Flirting With Fortune swak-3

by Erin Knightley

  “I think Jocelyn’s right,” Carolyn said, craning her neck as she inspected the image. “It looks quite a bit like Mr. Godfrey. How utterly scandalous!”

  “And mean,” added Jocelyn

  Beatrice couldn’t seem to draw a proper breath. She hadn’t intended to portray him, despite the fact she knew full well he was a fortune hunter. She swallowed, trying to loosen the tightness holding her throat closed.

  “I don’t know,” she said, the flippant tone she strove for falling just short of her reach. “Any number of gentlemen would resemble such a characterized drawing.”

  Pulling the magazine back into her lap, Carolyn shook her head. “I don’t know. I spent only a few minutes with the man, but I have to say, something about this drawing just seems to capture his personality.”

  “You mean like the arrogant expression?” Jocelyn said, raising a collusive brow. “Yes, I’d say that was rather spot-on.”

  “Exactly,” her twin replied, giving a guilty little grin.

  It was nothing compared to the guilt wrapping itself around Beatrice’s heart. “Come spring, you two will see exactly how common such an expression is among men of the ton. Perhaps you were right, Jocelyn. Perhaps it was just a journalist’s rendition.”

  “Not if what you say about this being Lady Churly’s ballroom is true. There is no way they would have allowed a journalist inside. No, if this is an accurate drawing of the ball, then it stands to reason that this really is Mr. Godfrey.”

  “Poor man,” Carolyn said, shaking her head. “Truly, Mr. Godfrey was not my idea of a perfect gentleman, but I have to admit this makes me feel a bit sorry for the man. What if he’s not really a fortune hunter?”

  Beatrice put an icy hand to her chest. She might have been guilty of inadvertently calling the man out, but at least she was beyond certain that he was indeed a fortune hunter.

  Perhaps this would be a good thing if she managed to save some poor girl from his clutches. “He is,” she said with authority, nodding her head for good measure. “Believe me. I have seen him in action enough to know the truth of it.”

  “In action?” Jocelyn raised a pale brow. “What, does he go around with a ledger, tallying each lady’s worth?”

  “Practically, yes. He does exactly what the author said he does: dancing only with those whose dowry heft is well known.”

  “Hardly enough to convict a man.”

  Beatrice scowled at Jocelyn. She already felt bad enough—she didn’t need her sister doubting her judgment. “Trust me, the man has eyes only for money. The author did the right thing by pointing out how a lady may recognize a fortune hunter like him. The better armed a lady is, the better able to protect herself.”

  Carolyn tucked her feet beneath the voluminous white fabric of her night rail and shrugged. “If you say so. What do you think will happen to him? Do you think he’ll read it?”

  Heavens, she hoped he never would. “I should think not,” Beatrice said, flipping the magazine closed and gesturing to the title. “It’s a ladies’ fashion magazine, after all. I sincerely hope that gentlemen are not reading this sort of thing.”

  “Well, not normally, of course,” Jocelyn said. “But this is positively scandalous. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of the ton has read it by the end of the week.”

  Butterflies took flight within Beatrice’s belly at this pronouncement. The thought of thousands of eyes reading her letter was daunting enough; to think of Mr. Godfrey recognizing himself . . .

  “Don’t be silly. It’s not as though it was printed in the Times, for heaven’s sake. It likely won’t leave the bedchambers of any of the young ladies for which it was intended.”

  Jocelyn leaned against the arm of the sofa, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Oh, I bet it will. I only wish I could go to the Westmoreland ball to witness the reaction for myself.”

  A sudden rush of nerves whisked through Beatrice’s veins. By eight o’clock that night, she would know exactly what the ton thought about the letter—and by extension, her.

  Chapter Ten

  Beatrice was not, by nature, an anxious person. In fact, she was generally actively not anxious, remaining more or less calm in all sorts of situations. But standing at the doorway to the Westmorelands’ surprisingly crowded ball, she had only one thought: whether she could make it to the ladies’ retiring room before she cast up her accounts all over the eggshell-hued marble floors.

  She took a deep breath, trying her best to ignore the cloying scent of a hundred perfumes mixed with beeswax and freshly polished wood. For heaven’s sake, she was made of sterner stuff than this. Just because she may or may not have baldly called a gentleman out for being a fortune hunter in a widely distributed magazine with a highly scandalous letter meant to help, not hurt anyone, did not mean that she could fall to pieces over it.

  Besides—if she wished to slip through the crowd unnoticed in order to eavesdrop on gossip, she’d best keep her dinner where it was.

  The good news was, a problem with the carriage had delayed their departure, so they were more than fashionably late, which meant that no one announced their arrival.

  “Are you quite all right, my dear?” Mama’s voice was little more than a whisper in Beatrice’s ear. “You look rather pale.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured back, keeping a forced smile on her lips. “Although,” she said, inspiration striking, “I think I will visit the retiring room to freshen up after our ordeal with the carriage.”

  “Shall I join you?”

  Beatrice tried to relax, stretching her lips into a broader smile. “No, no, I’ll be only a moment. And look, Lady Wembley has already spotted you.” She waved at the lady in question, and Mama nodded and went to speak with her friend.

  There—she felt slightly better already. Adopting a bland expression, she slipped into the crowd, doing her best to meld with her surroundings. She really was headed to the retiring room—often the best gossip could be had there—but more than anything, she wanted a chance to observe as nonchalantly as possible. It’d be easier if she could have worn a plainer gown, but her mother had insisted Beatrice don the new one that had been delivered the day before. Shimmery metallic threads did tend to make one feel conspicuous, but with any luck no one would—

  Seemingly out of nowhere, Mr. Godfrey stepped directly in her path. Drat, drat, drat.

  “Lady Beatrice,” he purred, his light brown eyes pinning her with unsettling intensity. “I was beginning to despair of seeing you this evening.”

  Her stomach clenched, and she would have taken a step back were the space available. Curse her blasted luck—of course he would be the very first person she ran into. She eyed him warily, guilt marching up her spine while she tried to divine if he knew anything of the letter.

  If he did, he gave nothing away. His inflection was exactly the same, his posture ever straight and his gaze entirely too direct. Nothing about him spoke of affront or anger, merely his normal, all too arrogant self.

  She swallowed past the lump of self-reproach that clogged her throat and offered him a weak smile. “Good evening, Mr. Godfrey. I’m afraid you have caught me on my way—”

  “Yes, yes, I can see that you are quite on a mission. I don’t wish to keep you, my lady—I merely wished to add my name to your dance card before it fills up.”

  No polite question this time—instead he held out his hand as if it were a foregone conclusion that a dance would be his tonight. Beatrice looked down to the small card attached to her wrist with a slender green ribbon and sighed. It was as good a penance as anything. And perhaps, if she were very lucky, he would be so busy with his usual tactic of dancing with the wealthiest women, he wouldn’t have time to hear any gossip.

  Holding out the card and pencil, she smiled a bit too brightly. “But of course.”

  He bent over the card and scribbled his name beside one of the two dozen dances listed out. When he was done, he looked up to her with a triumphant smile. “Thank you, Lady Be
atrice. I look forward to our dance with much anticipation.”

  That made one of them.

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment before turning and escaping into the crowd. Sneaking a look at the card, she groaned. Of course he would claim one of the waltzes. Oh, well—tattlers couldn’t be choosers.

  She had gone all of a dozen steps when a hand closed around her arm. Before she had the chance to get annoyed at being waylaid again, Miss Sophie Wembley hooked her arm around Beatrice’s elbow and grinned, her dark eyes positively glittering with excitement. “Finally—I’m so glad I found you. Did you see it? Tell me you saw it. Of course you did—you see everything.”

  Beatrice grinned despite herself. Sophie was absolutely irrepressible. “The letter?”

  Sophie nodded and started forward, dragging Beatrice in exactly the direction she was headed in the first place. Sophie’s normally riotous curls had been brought to heel tonight, pulled up into a tight bun at the top of her head, but a few black curls had managed to escape and were now floating like silk streamers behind her as she rushed forward.

  The moment she pushed through the door to the retiring room, she turned on Beatrice. “Tell me what you know. Assuming you know something, because you probably do. You always do.”

  Drat—she hadn’t expected anyone to come right out and ask like that. Beatrice tried to think of a way to respond without lying to her friend. They had been slow to befriend each other initially, but with them both being middle sisters, they had eventually built on that common ground.

  They also had their own talents, Bea with her paints and Sophie with her music. She was no savant like Charity, Beatrice’s longtime family friend and near-genius pianoforte player, but Sophie was still quite talented on her oboe. Her mother had chosen the odd instrument under the mistaken notion that the more unusual the instrument, the more memorable the musician, but Sophie had embraced the small, high-pitched woodwind and somehow made the thing sing.

  Beatrice opened her mouth, fully prepared to sidestep the question, but a shuffling noise alerted her to the presence of someone else in the room. Cutting a glance to Sophie, she shrugged. “I know what I read, same as you.”

  Miss Marianne Harmon, Lord Wexley’s youngest daughter, stepped from around the screen and eyed them both. “You must be speaking of the letter printed in A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion today.” She paused in front of the mirror to pat her hair—as if a single strand would dare disobey her and fall out of place—and smiled at her own reflection. “Pray, don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”

  Since Beatrice was technically related to Marianne, she refrained from making the face she wanted to. Third cousin might sound distant, but Mama would likely hear of it by the end of the night, and Lord knew Beatrice already had enough potential trouble on her plate. Instead, she gave a one-shouldered shrug. “No conversation, really. Neither one of us knows anything above what we read in the magazine.”

  Family or not, Beatrice had no problem lying to Marianne. The woman possessed a remarkable ability to retain information and mold it to her benefit when the time was right, and Bea wasn’t about to provide her with any fodder.

  “Well, it hardly matters. It was just a silly thing, obviously written by someone who hasn’t the sense God gave her. Why else would she—if indeed it is a she—stoop to publishing such a thing?”

  “Oh, I thought it was brilliant,” Sophie chimed in, a broad grin lighting her features. “I never thought of such a thing before. Not that I’d need to, of course. Heaven knows no fortune hunter would ever have a use for me.”

  She had a way of saying things no one else would get away with and somehow come across as charming. At least Beatrice thought so—Marianne’s raised brow seemed to indicate she thought otherwise. “Yes, well, I think it reeks of bitterness. Perhaps the author was tired of not being asked to dance and she decided to paint all men of discerning taste in a negative light in order to force their hands.”

  “Quite a bit of effort to go through merely to win a dance partner, don’t you think?” Beatrice had intended to keep her mouth shut, but Marianne’s theory was completely ridiculous, and she didn’t want her to go spreading that sort of discrediting speculation around. “I think the author wished to help the innocent young women preparing to make their debuts next year.”

  Marianne made a delicate sound of disbelief. “Don’t be so gullible, Beatrice. No one does something like that without hope for personal gain.” She gave her cheeks a little pinch and turned away from the mirror. “I’ll leave you to your gossip.”

  With a condescending smile, she glided from the room, her golden gown swishing behind her with the exaggerated sway of her hips. Beatrice rolled her eyes and turned back to Sophie. “Good riddance.”

  Her friend giggled, completely without rancor for the high-and-mighty Marianne. “Don’t mind her. She’s just miffed that something else other than her legendary beauty and divine pianoforte talent has captured the attention of all present.”

  “All present? You mean you and me?”

  “No, silly—I mean everyone. Haven’t you heard the whispers and conjecture going on out there? Everyone is positively rapt to know who the author is. And not only that,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “they’re all atwitter about the identity of the fortune hunter.”

  “The fortune hunter?” Beatrice squeaked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—the letter spoke in very general terms.”

  Sophie clasped Beatrice’s hand in earnest. “The letter, yes. The drawing, well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Surely you saw the resemblance. I mean, if I did, it’s impossible to believe that you did not. Did you?”

  Well, then—good thing they were in the retiring room. Her stomach rebelled all over again, with a surge of guilty nerves racing through her. “Well,” she hedged, “I think it could be any number of gentlemen, or more likely, just a conglomeration of several into one.”

  “I can scarce believe you can’t see it. Honestly, if it’s not Mr. Godfrey, I’ll eat my slippers.”

  Curses. That was exactly what she was afraid of. Although, if anyone was going to have her foot in her mouth, it would doubtless be Beatrice.

  Oblivious to her distress, Sophie spun an escaped curl around her finger. “The author is one brave, bold soul.”

  Beatrice glanced at her friend in the mirror, surprised by the unknowing compliment. A bit of the anxiousness ebbed away at the kind words. “She is a bit brave, isn’t she?”

  “A bit? A good deal more than that, I should think. I’d never have it in me to be so brilliant.”

  The knot in Beatrice’s stomach further unraveled and she smiled hugely at her friend. “Of course you do—more so, I should think.”

  “Now, that’s a load of hogwash, and we both know it.” She winked at Beatrice’s reflection, her cheeks blushing merrily. “But I’m glad someone does. The letter may not be useful to me, but if it helps even one girl avoid the fortune hunter’s snare, then I say bravo.”

  Beatrice very nearly hugged her. She was right—even if her drawing caused Mr. Godfrey a bit of discomfort, it very well might be helping to save a fellow debutant from poor Diana’s fate. Even if it were only one less girl duped by a fortune hunter, it would be well worth the risk and minor scandal for Mr. Godfrey. All guilt aside, he was exactly the sort she was warning against.

  Sophie pursed her lips, her finger still twirling the same dark curl. “Do you think she is here now? The author, I mean. She was at Lady Churly’s, so it stands to reason she’d be here, don’t you think?”

  That was a question she could answer with absolute honesty. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  * * *

  The Westmoreland ball was proving to be quite a bit more entertaining than the last one Colin had attended. Here, he gladly released himself from the need to write his name on the dance cards of only the ladies on his list of suitable wives. So far, he had claimed dances with half a dozen young ladies o
f varying stations and backgrounds.

  Unfortunately, he had yet to find the lady for whom he had reserved two waltzes, just in case one of hers was already claimed. Taking another sip of champagne, he scanned the room for the golden-haired nymph who had assured him that she would be there.

  “Looking for someone?” Aunt Constance nodded in greeting, causing the ostrich feather affixed to the front of her emerald green turban to sway regally.

  He offered her a bland smile, unwilling to reveal that that was exactly what he had been doing. “Taking it all in. Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Aunt?”

  “One never enjoys oneself at a society ball, dear boy. One merely tolerates the evening as best one can.”

  Every now and again, her dry humor made an appearance. Colin chuckled, clinking his glass to hers. “Well, then, here is to enduring the evening in style.”

  She chuckled and took a sip, glancing out over the attendants as if she were surveying her kingdom. “Of course, it’s always slightly more entertaining when the ton is abuzz about something. Just look at the number of people here tonight. That dreadful letter has created quite a bit of interest for the Little Season.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said, the words low to prevent them from traveling. Just another reminder to stay vigilant. He must not give the ton any reason to doubt his family’s standing. If someone asked a direct question about his finances, he refused to lie about it, which made keeping up appearances all the more vital.

  As he started to lift his goblet, something made him look to the right, as if an unseen hand turned him by the chin.

  And that was when he saw her.

  He froze, his glass halfway to his lips, as his gaze locked on Lady Beatrice’s small form slipping through the crowd. Her dark blond hair was studded with tiny jewels that flashed with every step she took. Her gown, a pale blue creation that shimmered in the candlelight as if shot with slivers of silver, suited her perfectly. She looked ethereal, and beautiful, and completely enchanting.