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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “He must see his way to rewarding your efforts,” his wife said reasonably. “What man, once he knows how you safeguarded his wife and childʼs welfare could fail to see as much!”

  “Indeed, indeed!” cried her husband, sitting back in his chair. Why, he was the victim of monstrous ill-usage by his sister, for she had put the papers into his hand for safekeeping all that time ago. Left him with the burden of it, hadnʼt she? Forced him to lie to her husband, insist sheʼd gone off to America when in fact she was hidden only as far as Lincolnshire! Why had he not seen it before?

  Catherine sat by all this time, frowning and silent, while her mother plied her father with persistent, wheedling pleas. She almost interrupted Mama on numerous points, but knowing that anything she said to counter her arguments would be summarily dismissed, she had saved the effort. But now she cleared her throat. “Papa, it grows late. Shall we go to our rooms now?”

  “No!” cried her mother sharply. “Your father is entitled to enjoy himself. He’s earned more’n that, if you ask me.”

  “Mama, whatever you convince him of now, he will likely forget entirely by morning!”

  Her mother stared at her.

  Mr. Fanshawe muttered, “To bed, to bed, m’dears!” He tried to rise from his chair and was surprised to find himself immediately returned to his seat as though a great weight forced him down. “I believe I’ll sleep here,” he said, closing his eyes.

  Catherine stood and got the attention of the innkeeper, and soon two porters were there to help Mr. Fanshawe from his chair and up the wooden steps to his room.

  As soon as he was placed safely in bed and the porters gone, his wife turned to him. Poking him in the side, she said, “Who is His Lordship, sir? The benefactor of the trust?”

  “What? What? Eh?” said the man.

  She kept at him. “His name, sir! Who is the founder of the trust?”

  Mr. Fanshawe opened red, bleary eyes and tried to see his wife. She looked like a blur in the candlelight. A shadow of a woman. But a shadow that would give him no rest until he told. He spoke to the shadow. “Lord Malcolm. Thereʼs the name for ye.”

  Lord Malcolm! Greatly satisfied, Mrs. Fanshawe allowed her husband to sink back to unconsciousness. She was determined to gain an audience with this Lord M. Her husband was too soft by far, but she would convince His Lordship of the merit of their claims and come away, she was sure, with something for her trouble. It would be no fortune, to be sure—that disappointment was not to be answered—but there must be some small consolation for the disappointment of all their hopes. Before drifting off to sleep, she planned the morrowʼs adventure, exactly what she would say when she gained her audience with this personage. Suddenly her husband started in his sleep. “He’s dead now. Saw’t in a paper we picked up at a port stop. His Lordshipʼs been gone for three months.”

  His wife was thunderstruck. “His Lordship’s dead?”

  But her husband was once more in the land of Nod.

  Again Mrs. Fanshawe’s tears flowed, for now whom could she apply to? To whom could she press their cause? “There must be something we can do!”

  Catherine heard the wails and knew her mama was vexed over the business of the trust. But Mr. Fanshaweʼs face was as clear and untroubled in his sleep as a child’s.

  For Frannie, all too soon, the day came for departure, two days before Christmas. The Fanshawes had not returned to their London abode, which meant Frannieʼs history was still a muddle, her fortune still no more than a distant hope. Sebastian reminded his mother and brother that Frannie would go by the name Miss Baxter during the visit. It was a simple kindness to her, he assured them, and, as an alias would injure no one, they could be agreeable about its use. Further, it would spare Frannie from uncomfortable questions regarding her heritage. As they had each been apprised of Frannieʼs wishes in this a fortnight ago, neither made an objection.

  During the long, bumpy coach ride, Sebastian read to them from the newspaper, then from a novel. Mrs. Arundell paged through a copy of the The Ladies’ Monthly Museum, while Edward dozed. If he began to snore, Sebastian would nudge him in the side. Each time, Edward came to with a start asking, “What, are we arrived? Are we there?”

  Despite the travelling rug that the women had the advantage of in the carriage, Frannie’s toes and fingers were numb by the time they stopped at an inn for an early supper. The horses must be allowed to rest, said Sebastian, who was adamant that he would not exchange his dependable beasts for any the inn offered. Nor would he risk harming them by continuing on. After a good meal, the innkeeperʼs wife led the ladies to their bedchamber, for they wished to retire at once. The gentlemen lingered afterward over port. They would be shown later to a separate chamber not far from the ladies. Sykes alone of the servants got to sleep in the same room as his master, while the footmen took turns sleeping and guarding the carriage and luggage.

  “I loathe long journeys,” Mrs. Arundell moaned that night while Frannie rested in a bed opposite hers. “But I must say I look forward to seeing the Hall, and whether Sir Malcolm and Hugo have had the sense to maintain it properly. Let us pray they have not taken it into their heads to redo any of the ancient parts of the house. Too many of our great houses are ruined by such ideas! ʼTis the ancient elements that give the best character.”

  “How ancient is the house, maʼam?” asked Frannie, for the first time curious about the Hall.

  “I believe it was built in the Restoration,” she said. “Sir Hugoʼs ancestor supported the monarchy and was rewarded with the land. He built the estate rather in the Baroque style, which was all the rage back then, you know. A more recent baronet built a modern addition, as did Lord Malcolm, Sir Hugo’s father. I hope he limited his changes to that.”

  Frannie fell asleep to images of dancing in a grand baroque hall, but the face of the baronet, greeting them with a smile, resting his eyes upon her, tarnished the impression. She did not wish to think about Sir Hugo. She focused instead on Sebastian, realizing Sir Hugoʼs ball would be her first opportunity of dancing with him! Why hadnʼt she thought of this earlier? Her heart swelled with relief as dread of the visit vanished. She pictured the scene; her, in her expensive new gown and headdress; him, the ideal of manhood looking exquisite in eveningwear. Sebastian was strong but gentle, handsome but not flirtatious. He would take her hand, lead her to the floor with a smile, his eyes all admiring. Suddenly she shivered. She couldn’t tell if it were from a draft in the room, or from the delicious anticipation of standing up with Sebastian Arundell, of having his entire attention upon her. The memory of when heʼd leaned in and kissed her cheek now floated in her mind. Except that in her mindʼs eye, he did not kiss her cheek. He kissed her lips. Oh, vain thought!

  But she fell asleep smiling.

  When Frannie saw Sebastian at breakfast, she blushed and looked away as if he could read her mind. As if he could know that she’d gone to sleep dreaming about him. She must not allow that. She had no right, no right at all, to think of him. Oh, why, if the Arundells knew this much, did they not also know that she was utterly unsuitable as a bride for Sir Hugo? It made no sense.

  She looked back at Sebastian and found him smiling gently at her, but this merely tumbled her heart further, for while his look seemed affectionate, she must not construe it as such. To her, Sebastian was all a muddle, a kindly elder brother of a sort that she must not think of—but every minute did.

  Mrs. Arundell raised a cup to her lips while watching the others. She saw Sebastian smile gently at Frannie, whose look became one of sweet confusion. His grin broadened as if he knew he sent her heart tumbling, though the mother was certain her son was impervious to his effect upon the softer sex. But Frannie was such a humble, honest girl. It warmed her heart.

  Edward interrupted the moment when, with half-closed eyes, he demanded to know what was taking so long to get coffee. He went on to bemoan how miserable a night heʼd spent. “Your man,” he said accusingly to Sebastian, “snores with the same sepulchr
al tones he speaks with, only twice as loud. The bed was nothing more than hay, if I’m not mistaken, and,” he finished, glaring at his brother from his half-opened eyes, “I was too far from the deuced fire to feel it!”

  “Hold your tongue, cub,” chided Sebastian. “I slept well enough with the same snoring in my ears, and the same poor sort of mattress.”

  “Closer to the fire!” snapped Edward, loath to give up all points.

  Sykes, who had appeared with an urn of coffee and began pouring, said, “My apologies, sir,” in his gloomy voice. Edward raised red eyes to the ceiling. Frannie hid a smile behind a napkin.

  “We shanʼt stay here on the return journey,” said Mrs. Arundell, “though we found our beds comfortable enough, did we not, Frannie?”

  Frannie looked apologetically at Edward. “We did, indeed.”

  In the morning, though Mr. Fanshawe awoke with the headache, his wife was quick on her feet and hurrying the family to breakfast. She wanted an early start.

  At table, she broached the plan which she had spent a good part of the night formulating. At first dejected to have discovered that the man behind the trust had died, it soon occurred to her that all was not lost. “Now, Mr. Fanshawe,” she began. “I gave considerable thought last night to our situation. With your sister gone, God rest her soul, and His Lordship gone—mercies upon ʼim, Iʼm sure—there can be no harm in our bringing it all forth to the light of day.”

  “Bringing it forth? What are you saying?” her husband asked.

  Catherine understood her mother at once and said, “If we are to reveal anything, we must speak to Miss Fanshawe first, Mama!”

  “Pshsaw to Miss Fanshawe!” she replied. “I care nothing for Miss Fanshawe. Your father ‘ere was guardian of the secret concerning her. Indeed, he is yet. There must be something in it for him. This Lord Malcolm must have an heir. A legitimate heir, I warrant.”

  To her father, Catherine said, “Lord Malcolm—was he Miss Fanshawe’s father?”

  He shook his head. “No, m’dear, her father in law. By rights, Margaretʼs girl should be known by that family name.”

  “And what is that name?” asked his wife.

  He gave her a grave look. “I’ll tell you only if you give me your word not to interfere.”

  “Interfere! Interfere in what, I ask you? I only wish to point out to ʼim the great service you done ‘im.”

  “He may not see it that way, my love.” His kind eyes looked sadly at the two women at his table. “I kept my sister’s whereabouts hidden for her sake, not his. From his perspective, indeed, he lost a wife and child with no explanation, no word of parting, no understanding of where he’d gone wrong or anything to explain their disappearance. I daresay he must have suspected his father had a hand in the business, but that would little ease his suffering, I warrant. It must have been hard for him.” He leveled a hard gaze at his wife. “Rather than thank us, he may wish to drag us before the law!”

  There was silence for a long moment. Finally Mrs. Fanshawe said with a strange gleam in her eyes, “We can do him a service now, for which he will wish to thank us. We shall earn his gratitude. For, if Miss Fanshawe knows him not, I presume he knows not her. We can enlighten him!” She turned narrowed eyes upon her husband. “Are you certain they were wed proper? Why would any woman married to a lord not take her rightful place and name?” She turned earnest eyes to her daughter. “She would be a lady, then, a real lady!”

  “But I told you why,” he returned in a reasonable tone. “Lord Malcolm promised to plunge his son into bankruptcy, entail the estate, run up debts, reduce them to genteel poverty.” He paused and sipped his coffee. “Margaret told me sheʼd made enough mistakes; would brook no guilt for ruining her husbandʼs life and inheritance. Said it was best all around to comply with his demands. It was a sacrifice, to be sure.”

  “Poor Miss Fanshawe!” cried Catherine again. “To think she might have been raised as the daughter of a lord—”

  “The granddaughter of one, of a baronet, until three months ago,” he clarified. “Her father has only just assumed the title.”

  “A baronet!” cried his wife. “Surely we must see this man! There is something in it for ye, Mr. Fanshawe! Would he not wish to know his rightful brother in law? ʼTwould be a Christmas gift, moreover, to let him know ʼis daughter is in London, alive and well.”

  He gave her a look of reproof. “We shanʼt intrude upon him just now. It may not be the proper time to give him that information, but I’ll write to him, letting him know that if he wants to know more about his long-lost wife and child, I am ready to supply it.” He paused. “He came to me when she disappeared, you know. I had to do as Meg wished; tell him sheʼd gone to America.” His grey eyes creased with long forgotten sorrow. “ʼTwas an unpleasant business. I should like very much to set it all straight, tell him everything I know.” He nodded. “And most of all, how his own father is to thank for it.”

  His wife frowned at him. “If you hold off, he’ll learn about his child some other way; she will get the fortune; and we shall have naught. Is that what you want?”

  “I like it, Papa,” said Catherine approvingly. “And may I write to Miss Fanshawe? She is longing to know anything regarding her family history.”

  “I daresay there’s a mistress of the manor by now who won’t be eager to take in this waif!” huffed Mrs. Fanshawe.

  “She is the legal child of the present baronet of Bartlett Hall,” said Mr. Fanshawe quietly. “I do not believe there is a new mistress.” To Catherine he said, “Hold off on your letter to Miss Fanshawe. Until I hear from him.”

  “Who is this man, the current baronet of this place?” demanded his wife with a sneer.

  Mr. Fanshawe looked down at his cup. Quietly he said, “His name is Sir Hugo.”

  After congratulating herself for extracting this much from her husband, Mrs. Fanshawe excused herself to make a few inquiries of the innkeeper. She returned shortly, beaming with suppressed excitement. “I should like very much to see Bartlett Hall, Mr. Fanshawe,” she said enthusiastically, “for the innkeeper assures me we are no more than an hour distant by coach! And what do you know? The baronet is hosting a Christmas Open Hall! Is that not providential?”

  “To what do you refer to as providential, Mrs. Fanshawe?” asked her husband, who failed to see the source of her private joy. “That we are in the vicinity of the Hall, or that the baronet is opening it to his tenants? For I little see how his entertainment can concern us.”

  “ʼTis providential on both accounts,” she insisted. “Not only may we take a drive past today to catch a glimpse of the big house, but the Hall shall be opened with music and refreshments for the tenants and townsfolk tomorrow! We can enter along with other common folk; we’ll see the manor and beg an audience with His Lordship!”

  Mr. Fanshawe eyed his wife and then looked at Catherine. “If Cat has no objection, I see no harm in a drive past,” he said, for he was not above curiosity regarding the grand estate that his sister had been coerced into giving up her right to. “But Christmas approaches apace, m’dear. I’m sure you’ve got a pudding and other good things set by. You’ll want to be home, no doubt.”

  In a conciliatory tone she said, “We shall of course enjoy our own Christmas dinner and fireside, sir. But that is two nights away, yet! The open hall is tomorrow. Your holiday shanʼt be ruined, and we may get a Christmas present from the baronet, I’ve no doubt.”

  “You must tell Sir Hugo what you know,” agreed Catherine, who, upon reflection, considered that even if they could not enlighten Miss Fanshawe beforehand, certainly Sir Hugo would wish to know his daughter. “If we indeed attend this open hall, he will make an appearance and you must speak to him, Papa! It cannot be a coincidence that he opens his home tomorrow, just when we are in the vicinity, and when you have such intimate knowledge of his family that any feeling man must be in want of.”

  She glanced at her mama, who was vigorously shaking her head in agreement. “Be
sides which,” Catherine continued, “if you speak with him, it shall all be settled, and Iʼll know what to say to Whitby after church on Christmas Day.” Her words held a shadow of sorrow, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. Mrs. Fanshawe said, “Do not speak to Whitby of the lost fortune, my dear. A disagreeable thing it would be to break such news to him on Christmas!” She turned to her husband and cried, “For Catherineʼs sake, you must procure some good from this, sir!”

  Mr. Fanshaweʼs mild wrinkles creased as his lips firmed in a line, but the most he would commit to procuring was, “If the baronet welcomes our news, perhaps he will see his way to some recompense.”

  “Either way, I must speak to Whitby and inform him,” said Catherine.

  “Of course,” agreed her father.

  But suddenly Mrs. Fanshawe gasped and put a hand to her heart. “My dear sir! It just occurs to me. There is also a ball tomorrow night for the upper gentry only, which will follow the open hall festivities. Let us forgo this open hall of the farmers and land workers; we are not of their class. We must attend the ball! The baronet will needs must greet you then, and you can arrange a private little cose to tell him all.”

  Even Catherine had to smile at this suggestion, for what young woman could despise such Christmas merriment as a ball?

  To press her point, Catherineʼs mama added, “And think of all the eligible young men who may be there for our Cat. If Whitby cries off, this is her best chance to look elsewhere!”