by Diane Farr
He toyed with the idea of tracking her down at the school, then reluctantly decided against it. However tempting the notion was, nothing good could come of seeing Ivy again. His intentions were strictly dishonorable, he reminded himself bleakly. They had to be. So, as a mark of respect to a woman he genuinely liked, he determined to stay away from her.
It cost him a pang of real regret. And the regret continued to pop into his mind at odd intervals. It was made worse by knowing exactly where he could find her. Over the next day or two, he had to exercise a disconcerting amount of self-control to keep his footsteps from straying in the direction of the Fairfax School. He was fighting an absurd urge to take a hackney to Chelsea and hang about in the hope that she would step out the door.
And then what, moonling? he asked himself, disgusted. Will you seduce and abandon her? Aye, there’s a gentlemanly hobby to while away the autumn months! Or, now that Beebe’s gone, will you use poor Ivy to secure an introduction to the elusive Lady Olivia? What a nightmare that would be! He pictured himself paying court to an ugly woman for the first time in his life, with Ivy, of all women, watching from the sidelines. It fairly made his hair stand on end.
He had decided that he would, despite Ivy’s description, meet Lady Olivia before striking her name from his list. After all, she was the only woman on it whom he had not already met, and he had spent a considerable amount of time and effort pursuing her. He hated to give up the chase without so much as seeing her. Any man could tell that Ivy had a bit of mischief in her; perhaps she had been pulling his leg for some reason. He had been attempting to tease the truth out of her when—
But he wouldn’t think of that. Remembering that kiss undermined his determination to keep his distance from her.
He was still considering and discarding various unsatisfactory plans to encounter Lady Olivia Fairfax when a miracle occurred. He received an invitation to the reading of Aloysius Beebe’s will.
What luck. Lady Olivia would surely be present. He would meet her at last, with no contrivance on his part whatsoever. But that was not the thought that held him for a full minute, staring at the sheet of pressed paper upon which two brief, polite sentences were printed. The letter from Beebe’s solicitor could mean only one thing: George was a beneficiary. He was named in Beebe’s will.
This was one of the long-shot hopes George had indulged when befriending Beebe—a wealthy old man with no family and no known intimates. But he had never seriously believed that this horse would come first past the post! And Beebe had never mentioned writing George into his will.
He struggled to quell the wild hope surging through him. After all, Ivy had said that the bulk of Beebe’s fortune was left to charity. The presence of a group of women from the Fairfax School, tidying and inventorying Beebe’s house, confirmed that. But who knew how vast Beebe’s fortune might prove to be? George must have been left something. Perhaps the sum was substantial. It was impossible not to dream, however briefly, of restoring Rye Vale . . . without the need to marry an heiress.
It was a sweet dream. What surprised him was that Ivy appeared in it. If he need not marry money, why, anything was possible. He could marry for love.
The thought brought him back to earth with an almost audible thump, and he chuckled at his own foolishness. How absurd, to think for even a moment of courting a penniless schoolteacher. Besides, he knew nothing about her. Of course, the fact that he knew nothing about her was probably the reason why she had retained such a powerful grip on his imagination. Women were always more interesting before one got to know them, he thought cynically.
On the day named in the solicitor’s letter, George dressed with more than his usual care. Mourning attire would be too much, but it was important to strike just the right note of sobriety. He wished to look his best, naturally, when meeting Lady Olivia Fairfax. But there was a certain impression he wished to convey, and it took him some time to feel satisfied that he had accomplished it. At last he stood before the glass in his bedroom, a wicked smile playing across his features. He had done it.
He was dressed very correctly, even handsomely, in a charcoal-colored morning coat and spotless white linen. His waistcoat was a lighter gray, with just a hint of a stripe to offset the impression of mourning. A man with a valet could not have done better. “Why, George, you old trickster,” he murmured to his reflection. “You look pious, respectable and rich—three things you most assuredly are not.”
He carefully added a modest pearl stickpin to his ensemble. The pearl was imitation, of course, but only a jeweler would know that. Just right, he thought, with another grim smile. Nothing flashy, none of the extremes of fashion, but a general impression of good taste and wealth.
The solicitor’s office proved to be a large, slightly shabby, apartment predictably stuffed with books. A massive desk took up most of the space at one side of the room, but straight-backed chairs had been arranged around the walls and in rows opposite the desk. The curtains were drawn back from the windows to let in light, and a small fire crackled in the grate. The solicitor was nowhere in sight, but George was not the first to arrive. Grimsby sat at the back of the room, holding a rusty black hat in his lap and looking ill at ease. Three dour-looking women in black bombazine perched on chairs against the wall, like crows hunched atop a fence. At the sight of them, George had a sinking feeling. These women had “charity worker” stamped all over them. Which of these harridans was Lady Olivia? He suppressed a shudder and pasted a pleasant expression on his face.
Standing by the desk with her back to him was a tall, slender female in an expensive redingote and a very modish hat. She was talking to a thin, elderly man who looked like some sort of banker, and a short, fierce-browed woman who reminded George irresistibly of his old nurse.
His swift assessment ruled out the nursey woman—thank God—and at least one of the three crows as too old to be the lady he sought. The other two women had the ageless severity of females who spend their lives in thankless toil. They might be any age between twenty-five and forty, he supposed. One of them, then, was almost certainly Lady Olivia Fairfax.
He turned his eyes away from the group by the desk and surreptitiously studied his two possibilities, looking for any resemblance to Lord Badesworth. One of them was hugely fat—something Ivy had not mentioned—but the other had a complexion pitted by the ravages of smallpox, and she hadn’t mentioned that, either. Both women were plain to the point of ugliness, but neither suffered from warts, he noted indignantly, nor big noses, nor baldness, as far as he could tell. Just as he had thought! Ivy had been pulling his leg. If he ever saw that minx again, why, he’d—
A low chuckle sounded from the other side of the room. George’s head snapped round to stare once more at the group by the desk. The tall woman was laughing at something being said by the short woman. Her hat still obscured most of her face, but there was something about her profile, something about her laugh—
And then she swung gracefully round to face him. George suffered a severe shock. “Ivy!” he gasped, his mind reeling.
Ivy’s finely drawn brows arched upward. “Sir?” she said frostily. “You are in error. We have not met.”
He stared. Where was the mischievous saucebox who had spiced his daydreams for the past week? This woman bore Ivy’s face and form, but she was the picture of genteel hauteur, looking down her nose at him as if he were just anyone, an insolent male offering an affront to a lady of quality.
For one paralyzed instant his thoughts raced with crazy possibilities. Among the most likely was that he was dreaming. Or mad. Twins separated at birth occurred to him. He also wondered for half a heartbeat if Ivy was, after all, Beebe’s long-lost granddaughter. Anything, everything, was possible—but, please God, not that she was—
“Lady Olivia Fairfax,” she said, extending her hand with a nice mixture of reserve and graciousness. To everyone else in the room it must appear that she was relenting, in Christian charity, and providing a stranger with her name to ke
ep matters on a friendly footing. “Since there is no one here at the moment to perform introductions, I suppose we must take it upon ourselves.”
He stared numbly into those impossible eyes of hers and shook her gloved hand. “Lord Rival,” he croaked, bowing perfunctorily. He knew he ought to say something more, but could not, for the life of him, manage another word.
“Bessie, may I present Lord Rival to you? Lord Rival, this is my cousin, Miss Fairfax.”
White-lipped, he turned to bow to the short, dark-haired woman. Her expression reminded him once again of his childhood nurse. She was glaring at him, her brows beetling with suspicion. “How do you do?” she said gruffly.
Bessie. So this was Bessie. Good God, what a sapskull he had been. His investigations had told him that Lady Olivia lived with her cousin Elizabeth, but he had never made the connection when he heard Ivy calling to “Bessie.”
But then, why should he? Ivy? Why the deuce had Miss Fairfax shouted for Ivy? Why not Ollie, or Livvy, or—dazed, he realized that Lady Olivia was introducing him to the three crows. He bowed and smiled, but caught none of their names. His brain was awhirl with painful conjecture.
His morning did not improve. The more time he was allowed to think, the more tortured his thoughts became. Beebe’s solicitor arrived and the reading began. George found it impossible to concentrate as the solicitor’s voice droned on, reading paragraph after paragraph of legal gibberish. His mind was fully occupied by his own inward writhing. Wave after wave of chagrin and horror washed through him as he realized the implications of this morning’s revelation.
He should have trusted his intuition. Damn it all! Why had he not? His instincts, finely tuned through years of living by his wits, seldom led him astray. He had guessed at the outset that Ivy was Lady Olivia Fairfax. Unlikely as it seemed, he had suspected it, and he had been right. If only she hadn’t answered to that common-sounding name—a servant’s name, by the rood!—a name which bore no conceivable relationship to her Christian name!
Well, there was no use belaboring the point. She had answered to it, whatever the reason, and his goose was well and thoroughly cooked.
He mentally reviewed the morning he had spent with “Ivy,” and felt himself turning pale. He had told her with his own lips that he was hunting Lady Olivia for her fortune. What the devil had made him confide such a thing? To anyone, let alone a wench he had barely met! It was completely unlike him to blurt out his business so carelessly. He had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning aloud as he marveled at his own colossal stupidity.
When he thought of the sheer waste of time—precious weeks spent in carefully courting Aloysius Beebe, of all people—playing cribbage, a game he loathed, while fawning and smiling and angling for an introduction to Lady Olivia—faugh! It was sickening! To have come this close to success and then lose all, with no one to blame but himself—incredible! He deserved to lose. For once in his life, he had played his hand with spectacular clumsiness. And wouldn’t you know it, he thought bitterly, that the one time I make a misstep, everything would be riding on the outcome.
He glanced across the room to where she sat, providing him an excellent view of her elegant profile. She was pretending to listen to the solicitor’s reading, but George was not deceived by her air of feigned interest. She was every bit as aware of him as he was of her. Damn, damn, damn. He had finally met an heiress who was interesting and attractive, and had promptly annihilated whatever chance he might have had to win her.
He forced himself to appear calm, to show not a glimmer of his fury and humiliation. He knew he must bid farewell to his pursuit of Lady Olivia—and to his secret dreams of Ivy—but something good might yet come of this disaster. Had he not been hunting this particular prey, he never would have befriended Beebe. And, he reminded himself, befriending Beebe had put him in the will.
By the time George bent his attention to the actual words of the will, the bulk of the provisions had been read. The long list of bequests to the Fairfax School, with the elaborate and precise numeration of various articles, funds, and holdings, was nearly at an end. Next was a small pension for Grimsby, with instructions for how it was to be paid—quarterly—and from what fund. And then, at last, George heard his own name.
“To George Carstairs, Baron Rival.” The solicitor coughed and looked up, meeting George’s eyes with an apprehensive, almost apologetic expression before continuing. “My beloved pet, Tom, a black-and-white feline, together with his effects, to wit: one pillow cushion, red; one covered basket with handles, yellow straw; porcelain bowl with painted flowers . . .”
A cat. That was the reason he had been summoned here to endure this mortification: He had inherited a bloody cat. He hated cats.
George was sure, now, that he had strayed into the realm of nightmare. He did not need the will’s final paragraphs to confirm it, but confirm it they did. Incredibly, his morning deteriorated still further.
The solicitor cast a nervous glance first at Lord Rival and then at Lady Olivia, settled his spectacles more firmly on his nose, took a deep breath, and hurriedly read through a set of provisions so fantastical, so outrageous, it was difficult to believe they were still listening to Mr. Beebe’s prosaic will. George had been left an annuity after all—a generous, almost staggering annuity of eight hundred pounds per annum—but there were strings attached. He would receive these funds at the sole discretion of Lady Olivia Fairfax, contingent upon his satisfactorily performing, in whatever capacity she deemed appropriate, some function or functions useful or necessary to the Helen Fairfax School for Girls.
George discovered that, at some point during the reading of these fearsome paragraphs, he had risen to his feet. By the end of them he was certainly standing, and so was Lady Olivia. She was clutching the back of the chair ahead of her and leaning forward in a sort of frenzy of disbelief.
“This cannot be!” she exclaimed. “It is—it must be!—some sort of joke.”
The solicitor clutched the papers more firmly, as if afraid she would tear them from his hands. She did, in fact, look as if she were about to do just that. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said hastily, “but Mr. Beebe was quite adamant upon this point. Quite taken with the idea, in fact. I could not dissuade him, or convince him that you ought to be consulted before he placed you in such a comprom—that is, before he forced you into close association with a—” he rolled his eyes nervously in the direction of Lord Rival. The expression on George’s face must have been terrifying to behold, for the solicitor blanched and removed his spectacles. “Regrettable, most regrettable! But perfectly legal, I’m afraid. I daresay the bequest seems a bit whimsical—”
George uttered a crack of mirthless laughter. The solicitor flinched, but went bravely on. “—so perhaps I should explain that Mr. Beebe was in the habit of frequently altering his will. One might almost say he altered it regularly. And always to reflect some fanciful notion that he later would revise or discard. Bless my soul! I never dreamed that this particular document would prove to be final. Had I any inkling that so little time remained to my client, I might have tried more vigorously to—well! That is all water under the bridge.”
“Let me be sure I understand you,” said George pleasantly. “My friend Beebe has left me a tidy little income, but my actual receipt of it is wholly dependent upon the whim of Lady Olivia Fairfax. Absent her goodwill, I shall receive none of it.”
The pleasant tone apparently did not deceive the solicitor. He looked frightened, and began furiously polishing his spectacles with his handkerchief to avoid meeting George’s eyes. “Well, yes, I suppose one could put it that way. Lady Olivia is, naturally, a reasonable person, and so long as everyone acts in good faith I do not foresee any difficulty about—of course, should some dispute arise regarding the bequest, I would be happy to—”
“May I decline it?”
The solicitor looked startled. “Decline it? Gracious. I—I don’t know quite what would happen if—” He returned his spectacle
s to his nose and began hurriedly shuffling through his papers. “Let me see. I don’t believe that contingency was provided for, per se. One tries to anticipate—one attempts to cover every possible—hum! It did not occur to us, actually, that you might not wish to receive—”
“Let me put it this way. What will happen to my annuity if Lady Olivia, in her infinite wisdom, decrees that I have not proved sufficiently useful to the Fairfax School?”
“The monies would stay in the fund if they were not disbursed to you. So the Fairfax School would have the use of them, I suppose.”
George could no longer keep the angry edge from his voice. “In that case, clearly the most useful thing I can do for the school is repudiate the bequest and decline the annuity. And I do so. Here and now.”
He was suddenly aware that they had an audience. The three crowlike women from the school were hanging on his every word with breathless avidity, and even Grimsby—scowling with resentment that George’s phantom annuity was larger than the pension Beebe had left him—was leaning forward with one hand cupped to his ear. This unexpected bit of drama had added a bit of excitement to the otherwise dull morning.
George’s mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. It was always good to have an audience when making a grand gesture. And that was all he was doing—making a grand, but meaningless, gesture. So long as a woman he had insulted held the reins, he would never see a penny of Beebe’s money. He might as well pretend he didn’t want it and keep what remained of his dignity.
The solicitor looked perplexed. “Well, milord, I am not entirely sure you can do this. Really, it is most irregular.”
George attempted an austere expression. “If Aloysius intended to leave his money to charity, let him do so. I’m sure the Fairfax School is a worthier cause than I.” He drew himself upright and folded his arms nobly across his chest.
A clear alto voice broke into this theatrical moment. “Very affecting,” said Lady Olivia, in a no-nonsense tone that demonstrated how little she had been affected. “But you are being a trifle hasty, Lord Rival, are you not? We must not let our emotions get the better of our judgment.”
