The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  She looked askance at him. “Mind you, I don’t want it too spicy,” she said anxiously. “It’s just that—well, it’s as if I were trying to live on oat porridge. I’ve really nothing to complain about. But even the best porridge grows tiresome if one must eat it every day.”

  “I understand you perfectly,” he assured her. “Only a baby can live on pap. You are a woman. You crave something different—something savory. Something you can really sink your teeth into.”

  “Oh, dear.” She pulled a face. “I think we have chosen a poor analogy.”

  “Not at all.” He chuckled. “Your predilection for my company, which had puzzled me very much, now strikes me as completely logical.”

  “It is your behavior that is inexplicable,” she informed him, her eyes suddenly dancing with mischief. “For a rake and a libertine, you certainly spend a vast amount of time moralizing. Pray tell me, Lord Rival, why you lured me into this coach if you did not intend to press your advantage? I put myself wholly at your mercy—but instead of seizing your opportunity, you have wasted valuable time preaching to me about what a ruthless villain you are and why I ought to have nothing to do with you. Your conduct has been more like a vicar’s than a rake’s.”

  “Why, you little minx!” George exclaimed wrathfully, seizing her in his arms. “I thought I was doing you a favor! If you only knew what it cost me to keep my hands off you—”

  But she was laughing at him, pushing her hands against his chest to hold him off. “We have arrived,” she told him, by way of explanation.

  He had not been aware of the coach slowing. He cursed under his breath now, feeling the wheels stop. The woman had used her knowledge of the school’s location to provoke him into action at the very moment when she knew she would be safe! He shot her a look that threatened revenge as the door opened, and she actually stuck out her tongue like a child, her eyes brimming with laughter. He could not suppress a grin.

  All in all, he reflected, impassively handing the jarvey almost a fortnight’s winnings from his slender purse, the trip had not been wasted. It was worth a great deal to learn that Lady Olivia was ready and willing to play with fire. Lighting the actual blaze could wait for a bit.

  8

  As the hackney drove off, George glanced upward at the forbidding exterior of the Helen Fairfax School for Girls. It was a massive and dreary structure of brick and stone, and it loomed hideously over the narrow street. It looked exactly what it was: a place where the desperate might find refuge. One would have to be desperate indeed, he thought with an inward shudder, to seek asylum in such a place.

  His initial impression of overwhelming bleakness was belied, however, by the school’s interior. The furnishings in the wide entrance hall were sturdy rather than pretty, but the place was well-lit, warm, and clean. The scarred wooden wainscoting had been polished until it gleamed, and the rag carpets placed with neat precision against the glossy floor were spotless, if a trifle threadbare. There was a homelike quality to the place. Once again, Lady Olivia had surprised him.

  Within moments of their walking through the door his companion was surrounded by a flurry of people who seemed to appear out of nowhere, greeting her with relief and eagerness, clamoring for her advice on this problem or that, for a decision on one thing or another, or for news regarding the progress of outstanding projects. He hung back and watched, feeling decidedly like a fish out of water. She seemed to hear everyone’s concerns with equal attention and courtesy, turning from one to another and making sense of the babble with perfect ease.

  “Lady Olivia, that dratted goat got into the garden again and ruined the turnips. Two or three of the girls are determined to make a pet of him. What shall we do?”

  “My lady, we have received no word from the Brixton Road workhouse.”

  “Lady Olivia, the attic roof is leaking.”

  “Lady Olivia, I beg your pardon, but—”

  “Lady Olivia, forgive the intrusion, but—”

  When her ladyship spoke, the other voices instantly hushed. “The children cannot make a pet of someone else’s goat,” she said calmly. “Maria, pray speak to Farmer Tipton. If he will not agree to confine his livestock, I shall ask Culpepper to intervene. Miss Stivers must write a third time to the Brixton Road workhouse, and this time we shall send Peter with our message rather than entrust it to the post. Is the attic leaking in the same place it leaked before?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will personally speak to Mr. Jessop. Lord Rival, may I introduce a few of my staff? Ladies, this is Lord Rival. He will be assisting us in future.”

  She turned to include him in the group and segued smoothly into the round of introductions, precluding any inquiry as to the exact nature of Lord Rival’s assistance. He shot her an amused glance before bowing and smiling at the various females curtsying to him. A few looked awestruck as they beheld his elegant person. A few looked puzzled. One, at least, appeared both troubled and skeptical. He favored her with his coldest smile and a raised eyebrow. She blushed and dropped her eyes, appropriately cowed. He hoped.

  And then Lady Olivia took him on a brisk tour of the facility. He found this glimpse of her life, and the school itself, much more interesting than he had expected—if a bit unsettling. It was odd to be shown a world so different from the one he inhabited, and to know that Lady Olivia moved easily from one sphere to the other. One could not help seeing her in a new light.

  In every wing that they entered, she was hailed with what seemed to be universal admiration and affection. He was impressed despite himself, both with the well-run efficiency of the school and with the obvious esteem in which Lady Olivia was held. Had he been a lesser man, he reflected grimly, he might have found it daunting. The woman obviously led a life filled with joy and high purpose. It would not be easy to wean her from it.

  The only men they encountered on the premises were a pair of laborers in gaiters and an elderly parson, whose function at the school had to do with religious instruction—and, Lady Olivia admitted, providing something of an object lesson.

  She explained this to him as they were traversing an area where buzzing voices echoed eerily behind closed doors, attesting to classrooms full of pupils. “Many of our girls never encounter a respectable man until they come to us,” she said, her voice lowered to avoid interrupting the classes. “They associate the male sex with drunkenness, brutality, and abandonment. Dr. Barker’s shining example of simple human kindness is helpful in incalculable ways.”

  “Is it?” asked George cynically. “Take care, Olivia! If you teach young girls to trust men, you may be doing them a disservice.”

  She shook her head in swift denial, so intent on what was clearly a favorite subject that she did not even notice his use of her Christian name. “On the contrary,” she assured him earnestly. “If a girl encounters only brutal men, she grows up expecting men to be brutes. It is this expectation that deceives her into accepting a life that is much more wretched than it need be.” She selected a key from the ring at her belt and wiggled it in the lock of a large door at the end of the passage. “Dr. Barker lets the girls see how agreeable it is to meet with courtesy and respect rather than insults and blows. It’s important to teach them that there are other sorts of men. Decent men.” Busy with the lock, she glanced worriedly up at George. “I have not decided whether acquaintance with you would further this goal or not.”

  He choked, earning one of her quick smiles. “I beg your pardon, that sounded very bad! I only meant that—well, the children are insulated here from nearly all contact with the outside world. This heightens the importance and influence of the few men they do meet. You’re a bit . . . dazzling. It won’t do, you know, to give my girls a taste for elegance.”

  “Merci du compliment,” said George. “Perhaps the gardener can loan me a leather apron to dim the brilliance of my beauty.” He reached over and placed his hand upon the key that was giving her so much trouble. “Allow me,” he said politely.

&
nbsp; Since her hand was on the key, and the key was attached to a ring, and the ring was on a chain hooked to her belt, she could not retreat. His arm pressed intimately against her waist and his hand covered hers. He caught her fragrance again, like the golden warmth of summer teasing his senses.

  Her fingers stilled beneath his. Amazingly, she did not pull her hand away. It occurred to him that she had never yet refused his touch. The thought sent a rush of heat through him. They were alone in the passage. He wondered what she would do if he buried his lips in her hair, or kissed the nape of her neck—it was so close to his mouth, all he need do was lean forward the slightest bit—

  Instead, he tightened his fingers on hers and turned the key in the lock. He felt the tumblers turn and heard the snick of success.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice sounded a little breathless.

  He willed her to look up, silently daring her to meet his eyes. Look at me. He still grasped the key, and her hand upon it. Neither of them moved for a moment. She stared, seemingly transfixed, at their joined hands—but she did not look up.

  His mouth was only an inch or two from her ear. “You’re welcome,” he whispered. A tiny strand of her hair trembled and danced in the current of his breath. She shivered then, and stepped away, her eyes downcast and her cheeks tinged with color.

  Before he could move to pull the heavy door open for her, she had done so, and moved aside to let him pass. The prosaic odor of cabbage cooking assaulted their nostrils, breaking the spell he had tried to cast. Resigned, he followed her into a high-ceilinged room where rows of clean-scrubbed tables awaited the serving of a meal.

  He looked around the room in surprise. “You feed the children as well as educate them?” he asked.

  Her brows flew up. “They live here. You did not know? The school is really an orphanage, but since we try to emphasize the education we provide—and since there are so many unpleasant connotations to the word orphanage—we thought it best to call it a school.”

  The vastness of Lady Olivia’s undertaking struck him anew. He stared down at her in amazement, guessing for the first time how much her efforts must mean, and to how many people. “Good God, ma’am, it is a monstrous task. No wonder poor Beebe thought you needed assistance! How many children do you house, feed, and educate?”

  “We have beds for ninety-seven girls between eight and sixteen years of age. I only wish we could do more. The need is terrible, and we rarely have vacancies.”

  “And where do the girls come from?”

  “London, for the most part, but parishes throughout the south of England send us children. We have several workhouses on the lookout, you see, for suitable candidates.”

  “Fascinating.” He studied her face, ruefully remembering how long it had taken him to notice she was beautiful. Men of his stripe were not used, he thought, to seeing beauty in a strong and self-sufficient female. He saw it now, God help him. She seemed to grow more beautiful every moment.

  “What makes a child a suitable candidate?” he felt impelled to ask. “The direst need, I suppose.”

  Sadness crossed her features. “No.” She sighed. “There are so many whose need is urgent! And we can save only a few. We ask the workhouses to recommend the children they judge to be most . . . salvageable. It is a dreadful thing to say, but there are girls who are beyond our help before their eighth birthdays.”

  He frowned. “So soon? How can that be?”

  “Well, we cannot take anyone with a contagious disease, of course, which eliminates a woefully large number from consideration. And often a child’s character is warped by poverty. Poverty always entails a certain degree of starvation, and exposure to crime and filth. Some of them are like wild animals. Some lose their minds. And some become hardened felons at a very early age.”

  She changed to a more cheerful subject then, as if afraid that a truly serious discussion would put him off. He was not sure whether to feel amused or annoyed by this, since it seemed to indicate how shallow she thought him, but he made no comment as she led him through the room and explained how the meals were organized. Everything was prepared under the supervision of the staff, with the girls helping on a rotating basis so that each learned some basic cookery as part of her curriculum. “And those who excel, of course, are encouraged to learn more.”

  “By Jove,” George remarked, lifting one eyebrow. “I see that I missed a crucial area of intellectual development by receiving my education at home. I was never taught to cook.”

  Olivia wrinkled her nose appreciatively. “I daresay your education had a slightly different emphasis! I don’t know why Culpepper seemed to think we might utilize your skills, whatever they are; the notion is absurd.”

  “I’m a dab hand at Latin and Greek,” he offered.

  She laughed. “There is no more point in teaching these children Latin and Greek than there is in teaching them dancing and cards! Cookery, on the other hand, may prove useful to anyone. We are always on the lookout for natural aptitude, which we then try to foster. We teach all the girls basic housekeeping skills—I hope you have noticed the spotless condition of the school? Good!—in addition to reading, writing, and simple arithmetic. We then expose them to weaving, sewing, laundering, bread making—”

  He flung up a hand. “Enough! It sounds exhausting. And do you oversee the entire operation?”

  She smiled. “I would say, rather, that I provide the funds and the vision. I have a wonderful and tireless staff who do most of the actual work.”

  “Speaking of doing the work, my esteemed colleague, isn’t it time you showed me exactly what you have in store for me? I am trying to keep an open mind, but I must tell you—regretfully, of course!—that I draw the line at scaling fish and chopping onions.”

  She treated him once more to her delightful chuckle. “What a pity! But I do have something in mind that I hope will suit you, as I’m sure you have guessed. Let us go somewhere where we can discuss the matter privately.”

  His ears pricked up at this. Secluding himself with Lady Olivia was just what he was angling for. Of course, he supposed it was too much to hope that she would take him to a garden or a library, or anywhere where they might actually be comfortable. He was right. She led him to the school’s office.

  The office was a large, gloomy bookroom lined with shelf after shelf of ledgers on three walls, and textbooks and primers on the fourth. The floor was scarred from the furniture being repeatedly dragged about. The room held two desks, several tables of varying size, a Franklin stove, and a smattering of mismatched chairs. It also contained the fat woman he had seen in black bombazine at the solicitor’s office, today wearing a cheerier hue and a look of welcome. Lady Olivia removed the keys from her waistband as she moved forward to greet the woman. It seemed the keys actually belonged to the plump chatelaine. He still did not catch her name, but it hardly mattered. Lady Olivia bestowed a reassuring smile on her and said calmly, “I think you may go, Jane. Pray leave the door open behind you.”

  “As you wish, my lady.” The woman bobbed a placid curtsy and left them, neither her face nor her manner expressing disapproval or suspicion.

  George was amused by her unhesitating departure. “Well! What a lackadaisical attitude,” he commented, as if aggrieved. “The woman must not know who I am.”

  Olivia’s eyes twinkled. “Her attitude derives, my lord, from knowing well who I am.”

  “Ah. How lowering. That reminds me, by the way—I wish you would stop calling me ‘my lord.’ It unnerves me.”

  “What am I to call you, pray?”

  He flashed his most disarming smile. “You may call me George. We are friends, are we not?”

  “Are we?” She remained at a distance and considered him gravely. “I thought we were still weighing the question of whether or not we are enemies.”

  He gave an easy shrug of his shoulders. “We are partners, Olivia, not enemies.” Her swift frown told him that she had noticed the use of her Christian name this time, so
he smoothly continued before she could object. “You are eager for adventure; I am equally eager to receive Beebe’s annuity. Surely we will be able to reach some arrangement whereby we both receive what we want. What is it that you have in mind for me?”

  She sank stiffly onto a high-backed wooden chair and indicated the wing chair roughly opposite to it. “Pray be seated,” she said, in the manner of one girding herself for battle. “We have a few things to clarify first, I think. You have expressed, more than once, a lack of interest in receiving the annuity.”

  “Oh, never that.” He seated himself in the chair she had indicated, casually crossing one leg over the other. “I am extremely interested in receiving the annuity. It’s finding myself subordinate to you that I find objectionable.”

  She frowned, but it seemed an expression of puzzlement rather than anger. “Yes, I have gathered that. But why? It seems inconsistent. I have been agreeably surprised this morning by your attitude toward the school.”

  “What attitude? It is an impressive undertaking. I commend you on your obvious achievements. On your heroism. On anything you like. That does not mean that I envision a place for myself upon your staff.”

  “You don’t understand.” A smile glimmered at the corners of her mouth. “It is an interesting mark of your character, sir, that you do not even realize how unusual your attitude is. Most Englishmen disapprove of education for women.”