The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  Olivia felt as if she had been caught in a whirlwind, but her feverish happiness saw her through it. The happiness remained as she returned to Chelsea, buoyed by George’s whispers of heartfelt gratitude and tender promises of future bliss, and drugged by his kisses. He would follow her tomorrow. Today, she rode in solitary state back to her home, dreaming, as the carriage rocked and swayed, of all the wonders in store for her.

  She had almost convinced herself that she might win George’s love one day. Stranger things had happened. And even if he never loved her the way she loved him, she could bear it. They would be partners and companions, come what may. That would be enough to make her happy, she told herself. And by the time she reached Chelsea, she almost believed it.

  The mud-splattered coach pulled up before her town house as the autumn afternoon was drawing to a close. She climbed out, humming to herself, and was directing the driver regarding the disposition of her meager baggage when the door of her house flew open. Bessie and Edith rushed out to greet her as if she had been away for a year, and Mrs. Pratt waited, smiling, in the lamplit doorway. Olivia hugged her enthusiastic relatives fiercely. Her emotions seemed oddly close to the surface; a lump formed in her throat as she hugged Bessie.

  She laughed and hugged her again. “Heavens! Don’t mind me, pray; I don’t know why I should choke up at the mere sight of home. I had a marvelous time.”

  “It’s good to have you back, Ivy dear.” Bessie looked her over critically. “Your pelisse is crushed.”

  “Yes. Dreadful, isn’t it? I have worn it for three days in a row; I look like the ragpicker’s child. Edith, pray do not pull on that sleeve—I very much fear it will come off! Have you spoken to Culpepper yet?”

  An odd little silence fell. Bessie and Edith exchanged glances. Mrs. Pratt said, in her comfortable way, “Lady Olivia, you mustn’t let them keep you standing in the street. Pray step inside. I shall have tea brought to you directly.”

  Olivia hid her curiosity and smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Pratt, I shall take your excellent advice. In the library, please.” She calmly mounted the steps, stripping off her gloves, and walked into the library. Bessie and Edith trailed in her wake. Once the door was closed she turned to them, one brow raised. “Out with it! What was the meaning of that pregnant silence just now? Don’t tell me you have let three days go by without speaking to Culpepper.”

  “We won’t tell you that, for it isn’t true,” said Bessie bluntly. “We saw Culpepper the afternoon we arrived home. But—”

  Edith rushed into speech. “Bessie was wonderful!” she said earnestly. “Culpepper fussed a bit, but she handled him beautifully. She was absolutely—I don’t know how she dared! My marriage is in a fair way to be settled now. We shall have my pin money and a little besides, and Bessie and I shall live in a house—oh, the sweetest house you ever saw!”

  “My word! That was fast work.”

  “It’s Rose Cottage, Ivy. You’ll remember it.”

  “I do indeed.” It was a property that belonged to the family, not far from Ralph’s estate. Her grandmother had lived in it last. “Will the two of you be safe there, do you think?”

  Bessie gave a grim little chuckle. “We are hiring a very large butler.”

  Olivia laughed. “I see.”

  “And I do think we will be safe. Did Lord Rival say anything to you, Ivy, about that private conversation he had with Ralph? No? Well. Whatever threats he made, he must’ve been convincing.” Bessie shook her head as if mystified. “I never saw Ralph so cowed.”

  Edith looked anxious. “I do feel rather guilty when I think that Ralph shan’t have an heir.”

  “Do you, my dear?” Olivia patted her fondly. “You needn’t. Bessie’s brother is next in line, you know. He’s a kind fellow; you will like him. And he has a very large family, so the succession is assured.”

  “Then you don’t—you don’t mind? That your father’s line will not continue?”

  “Not in the least,” said Olivia promptly. “Why should I?”

  Edith laughed with relief and flew to kiss her sister-in-law’s cheek. “Thank you! For although he could divorce me and remarry, I would excessively dislike being divorced—”

  “Oh, pooh. No need to disgrace the family with a divorce. And besides, Ralph should not be allowed to remarry. It would be shocking to inflict him on some other unsuspecting female.”

  “So I told her,” said Bessie approvingly. “But I’m glad to hear you say it, since I can’t be impartial on this score. Not with John as the heir, and wee Johnny after him.”

  Mrs. Pratt entered noiselessly with the tea and, as quietly, removed herself, bearing away Olivia’s hat and gloves. Olivia sank blissfully into a wing chair, accepting a cup from Bessie. “This smells wonderful. It’s good to be home.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Is my betrothal the talk of the town yet?”

  Bessie and Edith exchanged another glance. “No,” said Bessie gruffly. “For no one knows about it.”

  Olivia was startled. “But, surely . . . the notice in the papers—”

  “Hasn’t been placed.” Bessie frowned. “Culpepper refused. Said he wanted to speak with you privately first. I’m sorry, Ivy, but he wouldn’t budge. And he made me promise that I would not place the notice for you, either. The old rascal made it a condition of his recommending to Ralph that he give Rose Cottage to Edith.”

  Olivia set her teacup down very carefully. Edith hurried into speech. “You are angry, Olivia, but pray do not blame Bessie. We thought that a delay of only a day or two would make no difference, after all.”

  “Well,” said Olivia slowly, “it does not, of course. Printing a notice is customary, but hardly a prerequisite for obtaining a marriage license. What disturbs me is that Culpepper set himself in opposition to my expressed wishes. Again.” Her voice became more and more clipped as her anger grew. “My patience with Mr. Culpepper is wearing extremely thin. I make every allowance for his age and for the years he has spent in our service, but—Really! What could he possibly have to say to me?” She rose and tugged briskly on the bell rope. “If he wishes to speak with me, let him do so without delay. I only hope I interrupt his dinner!”

  She knew that her peremptory summons was unreasonable, and expected a polite, regretful response informing her that Culpepper would wait upon her at her convenience in the morning. She decided that as long as the response was apologetic—in tone, if not in substance—she was prepared to let the matter slide. She was not expecting Culpepper to hasten to her the instant he received word from her. When he was announced, therefore, some three quarters of an hour after she had sent her message, she looked in surprise at the library clock. It had grown quite late. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, feeling a little ashamed of her pettishness. “Send him in, please.” She cast a rueful glance at Bessie. “He will be stiff-rumped and punctilious now, to punish me for displaying my ill temper. God grant me patience!”

  Culpepper appeared in the doorway and bowed. He looked pale and slightly disheveled, as if he had dropped everything in his haste to reach her. She rose, an apology on her lips, but he spoke before she could say the words. “Thank you for sending me word of your arrival, Lady Olivia,” he said, in a low, quick tone. “I did wish to speak to you immediately. I hope the hour is not too late?”

  “Why—of course not,” stammered Olivia, nonplussed. He was obviously not angry at all. Something was wrong, but that was not it. “Pray come in.”

  He did so, bowing again to acknowledge Bessie. Trouble was in every line of his face and in the tense set of his shoulders. He looked older, somehow, than when Olivia had seen him last. “Miss Fairfax, I hope you will excuse us,” he said, with uncharacteristic humility. “I have something very particular I wish to say to your cousin.”

  Bessie looked as if she would like to stay, but she rose obediently and took herself off. Culpepper’s manner indicated a gravity that brooked no argument. Olivia, feeling very much perplexed, waited for whatever it
was Culpepper had to say. He said nothing, however, for several seconds after the door had closed behind Bessie. Instead, he wandered vaguely around the library, fidgeting first with his cuffs, then with the skirts of his coat, and finally with the inkstand on the writing desk, all the while refusing to meet her eyes.

  “Well?” prompted Olivia, challenging him. “I notice that you have not wished me happy.”

  He looked, if possible, even more distressed, but he did stop pacing and fidgeting. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I—I cannot. I cannot, in good conscience, presume to wish you happy when I know . . . Bless me, what a terrible task is mine!” These last words were uttered in an explosion of feeling that was obviously genuine. Olivia felt her stomach turn over. She placed one hand on the back of a chair to steady herself.

  “Why have you refused to place the notice of my engagement in the London papers as I requested?” she asked him. Her voice remained steady enough.

  Culpepper removed his spectacles and began methodically wiping them with his handkerchief. “It must seem strange to you.”

  “It does.”

  “I thought it . . . unwise. I think you should not enter into this engagement.” He cleared his throat. “Under the circumstances.”

  She began to feel exasperated as well as anxious. “Under what circumstances? I warn you, Mr. Culpepper, that if you utter one word of slander against Lord Rival—”

  “Lady Olivia, you mistake. What I must say to you is not about Lord Rival. It is about you.”

  She stared at him in bewilderment. “About me?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. It was an old man’s sigh, unutterably weary. He finally looked at her, and she was both astonished and dismayed to see that his pale eyes were red-rimmed and suspiciously watery. He looked, for all the world, as if he were on the verge of tears. And when he spoke, his voice was gentler than she had ever heard it.

  “Sit down, Lady Olivia,” he said sadly. “What I am about to tell you will come, I fear, as a severe shock.”

  25

  The clock on the mantelpiece was just chiming ten when she heard George’s voice downstairs. Olivia looked dully at the clock. It wasn’t possible for George to be here this early. Perhaps she was hearing things. She was tired enough to be dreaming. But then she distinctly heard his laugh, followed by the words, “I’ll announce myself, thank you.” His light tread sounded on the landing outside her door well before she was ready for it. But, of course, she would never be ready for this interview. It hardly mattered that she must endure it several hours before she expected it.

  There was no time to brace herself. There was no time to don a cheerful mask. The door opened and he was there, all the dear, massive, breathtaking bulk of him. As always, he seemed to fill the doorway, making her comfortable morning room seem small and overly fussy.

  “Why, here’s a welcome,” he said teasingly. “Waiting for me in the dark, sweetheart?”

  She realized, belatedly, that she had not bothered to draw the curtains this morning. Before she could gather her strength to move he had crossed the room and done it for her, talking to her as if nothing was wrong. It was hard, somehow, to remember that he did not know yet.

  “Rye Vale was dull without you, Ivy. I finished my business and rode down to London last night.”

  Light flooded the room. She turned her face away, blinking painfully. She still did not stand or speak to him. She had a vague notion that if she left the anchor of her desk she would shatter and fall to pieces.

  He came up behind her, his voice vibrant with warmth. “I couldn’t wait to see you.” She felt his hands on her shoulders and tensed, trembling. It was too much; her heart would crack if he touched her again.

  “George,” she blurted, her voice raw from weeping. “Don’t.” She had meant to say a complete sentence, but those were the only two words that made it past the constriction in her throat.

  The hands at her shoulders paused, then pulled her bodily from the chair and turned her so he could see her face. Whatever he saw there wiped the teasing smile from his face. His brows knitted in a swift frown. “Good God. What has happened?”

  She managed a wavering smile. “Bad news, I am afraid.”

  He immediately moved to take her in his arms. It took every ounce of willpower she had to rebuff him, but she did. He felt her rejection and murmured, “Let me hold you.” His voice was rough with concern.

  She pushed him away with the palms of her hands and managed to say, in a strangled voice, “Please. No. I think you should sit down.”

  He did not take her advice, but he did let go of her and walk around to the front of her desk. She sank back into her chair, trying to still the quivering of her limbs. His look of concentrated concern did not abate, but a note of anger thrummed in his voice as he said, “Tell me this news that is so bad I can’t hold you while you tell me. There can’t be any news bad enough to change your mind. Not now.”

  “Not my mind. Yours.”

  He looked thunderstruck. “What?”

  She had to look away; it was too dreadful. She fastened her gaze on the neat stack of pens on her desk. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding.” She swallowed. “No. Not a misunderstanding. I mean . . . I mean that I have misled you. I didn’t mean to mislead you, George. I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know until last night.”

  “What didn’t you know?” he said roughly. “Tell me quickly, Ivy. I can’t bear to watch you suffer like this.”

  She took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m not a rich woman.”

  There. She had said it.

  She stole a glance at him; he was rigid with surprise and disbelief. “Is this a joke?”

  “I only wish it were.”

  He sat, then, in the wing chair across from her. “Of course it’s not a joke,” he said slowly. “I can see that you believe it. But surely it’s nonsense.”

  “I know it sounds impossible. Pray recall the—the peculiar methods my father employed to keep me . . .” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “To keep me in my place.”

  He cocked his head as if trying to hear her more clearly. “You mean that business about never letting you know the source of your income?”

  Olivia nodded. Helpless anger flooded her. It was so beastly. So unfair. “Had I been privy to this information—had I any power whatsoever to manage my own money, or at least to influence the trustees—” She broke off abruptly. No sense in losing control. “Well. There is little point in wringing my hands over it. I had no information, and I had no power. And now, I have no wealth.” An ironic smile twisted her features. “It seems that poor Culpepper has been depleting his own funds in an effort to continue my quarterly income payments. Postponing the day of reckoning, you know, hoping that matters would improve, or that one or another of the trust’s investments would turn a profit. But that deception is no longer possible.”

  She stared blindly down at her hands, folded tensely on the desktop. “The last profitable investment—I suppose you would call it an investment—was the textile mill my father was kind enough to purchase for me. In Massachusetts, if you can believe that.” Her voice was trembling with anger. “It seems that all the holdings my father placed in trust for me were foreign. To make it more difficult for me to control or sell them, should I somehow discover what they were.”

  “Did Culpepper know your father’s motives?” asked George. There was an edge to his voice that boded ill for Culpepper.

  She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I doubt it. But they were instantly plain to me. I know exactly how my father’s mind worked. At any rate, this mill, on which the trust held no policy of assurance, burned to the ground last year. The trustees had been using the slender profits from this mill to cover the losses of the other holdings. And now . . .” She looked up, forcing herself to meet George’s eyes as she said the terrible words. “I am bankrupt.”

  He was completely expressionless, his face as blank and unreadable as a portrait in a gallery. She th
ought, detachedly, that this must be the face he showed over a hand of cards. But he could not hide such a huge wave of emotion. Not entirely. Not from her. She saw, in that blank and shuttered look, a man who had suffered a catastrophe. He was casting about in his mind for some way to defeat this disaster, some way to undo it. He had not yet grasped that there was nothing to be done.

  He rose jerkily and strode to the fireplace, staring down into the ashes as if an answer could be read there. “You can’t go from wealth to poverty overnight,” he said. His voice sounded harsh and strained. “It’s not possible.”

  “I said I was bankrupt. I am not a pauper,” she told him quietly. “There are assets I can sell—this house, for one. And much of its contents. But I will never be rich again.”

  She must make it easier for him. Seeing him so stunned strengthened her. She had had all night to think about it, but he was still shocked and uncomprehending. He had not understood what it all meant. She must spell it out for him, as gently as she could.

  “I will be unable to meet the obligations we have just spent three days incurring,” she said, her voice soft with regret. “I am terribly sorry, but it can’t be helped. There will be no money for Rye Vale. I will have enough to continue living in Chelsea, in a small way. But by no stretch of the imagination will I have enough to restore your estate.” She straightened in her chair and managed to speak calmly. “Knowing my plight, Culpepper kept our betrothal a secret. He knew that we would need to—to reconsider. In light of these developments.”

  For his sake, she must put a brave face on this. For his sake, she must say what he was unwilling, at this moment, to hear. He would rail against their fate today, perhaps. He would go through the motions of trying to argue with her. But later, he would feel relief and gratitude that she had held firm.

  “George, do you understand me? There is no betrothal. Our engagement was contracted under false pretenses. I release you.”

  He stared at her, still with that blank, stunned expression. It seemed an infinite distance from the desk to the fireplace; their eyes met as if across an unbridgeable void. “You release me,” he repeated tonelessly.