The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  It was a young girl. She looked like she might yet be a schoolroom miss. He had no idea who she was; he had certainly never seen her before.

  “Good God! Are you hurt?” He reached out to help her but the girl cringed, recoiling from his quick movement. He dropped his hand to his side. “I beg your pardon. You startled me, but it seems I startled you more.”

  “Yes. Oh! I’m s-sorry.” As she recovered from her overreaction she seemed appropriately mortified. This time she did not shrink from his hand but took it, letting him pull her to her feet. “How stupid of me.”

  “Not at all,” he said politely.

  “I think—I think you must be Lord Rival?” she said tentatively.

  He bowed. She was blushing furiously and the stairwell was unlit, but he could see that she was a pretty thing, with the blue eyes and whitish hair of a porcelain doll. Not at all to George’s taste, but some men admired the swan maiden type.

  The girl clutched the banister anxiously. “You must think me a complete ninny. I am Miss—I am Lady Badesworth,” she said.

  George’s brows flew upward. So this was Badesworth’s child bride. She really must be a ninny.

  “How do you do? I hope you can forgive me for frightening you. Shall I escort you to one of the withdrawing rooms? Or summon assistance?”

  “Oh, gracious, no. I’m perfectly well,” she assured him. “It was quite my own fault, you know, for following you so closely.”

  It was, of course, but it would be impolite to agree. “I’m sure you had a good reason for doing so. May I ask what it is?”

  Lady Badesworth looked ashamed. “I’m afraid I was planning to—to accost you, my lord. And perhaps beg a favor from you.”

  George was mildly astonished. “Dear me. You know, I think we ought not to converse on the stairs. It strikes me as awkward. And a little unsafe.”

  “Oh, yes! Pray follow me, sir.”

  Lady Badesworth passed him—skirting him a little nervously, he noted with amusement—and led him to the small library that opened off the entry hall. She seemed strangely at home in Olivia’s house. He wondered briefly why Olivia had not mentioned to him that her sister-in-law was visiting her, but dismissed the thought with an inward shrug. No reason why she should, he supposed. After all, it might be awkward for her to introduce him to her near and dear. He was used to that; most women were anxious to keep their families in the dark regarding their friendships with him.

  He observed the furtive glance Lady Badesworth cast around the hall before slipping into the library. The girl plainly did not want to be seen with him, and yet she was “accosting” him. Interesting. Once she had him alone, she pressed her hands together and breathlessly confided that she had overheard a portion of his conversation with Olivia.

  “I hope you will not think me an eavesdropper, Lord Rival, for I was not listening on purpose—but I think you wanted Lady Olivia to drive out with you. In a curricle. And I think she told you she could not. And I realize that you and I have not met before, but I was wondering—”

  She broke off and gulped, evidently realizing the awkwardness of requesting favors from strange men encountered in other people’s stairwells. George suppressed his natural inclination to laugh and managed to keep his expression grave. “I daresay you are in need of transportation?” he prodded helpfully.

  She threw him a grateful look. “Yes, my lord. That is exactly what I need. I suppose it sounds strange to you—”

  “Hardly that. Perhaps it would ease your mind to know that I am quite in the habit of being accosted by females and requested to perform odd services. Little things, you know, that a lady doesn’t like to ask of her husband. I generally am happy to oblige. Where do you wish to go?”

  “Oh, anywhere!” she said impulsively, then blushed and fidgeted. “You see, I have been—I have been a bit unwell, and I have been cooped up indoors here for simply ages, and I just—I would like very much to go out in the sunshine, even for a little while. And besides, Lady Olivia has been excessively kind to me and I would like to buy her a present of some sort. To thank her.”

  It sounded peculiar, to say the least. Why ask a stranger? He could not help wondering about her relationship with the choleric Lord Badesworth, since it seemed that a husband would be the logical companion for this harmless errand. But, of course, Badesworth couldn’t possibly have won the heart of this tender bud. The unfortunate child must have been sold to the highest bidder. She began to arouse his chivalrous instincts as well as his curiosity.

  At any rate, solving the mystery would provide him with a morning’s entertainment. He therefore acceded without a blink to her strange request. She thanked him profusely and ran upstairs with a bright face, promising excitedly to return in a trice. When she rejoined him she had donned a blue pelisse and a hat with a thick veil. The veil amused him, since this evidence of an anxiety to avoid being recognized would unerringly draw all eyes to her, but he said nothing. She was very young.

  The mystery deepened as he tooled Lady Badesworth briskly through Chelsea. It was clear that she had not seen it before. She gawked like a day-tripper, peering eagerly through her veil at every new sight, craning her neck and exclaiming. When not commenting on her surroundings she prattled artlessly about herself, volunteering a wealth of boring information about her school friends, distant relatives, dear little doggies she had known and loved, and her early home life.

  He would have found her uninterrupted stream of chatter profoundly tiresome had her omissions not been so interesting. She said nothing whatsoever about her present life—neither her husband nor her visit to Lady Olivia were mentioned. Her abundant energy also cast doubt upon her tale of recent convalescence. There was something very odd at work here.

  After twenty minutes or so, George casually asked, “Should I take you back now?”

  Her face fell, almost ludicrously. “Oh, no! Why? I mean—that is—I am so sorry! I daresay I am trespassing shamefully upon your time.”

  “Not at all. But I shouldn’t like to make you ill.”

  She appeared astonished. “Ill? Why would it—? Oh.” She bit her lip in confusion. “I did say I had been unwell, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I ought rather to have said I was—injured. But that was weeks ago, and I am completely recovered. Or as near to it as makes no odds.”

  “Injured? I’m sorry to hear it. Nothing broken, I hope?”

  “Only my finger. It’s a bit stiff yet, but much better than it was.” She held up her left hand, demonstrating the movement she had regained. “I tape it up at night.”

  He studied her guileless face, wondering if he imagined the greenish tint of healing bruises behind her veil. “I see.”

  He began to think he did, in fact, see. Injured. He remembered the way she had ducked on the stairs, expecting to be hit. He had observed the way she flinched and shied at sudden movement. He was no stranger to this evidence of an unhappy marriage. His sister Susan had begun developing similar symptoms shortly after her wedding.

  His sister Susan was dead.

  He rarely thought about Susan. Every time he did, a thick fog of unpleasant emotion rose up to cloud his vision. He blinked the miasma away with an effort and forced his mind to return to the present. He would try for another piece of the puzzle.

  “The drive seems to be doing you good. Why has no one brought you out to take the air? I should have thought that Lady Olivia, or perhaps Lord Badesworth, would have done so, now that you are so nearly recovered.”

  She laughed nervously. “Oh, I have been overly cosseted and protected. Most unnecessary! Although everyone means it kindly, so it’s wrong of me to say so. Is that a confectioner’s shop? Would you mind terribly if I ran in and bought something? For Lady Olivia and Miss Fairfax. They have been excessively good to me.”

  “I am entirely at your disposal, Lady Badesworth.”

  Nellie Beauchamp stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing into a squint as she stared a
cross the busy street. That was Lord Rival driving that showy curricle, no doubt about it. But who was the new conquest? Veiled! How theatrical. Nellie’s lip curled in a sneer.

  Anger licked through her. Had George bought that curricle with Hugo’s money? The money he had won from her? She wouldn’t care a jot, had she been the lady at his side. But the thought of George using her money—or even a portion of it—to squire some other female about, definitely stuck in her craw. That had always been a possibility, of course. Even a probability. She wished bitterly that she had thought of it before.

  George was pulling up, tossing a coin to a lad who dashed to hold the horses’ heads. He stepped easily down from the curricle’s high perch and turned to assist his companion. Nellie, half ashamed of herself, turned her back to avoid being seen. She watched closely as the little pantomime played out, reflected in the shop window beside her.

  There was definitely something familiar about that figure in the blue pelisse. Nellie had always had a keen memory for faces. She would recognize the lady in a moment.

  Blond hair peeped from beneath the hat. Was it Chloe Gilliland? No. Too slender, and a little too tall. Then the lady hopped down from the carriage in a way that somehow revealed her youth, and for an instant her veiled features turned directly toward Nellie. Nellie caught her breath, astonished. Lady Badesworth! Lady Badesworth, by all that was wonderful! She’d know her anywhere, veiled or unveiled.

  Nellie spun round to stare. George and her ladyship, oblivious to the fascinated gaze riveted upon them, disappeared into the shop—but not before Nellie was absolutely sure. It was Lady Badesworth.

  A catlike smile slowly curved Nellie’s lips. What tasty fodder for the gossip mill. Bad Lord Badesworth cuckolded by Rake Rival! She could hardly wait to spread the tale.

  It was high time George learned a lesson. Well! Badesworth was the very man to take arrogant Lord Rival down a peg.

  16

  These were the best times. Sitting beside George on the high, narrow bench of his curricle, pale October sunlight warming her and a crisp breeze fanning her face, pressed against him from hip to knee, was Olivia’s idea of paradise. Here, and only here, could she spend time alone with Lord Rival and risk neither her reputation nor her sanity. She could have the happiness of touching him, without worrying that the situation would slip beyond her control. Even when his banter became laced with double entendres, causing her blood to warm and her toes to curl, she need not fear that anything would come of it. There were few pleasures greater, she found, than the enjoyment of what felt like danger—so long as one knew one was safe.

  Lord Rival called for her promptly every morning, and the ritual of their daily drive had quickly become the favorite part of her day. She looked forward to it with keen anticipation, and was ridiculously disappointed when inclement weather interfered with her precious hour alone with George. Thus far, it had only rained once—but the sharp disappointment she felt made her wonder nervously whether her feeling of safety was, itself, illusory. It was such a relief to relax and enjoy George’s company that perhaps she was relaxing a bit too much. True, one need not worry about improper advances while being driven in an open curricle in broad daylight—but it would not do to let her guard down entirely. Matters were bad enough already.

  Lord Rival was making inroads in her heart, however diligently she tried to guard it. In fact, she was terribly afraid that she was falling fast and hard for the last man on earth she wanted to love. It wasn’t just his appearance—although that, in itself, made her weak in the knees. It was his intelligence, and his humor, and the kind heart she glimpsed behind his suave facade.

  As she sat beside him one sparkling morning in the second week of October, she studied his strong profile and fell into a reverie. She wondered if Lord Rival knew what gentlemanly instincts ruled his secret being. She rather fancied he didn’t. He seemed to think of himself as hardhearted and cold. She had seen through this charade almost immediately, of course, and once she had picked up on what she persisted in believing was his true nature, a thousand little clues presented themselves, confirming her views.

  Feeling her eyes upon him, he glanced down at her, quirking one eyebrow in amusement. “You’re very silent this morning.”

  “I am pondering your character, Lord Rival.”

  He looked startled. “Good God. I must find a way to distract you.”

  “Why? I am not thinking anything offensive.”

  “Indeed! What are you thinking?”

  She smiled. “That you underestimate your own goodness.”

  His expression became sardonic. “In that case, my pet, I had better interrupt your train of thought—before you have a chance to weigh all the evidence.”

  She chuckled. “Speaking of pets, George, how is poor Tom?”

  “Fat as a flawn. Fatter every day.”

  “Now, that, sir, is evidence,” she said teasingly. “Overfeeding a pet you claim to despise! You have a soft heart.”

  “A soft head, more like,” remarked George, deftly rounding the corner of her street. “That confounded cat rules me with an iron paw.”

  “Have you trained him not to bother you while you sleep?”

  “On the contrary! He has trained me. I now sleep soundly, but every morning I awake to find him at the foot of my bed—so I cannot flatter myself that my efforts to rebuff him have met with success. It is Tom whose will has prevailed.”

  She was still laughing at his lively descriptions of Tom’s tyranny as George pulled to a halt before her house. “Oh! Are we back so soon?” she said wistfully. She always felt a pang at ending their brief time together.

  His dark eyes glinted down at her. “Come now, Lady Olivia. You are a busy woman, remember. You haven’t time to waste dallying with the likes of me.”

  “Very true.” A tiny smile played across her features. “But I can’t help wishing I did.”

  His eyes seemed to darken further, turning her a bit dizzy. She felt his arm slide daringly round her waist. “When can I get you alone?” he murmured.

  “Why—tomorrow morning, of course.” To her annoyance, her voice was pitched higher than usual.

  He shook his head. “Not in a curricle. Not in public, my sweet. Alone.”

  She knew she ought to tell him flatly that he couldn’t, but somehow what came out was a weak and whispered, “I—I don’t know.”

  “Let me take you to the theater.”

  “Oh, no—you’re joking. Alone? Vauxhall was bad enough. The theater would cause a scandal.”

  His eyes bored into hers. “Dinner, then. Somewhere private. We can’t start a scandal if no one sees us.”

  “I daresay you know just the place.” She managed a queer little laugh. The thought of him with other women always acted upon her like a dash of cold water, momentarily stiffening her spine. “No,” she said, more firmly. “You know my answer must be no.”

  Her footman opened the door and darted down the steps to help her alight from the curricle. She turned to him with relief, glad for anything that would break Lord Rival’s spell. After she clambered down, however, she turned to shake George’s hand. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  He took her hand, and held it tightly for a moment. His eyes locked with hers. “We shall revisit this discussion, my lady. You may rely on that.”

  Her heart beat faster, whether with fear or excitement she could not say. “Tomorrow,” she repeated faintly.

  He smiled, touched his hat to her, and drove off. She stood for a few seconds as if in a daze, watching his tall, elegant form recede. She felt a pang of heartache every time he left her, even for a day. It was tearing her apart, telling him no, over and over—when she longed more and more to say yes.

  She had barely entered the house when her housekeeper, Mrs. Pratt, pounced on her. “My lady, a word with you,” she begged, jerking her head in a sharp gesture toward the library.

  “Good heavens, what is amiss? You nearly frightened the wits out of me.” But Olivia
’s teasing smile faded as she perceived the housekeeper’s genuine agitation. She walked quickly past the door Mrs. Pratt was holding open for her. “What is it?” she asked, in quite a different voice.

  Mrs. Pratt closed the door quietly behind her and stepped forward, folding her hands at her waist. “It’s Lord Badesworth, madam. He’s here.”

  Olivia’s hand instinctively crept to her throat. “Here? In Chelsea?”

  “Upstairs, my lady. He’s waiting for you in your morning room. I thought you would want to know before you went up.”

  Olivia felt herself turning pale. “Where is Edith?”

  “She’s above, madam, safe in her chamber. With the door securely locked, have no doubt. Miss Fairfax is with her. It’s they who wished me to intercept you on your way in.”

  With a soft exclamation, Olivia began pacing the room, thinking furiously. She was conscious of an absurd impulse to run and call Lord Rival back again, although she couldn’t think of a blessed thing he could do. It was utterly irrational to feel that having him at her side would somehow lend her strength. “How long has Ralph been here?”

  “Twenty minutes or thereabouts. We told him you were not at home, my lady, but at first he did not believe us. He actually forced his way in—threw my Joe aside as if he weighed nothing at all.”

  The aggrieved note in the housekeeper’s voice did not escape Olivia. “I am sorry I was not here to deal with him myself, Mrs. Pratt,” she said quickly. “I hope Joe was not hurt?”

  “No, my lady,” said Mrs. Pratt, mollified. “And as for hanging about here on the off chance that Lord Badesworth might drop by, I’m sure there’s no reason why you should. We all know our duty. We had to let his lordship in, and he insisted on waiting for you, but he’s none the wiser for all that. The poor mite is hidden away, and we trust she’ll stay so.”

  “Thank you, you are very good,” said Olivia automatically. She pressed one hand to her forehead. “Did he seem . . . angry? Yes, I suppose he was, or he would not have manhandled poor Joe. I wonder how on earth he learned that Edith is here?”