and your fortune. I am known for having prodigiously strong inklings, you remember.” She paused and waited for Frannie’s nod to indicate that yes, she remembered. Then she continued in her sweet, soothing tones, “You must see this as only a setback; a further waiting period, but not something that should dash your hopes.”

  Frannie nodded. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes, for despite the kind words she realized that Mrs. Arundell was right; all the mystery of her past was now yet more perplexing, since Mr. Fanshawe had purposely escaped notice. It was a deeper muddle than before, a deeper muddle that put Sebastian that much further from her reach.

  The older woman smoothed her skirts before settling dancing eyes upon Frannie. “So,” she said, patting her hands on her knees. “We must have no melancholia, my dear. Beau will not rest until ‘tis all sorted.” She sat back with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “We Arundells are seldom players in a real-life mystery! I warrant you have brought a diversion to us, and Beau appears quite equal to the challenge; he even relishes it, I think.”

  To Frannie’s puzzled look, she hurriedly added, “Oh, I am not making light of your troubles, or would have you believe for a moment that he does. We feel your suspense. Only—” Here she paused and searched for the right words. “You are not in it alone.” The cast of her eyes was affectionate. “It will all end handsomely, you’ll see. If I weren’t utterly certain of that, I should be in the doldrums for you. But it will end in your favour, dearest.”

  Frannie could not take offense at the strange delight her predicament was affording the mistress of the house, for she had called Frannie dearest. It was the favored term she used for her sons and therefore did not go unnoticed. Frannie managed a smile of gratitude with genuine answering affection. But she really could not let Mrs. Arundell suffer any longer beneath a delusion regarding her situation. She said, “Ma’am, I am much obliged to you. And all my prayers are that everything shall end as we hope, but—”

  Mrs. Arundell’s eyes strayed above Frannie’s head to the clock on the mantel. “Frannie dear, there is no need at all to speak of it. I know all the particulars, I assure you. Now, come, ‘tis time to dress for dinner.”

  With a heavy heart, Frannie followed the lady from the room, bade her goodbye at her bedchamber door and continued to her own. Could it be true that Mrs. Arundell was in possession of every particular of the case? Did she really understand how tenuous Frannie’s claim to gentility was? To respectability? She’d have to speak again to Sebastian. He must ensure that his mother understood it rightly. She assumed, of course, that if Mrs. Arundell really grasped the uncertainty of Frannie’s situation, that her attitude would reflect that knowledge. She would cease to put forth the foolish idea of Frannie marrying the baronet, for one thing. Most upper-class matrons wouldn’t even want her in their home, let alone one with unmarried sons about. Perhaps Penelope Arundell knew Beau, that is, Sebastian, too well to be worried. He’d never showed the least interest in marriage, even Edward at
tested to that. And for Edward she had no fear of Frannie probably because she was older than he.

  That must be it! Mrs. Arundell cared not whether Frannie had a fortune or not, for it mattered not. Neither son was in danger. As for marrying the baronet, it was just as she said. She wanted an amiable, sweet girl for him, and Frannie seemed just that. It did not answer as to why the woman treated Frannie quite so well, almost like family. Frannie almost wished to ask her, point blank, why. But she supposed she must be thankful for it and leave it at that.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Earlier that day, aboard Golden Sovereign

  Mr. Fanshawe’s cabin boy scurried to get his officer’s trunk packed. Golden Sovereign was soon to dock in London, and the 1st Officer had barked at him to “do it handsomely, now,” which meant, make quick work of it. He wanted no needless delays. Another officer would have his cabin boy scurrying even faster, working harder, but Mr. Fanshawe, everyone knew, was light on discipline. Nevertheless, the cabin boy moved with speed. Every man and boy on board yearned to get home to his family.

  A flurry of shouts signified contact with another ship, and though he shouldn’t have left his task, the cabin boy went to take a peek. As he reached the quarterdeck, a crewman told him that an outgoing merchant ship had flagged them to deliver a message for an officer. A moment later, a note was thrust into his hand. “Fer yer master,” said the seaman.

  Minutes later 1st Officer Charles Fanshawe was reading the note. “There’s trouble with the law,” it said. “A monstrous legal claim is being threatened upon us. They’ll be waiting for ye on the docks, I warrant. Land agents, I suppose. Disguise yourself and don’t hobble it! Will explain all later. Yr loving wife.”

  He put the note away calmly, but with an inward frown. What on earth could have happened to cause “a monstrous legal claim” against him? Or that land agents—those relentless devils—should be awaiting him? Whatever it was, his wife was right in that he must evade them at all costs unless he wished to find himself in debtor’s prison!

  If she’d only stated the amount due, he might have faced the men with confidence. Captain Jennings had only just doled out his wages, and he felt surely it must be sufficient to quiet all creditors. How his family had got in the duns during his voyage was a troubling matter. But his wife’s warning about the land agents was enough to make him—or any man in his place—determined to avoid capture. Land agents were ruthless, would pull a man right out of his chair at dinner or anywhere else, to bring him in for arrears. Until he found out more about this “monstrous legal claim,” he had no choice but to skirt the clutches of the law.

  He found a crewman willing to part with a change of clothing—temporarily, as it would have to be returned—and changed from his uniform to look like an average hand. The agents would be searching for an officer. He pulled a cap down at a jaunty angle over his face. After alerting the captain to his dilemma, he disembarked at the earliest possible moment with other seamen who had received their pay. He saw the men looking for him as he left. Keeping his face devoid of feeling, he quickly passed by. One looked like a gentleman, and perhaps he might have been reasoned with. But first he’d get home and find out what was happening. He paid a dray cart driver to drop him at the Customs House. A long line met him, but he managed to move swiftly ahead by sharing his dilemma—all good seamen loathed a land agent and sympathized—then, afterward, he paid a wagon driver to take him home.

  When he reached his own sweet front door—infinitely glad to be home after five months at sea—he was ushered in by a frantic wife. Then he was hurried and hastened from the house, astonished to find his family packed and ready to beat a hasty exit from town! With barely a greeting after five months’ separation, and his wife’s assurances that she would explain all to him during the journey, he found himself in a hired chaise along with their trunks and valuables.

  It was only with severe objections, before setting off, that he was able to return to the house and locate important papers in his study that had been much on his mind for months while at sea. He wished to assure himself that these documents were intact; but on account of his wife's being in such a deuced hurry, he merely shoved them into his waistcoat pocket and scurried back out to the chaise.

  “Where are we off to in such a pell mell, scurvy fashion?” he asked with no little irritation, after seating himself in the vehicle.

  “A place where they won’t find us, I’m sure!” was the only information he received. Most disturbing. As the equipage rumbled away from the curb, his daughter Catherine spoke up. She’d been cast down since his arrival, though she had given him a quick embrace, a half smile, and a kiss on the cheek, in greeting.

  “Papa, it is all a mistake,” she said, looking quite tragical.

  “I should hope it is,” he agreed. Looking to his wife he said, “Let’s have it. From the beginning. What is behind this odious retreat? Are we criminals that we should run from the law?”

  “Do not mistake the matter,” returned the lady in a redoubtable fashion. “There are those as would steal your daughter’s fortune!”

  “My daughter’s fortune?” He looked to Catherine. “Do you have a fortune, daughter? One that I know nothing about?”

  Before she could answer, Mrs. Fanshawe balked. “Don’t sell me a dog! That’ll make a stuffed bird laugh! I’ve heard whispers here and there. I know about the trust fund!” She leveled a steely gaze at him. “I think it’s high time you start from the beginning. Lord knows, there should be no secrets between us on such a matter. Man and wife—and you’ve never seen fit to trust me with the particulars! I daresay Catherine knows more of the matter than I do! But I won’t stand by and let her be shammed from her due!”

  A frown had deepened upon Mr. Fanshawe’s sea-weathered features. A soft-spoken, balding man of fifty-five, with kind grey eyes, he shook his head and peered out the window. He removed his cap. He turned a baleful look upon his spouse. “Is that what this is about? Upon my soul, my dear, you mistake the matter! There is a trust fund, yes, but our daughter is not the beneficiary, and I have no idea what you’re talking about, her getting shammed by anyone.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe’s eyes blazed. “Do you dare tell me you put aside a fund for someone else’s child?” She let out an awful wail. “Lord help me! You’ve fathered a child out of wedlock! You—you horrid man! You sinner! I should ha’ known! I knew you was too good to be true, so gentle and kind and—and a devil! A blackguard! A cur!”

  Mr. Fanshawe seemed accustomed to letting his wife release her energetic objections before countering them with his own. But finally he said, “Lucy, my dear!” He fixed his gaze upon her. “I have never dishonoured my vows.” The look of gravity upon his face must have broken though the cloud of indignation that was suffocating his wife’s brain, for the torrent of name calling ceased abruptly. Crossing her arms and still glaring at him, she said, “How do you explain the existence of the other Miss Fanshawe!”

  The 1st Officer’s face lightened, grew curious. “Have you met her?”

  “Sheʼs come to the house twice now,” she said with a firm nod of the head. “She’s after the trust.”

  He looked thoughtful. “And you turned her away?”

  “Of course I did. It belongs to our Catherine! I am certain it should, in any case.”

  “And this is why you had me disguise myself and avoid the land agent? This is why we are on the run from our home, our fireside, and all our comforts?”

  “I told you it was all a mistake, Papa,” put in Catherine just then. Her face was less troubled than it appeared earlier, as she saw that her father was in a good way to settling the matter justly.

  “Well!” demanded his wife. “Who is she if none of your get, eh?”

  He sniffed. “She is Margaret’s child,” he said quietly. “How could you not realize that?” There was an abrupt silence, and suddenly Mrs. Fanshawe was blinking back tears. She looked out the window.

  Mr. Fanshawe said, “My dears, I
suggest we turn about and go home. No one’s to go to debtor’s prison.”

  “They threatened King’s Bench!” his wife cried.

  “None here needs must appear before the Bench, I assure you,” he returned in a strong tone. He turned and struck the wall so that the coachman shortly pulled up the horses. They came to a stop.

  “No, no, no!” Mrs. Fanshawe cried. “I cannot bear it. I shan’t return this day!” When their sole footman appeared at the door, she cried, “Keep us going! Keep on!”

  Mr. Fanshawe said, “Why am I to be denied the comfort of my home when I can assure you that no one will drag me to King’s Bench or debtor’s prison?”

  “I need a holiday,” she said, dolefully. “And depend upon it, you won’t see home again until I understand every particular of this business!”

  “Very well,” he said. As they drove on, he explained the matter to his wife and daughter, beginning thus: “You see, my dears, it all began because my fatherʼs fortunes suffered a severe loss, leaving Margaret with no dowry… ”

  Ten minutes passed while he told his wife and daughter the sad tale of his sisterʼs marriage, including the conditions of the trust. Mrs. Fanshawe had grown rather white, but Catherine, with large, compassionate eyes, asked, “Papa, who did your sister marry? You must know that Miss Fanshawe desires very much to know her father! And I should like to know also, as he is my uncle.”

  “Eh?” asked her mother, eyeing her with stark concern. “How do ye know what Miss Fanshawe desires?”

  Catherine coloured. “I’m sorry, Mama. I called upon her.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened as her features clouded. “Cavortin’ with the enemy!”

  Mr. Fanshawe said, “Now, now, m’dear; nothing of the sort. Recall, she is your niece.”

  “And my cousin,” said Catherine. She added, with pleading eyes, “I longed to know her, Mama.” She turned back to her father. “She is in great suspense. Who is her father?”