Flirting With Fortune swak-3

by Erin Knightley

  He crossed his arms, his stubby, callused fingers fanning out across the coarse gray wool of his chunky knit sweater. “And what is it you think old Georges can do to help the daughter of a marquis?”

  Beatrice bit her lip, hoping she was making the right decision coming to him. “First, I think this is something that can help both of us. Second, well, perhaps you should take a look at this.”

  She pulled out the rolled sheet of paper and handed it to him. He didn’t know it yet, but she would get him to help her. She had to—her entire plan to help the unsuspecting ladies of the ton depended on it. She watched as he untied the ribbon and unfurled the paper.

  The seconds stretched on as she waited for some sort of reaction from the old man. Nothing. She curled her hands at her sides to keep from fidgeting. Her gaze flicked to the image, studying it with fresh eyes. Her idea had turned out better than she had even hoped. Apparently, anger fueled the arts as effectively as passion. It was slightly brilliant, if she did say so herself.

  If Monsieur Allard agreed to help.

  His head remained bent over the page, his countenance giving away nothing as the low sounds from the busy street outside filled the silence. At last, he looked up at her, his magnified eyes unusually bright behind their lenses. “Very interesting, mademoiselle. Am I to assume you have plans for this piece?”

  “I hope to. Anonymously, of course. And only with your help.”

  He grunted, a noncommittal sound that could have either meant she was mad, or she had his interest. She decided to go with the latter. “I’ll pay you, of course. For your time and talents, as well as your trouble.”

  He sat back in his chair, studying her as if gauging her mettle. She lifted her chin, a gesture she found herself doing whenever she wished she weren’t so small. Long seconds ticked by, but still he didn’t say a word. Anxiousness tugged at her belly, and she couldn’t keep quiet another second. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” he said, coming to his feet and turning to face her fully, “that you will either get us both in much trouble . . .” He trailed off, tilting his head as he considered her.

  “Or?” she prompted.

  “Or make us the talk of the town.”

  She grinned, confidence that he would help her flooding her chest. “Let us hope,” she said, leaning forward with a bit of mischief, “that it will be the latter.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Christ Almighty, have you seen this thing?”

  John strode into the breakfast room waving a small publication of some sort. Colin’s mind had been so far away at that moment, immersed in his plans for the day, that it took him a moment to realize what his cousin was holding.

  A ladies’ fashion magazine.

  Colin raised an eyebrow. “No, actually. Though I am riveted to hear why you have seen it.” He set down his coffee and reached for the rag, holding it between two fingers as if the vapidness contained within was somehow catching.

  “You’re lucky I did. My stepsister was positively agog over the thing.” His cousin began to pace the length of the breakfast room, turning sharply at the end of each circuit. “Go on; read it.”

  Colin looked down at the rather hideous fashion plate that was illustrated on most of the page. With a shrug, he read the caption. “Fashionable morning and evening dresses for November.”

  Stalking back toward where Colin sat, John snatched the magazine from his hand and flipped it around. “Try again.”

  Damn but the man was in a snit. Colin sighed and refocused on the page before him, turning it to catch the dim light filtering into the room from the dreary morning outside. “Dear Gently Bred Lady.” He paused, raising an eyebrow to his cousin. “Clearly meant for the two of us.”

  John rolled his hand in a “keep going” gesture, and Colin returned his attention to the page. “‘It has come to my attention that there are some things for which a young debutant may not be adequately prepared. I should know—I myself have been one. I know exactly what it feels like to have the admiring eyes of a handsome gentleman bring a blush to one’s cheek and the elation of being asked to dance by a long-admired suitor. In that moment, an innocent young miss can easily be misled by a man whose intentions are not as they seem.

  “‘I speak of the type of person known as a fortune hunter.’”

  Colin’s gaze jerked up. “Bloody hell.”

  “It gets better,” John said, resuming his pacing.

  Returning to the letter, Colin forged on. “‘A fortune hunter has no care for the lady herself, only the promise of the money she is attached to. If he succeeds in marrying a hapless young lady of fortune, the lady herself is no longer of interest. His fortune secured, he’ll carelessly set aside his wife and carry on with whatever behavior landed him in need of funds in the first place. So, in hopes of rescuing the innocent from this sort of fate, I offer up my thoughts on how to recognize a fortune hunter.

  “‘The simplest method for determining a man’s motives is observing whom he asks to dance. If he focuses solely on ladies of notable dowry, then he is likely to be a fortune hunter and therefore should be avoided.’” It was signed The Daring Debutant.

  Well, this was just bloody great. It was hard enough feeling as though he were some sort of predator by looking to marry a woman with a decent dowry. Now he’d have to contend with newly suspicious females watching his every move.

  “And the pièce de résistance,” John said, interrupting Colin’s wandering thoughts. “The blasted cartoon.”

  Colin directed his attention to the engraving below the letter. He blinked suddenly, his eyes widening in disbelief. The setting was a strikingly familiar ballroom, with elegant twin pillars framing the arching doorway. He jerked his gaze to the doorway of the breakfast room, which sported a similar, if less elaborate, motif.

  “I see you recognize the background.”

  “Your mother’s ballroom? That’s a bloody bold move.”

  “An apt description. Though I’m certain Josephine would have never brought it to me if she hadn’t recognized our own ballroom, so I suppose we should be grateful. Tell me what else you see.”

  Shaking his head, Colin lifted the page for a better look. Standing to one side was a man dressed in the style popular with those of the Bond Street Beau set. He was leering at three ladies, each with progressively smaller stacks of gold spilling from satchels at their feet. The fop had his hand extended to the lady with the largest stack and the caption above his head read, “Would your dowry—I mean, would you—care to dance?”

  “I see a fortune hunter sizing up three ladies based on their dowries.” He tossed the magazine on the table, more in disgust of himself than anything else. “It’s a wonder my name isn’t sprawled across the poor bastard’s face.”

  John leaned over to retrieve the damnable thing and thumped the cartoon with the back of his knuckle. “Not your name, my friend. Godfrey’s.”

  “What?” Colin sat up straight, snatching the thing from John’s fingers for a closer look. Surely the artist wouldn’t be so brazen. “I don’t see his name anywhere.”

  “That’s because you are unfamiliar with the people of the ton. If you had spent every last social minute with these people as I have, you would see that Godfrey is as good as labeled. See that distinctive waistcoat? It was what he wore to Mother’s ball. Combine that with the overly dramatic version of his hairstyle and the spot-on expression on his face, and there is no way that’s not him.”

  The page crumpled in Colin’s hands before he realized what he was doing. Carefully releasing his grip, he laid the rumpled magazine on the table before crossing his arms and facing his cousin. “Who would do such a thing? Granted, the man is an ass, but how could someone make a mockery of another in such a public forum? It’s not as though he’s a bloody political figure.”

  “Not uncommon, I’m afraid. The scandal sheets regularly call out ‘Lady D’ and ‘Lord H,’ as if everyone doesn’t know exactly who they are referring to. It
’s something of a game in this society.”

  “Bloody hell,” Colin breathed, running a hand through his hair. “Seems as though I am taking a greater risk with my reputation than I realized.”

  Not that it really mattered. If he didn’t find a wife with a hefty dowry in three months’ time, the world would learn of his father’s spectacular business failure and the family reputation would be in tatters anyway. No one wanted to be associated with the utterly bankrupt family of an eccentric painter. Colin harbored no illusions that his father was some sort of national hero. The moment they caught wind of the fact he had died in debt up to his nose, the condemnation would come.

  And Colin should know.

  That was exactly the way he had felt about his father when the solicitors had shown up at his doorstep last month to inform him that his father had mortgaged everything he had in the world, including the estate and everything in it, against the engraving business he’d started last year. The same business, incidentally, that Colin had vehemently advised against. And the same one that, according to the representatives for Father’s investors, had never even turned a half penny’s profit.

  Resentment built deep in his stomach, spilling out into his blood and pumping through his body with every beat of his heart. Father had mortgaged the estate—Colin’s entire inheritance and the only home his siblings had ever known—without ever even telling him. He had told him the money had come from eager investors. Never did he admit that the investors were eager thanks to the massive amount of collateral he’d put up.

  John laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You’ve little other choice, no?”

  “No.”

  “Then carry on as you must. I just thought it best to share with you what you are up against. An invisible foe is much more dangerous than the one you can see. At least now you know to be on the alert. Have a care with how you are perceived.”

  Colin nodded. “Agreed. Thanks for sharing, cousin. It’s always better to be prepared.” If he’d learned nothing else in his past two years at the Inns of Court, he’d certainly learned that. A barrister was only as good as the information he gathered. Well, that and his ability to argue his point the way a dog chewed on a bone.

  As his cousin headed to the sideboard to fill his plate for breakfast, Colin considered the letter and accompanying cartoon. The words of warning would no doubt resonate with the young ladies who read it. It had a distinctly empowering feel to it, as if the author had decided it was high time women took responsibility for their own fates. It was both bold and clever to print such a thing in a fashion magazine—after all, how many men would ever see it?

  Colin leaned back in his chair, considering what, if any, changes should be made to his approach to finding a wife. This article may very well be intended as a guide to females on how to avoid fortune hunters, but it could also be used for exactly the opposite purpose. Did he not know what they would be looking for now? He could use this knowledge to his benefit.

  He picked up the magazine and scanned the letter once more. A fortune hunter danced only with women of a certain worth? Fine. He’d go out of his way to dance with any woman he found interesting. Actually, he quite liked that strategy. It felt much more natural to enjoy a lady based on her own merit, anyway.

  Unbidden, an image of Lady Beatrice flashed into his mind. Some of the stiffness drained from his shoulders, and he smiled absently. Their tour had been every bit as enjoyable as he’d imagined it would be. She was so much more than he ever expected a privileged daughter of the nobility could be. How many other debutants could have inspired him to dance a Scottish reel in the middle of a gallery? And more to the point, how many other debutants would have taken him up on the offer?

  “What are you over there grinning like an idiot about? Nothing good can come from that blasted letter, my friend.”

  Colin raised an eyebrow to his cousin as he set down his plate and pulled out a chair. “On the contrary. This letter did little more than arm us with the knowledge we need to avoid raising suspicions.”

  John slowed in the process of laying his napkin in his lap. Colin could practically see the man’s military brain going to work. “By Jove, you’re right, old man. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  “Too much time away from the battlefield can make any man go soft. Mustn’t blame yourself.” He grinned at the sarcastic expression John threw him before picking up his fork.

  “No, I think it is the lack of stimulating conversation around here. Regardless, you have your battle plan. Dance with a variety of ladies. The trick of it is having a care not to lead on any of the unsuitables.”

  “Agreed.” The last thing he wanted to do was hurt some girl’s feelings. He had to be charming and agreeable with the ladies he considered prospects and cordial but impersonal to those who weren’t.

  Of course, if he adhered strictly to that plan, it would mean no more ill-advised romps with the enchanting Lady Beatrice. He smiled wryly. So far, he had shown a complete lack of judgment when it came to his stór.

  And he wasn’t sorry for it.

  It was a bloody rotten time for him, and if there was one person in the mess of it who made him feel like an equal, as though he actually had something of true worth to offer her, then he wouldn’t apologize for whatever small amount of time he could spend with her. There was literally no one else in London, or on the planet, for that matter, who could offer her what he could, and he planned to enjoy that.

  Tonight at the Westmoreland ball, he would dance every set, with any young lady who took his fancy. He had only two goals for the evening: to further charm prospective brides and to dance a proper dance with Lady Beatrice.

  * * *

  Beatrice had been expecting the knock for so long, it was a relief when it finally came. “Enter,” she said, setting down her paintbrush and turning to greet her sisters.

  Just as she expected, Jocelyn and Carolyn let themselves in, their blue eyes bright with the anticipation of sharing their discovery. Beatrice had known they would come and had painted with half an ear to the stairway since the time she heard the knock on the servants’ door exactly two floors below her studio almost an hour earlier.

  It was Tuesday, after all: delivery day.

  “Oh my word, Bea, you will never believe what they printed in A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion this week.” Carolyn was ahead of her sister by half a foot, holding out the periodical in question. They hadn’t even taken the time to properly dress, each wearing wrappers over their night rails with their hair simply braided.

  Good. Beatrice liked to think that girls all over the city were just as excited.

  Schooling her features into an expression of pure innocence, she wiped her hands on the bottom of her apron and regarded them with false curiosity. “What is it? Something new from France?”

  Jocelyn plopped onto the studio’s only piece of furniture, a slightly worse-for-the-wear chintz sofa, and shook her head. “Much more scandalous than that. Oh, it’s brilliant. Wait until you see.”

  Carolyn handed over the magazine before joining her twin on the sofa. If either of them noticed that Beatrice’s fingers trembled or that her breath wasn’t quite even, they didn’t let on in the least.

  Drawing a quiet breath, she turned under the pretense of holding it to the meager light from the cloudy day and looked down at the printed page. Her heart gave a little leap. There it was, in black and white. Her words, her art, her labor of love for her fellow females, published in a legitimate magazine for all to see. The surge of pride was so powerful, so consuming, she actually felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes.

  “Can you believe it?” Carolyn asked, nudging the bottom of Beatrice’s skirts with her foot when she didn’t say anything. “It says the author is a former debutant.” The implied scandal of such a thing hung heavy in her breathless tone.

  “How utterly remarkable,” Beatrice murmured, infusing a healthy dose of inc
redulity into her response. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the etching, the product of her own hands. Almost, anyway. Monsieur Allard had done a superb job of transcribing her drawing into an etching. She ran a finger over the crosshatched shading of the imposing columns in the background. It had turned out perfectly, and all she wanted to do was hug it to her chest and proclaim to the world that it was her handiwork.

  But of course she could not.

  If anyone knew that she had written the letter and submitted the drawing, her reputation would be utterly ruined. No one would ever see the good in what she did, only the breaking of unspoken rules.

  “I wonder who wrote it,” Jocelyn mused, pulling her legs in to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “Do you think it is true that it was written by a debutant? Who’s to say it wasn’t some dried-up old journalist trying to ruffle feathers or create a story where there is none?”

  Carolyn’s eyes rounded. “Do you think someone would do such a thing?”

  Beatrice bit her lip against the need to defend herself and the validity of her work. Instead, she gave a casual shake of her head. “No, I don’t think it could be a journalist.” She came to sit between her sisters on the sofa and pointed to the engraving. “See the background? That’s Lady Churly’s ballroom. See the fluted columns?” she said, sliding her finger across the drawing.

  Jocelyn snatched the paper back and pored over it with renewed fervor. “How very, very bold. If the setting is real, then . . .” She paused, tilting her head as she regarded the image through squinted eyes. “Oh my goodness gracious, I think that’s Mr. Godfrey!”

  “No!” Carolyn exclaimed, leaning over the page for a closer look.

  “Of course not,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes as she pulled the magazine out of her sister’s hands. “None of these people is real. They are just figments of the author’s imagination.”

  She looked down at the etching, shaking her head at the absurdity of the claim. But . . . A trickle of dread slid down her spine as she stared at the picture. Oh heavens. She bit the inside of her lip hard as she took in the man’s clothes, his smug expression, his Corinthian hair.