Flirting With Fortune swak-3

by Erin Knightley

  “And once he sees this, do you think he will be feeling particularly rational about it?”

  She put a hand to her middle to try to soothe the building turmoil. She wasn’t wrong. Perhaps imprudent, but not wrong. “And will you be ashamed of me if he does?” Her chin hitched up a bit higher, an almost unconscious defense.

  He looked down at her, frustration dulling his stony gaze. With a sigh, he reached for her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. “Never, a stór. But worry and shame are two very different things. I doona want you to be hurt if Godfrey should open his mouth.”

  The warmth of his touch soaked into her skin, calming her. “I’m making a difference for the ladies of the ton, Colin. If it can help someone avoid a similar trap, then I can handle a bit of scandal.”

  “A bit of scandal? Practically naming a well-liked son of a peer as a villain in a publication distributed to half the manors, halls, and mansions in England may qualify as something more than a bit.”

  He was very good at putting things in a way that made them sound much worse than they were. She hoped. “I still stand behind it. I’m proud of it, actually. I had hoped you might be as well.”

  He made no effort to hide his disbelief. “You were planning on telling me, then?”

  “Yes, of course.” She paused, tilting her head. “Someday, anyway.” She grinned impishly, a sly, closemouthed upturning of her lips designed to elicit at least a small smile from him.

  “Someday? You mean when we’re old and gray and I haven’t the strength to chastise you?”

  “Something like that.”

  Offering a very slight smile, he pulled her to him, slow but steady. “I’m fairly certain there is a statute of limitations on how long after an incident a confession holds value.”

  “Well, there must be some mystery between us. How else are we to keep life interesting?”

  “Somehow,” he said, dropping a soft, altogether too quick kiss on her upturned lips, “I doona think that will be a problem for the two of us.”

  “I—” She paused, a sound from below catching her attention. “What was that?” She pulled away from him, hating the loss of his warmth but too curious not to investigate the muffled noises arising from beyond the partially closed door.

  “What—”

  “Shh!” She put her finger to her lips, dashing on the toes of her slippers for the door. She could hear voices, both male and female, rising from the entry hall below. The echo on the marble was distorting the words, making it impossible to discern what anyone was saying—or who was saying it, for that matter.

  Grasping the knob, she pulled it open and poked her head out. A servant dashed by, rushing toward the entry hall and all of the commotion below. Just as the footman descended the stairs, someone came up in the opposite direction. All at once, Beatrice recognized the blond woman ascending the last few steps, and she gasped in surprise.

  “Evie!”

  * * *

  Beatrice hadn’t been exaggerating when she had warned Colin of just how overwhelming her family could be when they were all together. Within the space of ten minutes, he went from having an intimate discussion with his betrothed to being swallowed up by the chaos of introductions to her sister, brother-in-law, niece, and, most unnerving of all, her father.

  For someone who had been traveling for a day and a half, the marquis looked remarkably well put together. His graying hair was combed back from his forehead, revealing slightly tanned skin and a pair of piercing blue eyes, not so very different from Raleigh’s. He exuded authority as some might wear cologne. When they had been introduced, he had eyed Colin up and down as if surmising his worth in a single glance.

  Unnerving, even for someone who was studying to be subjected to exactly that sort of perusal for the rest of his career.

  After five minutes of chatter, Granville had put a hand to Colin’s shoulder. “Let’s have a talk, shall we?”

  As much as his mind conjured images of being taken to a dungeon and questioned under duress, the marquis led him to a spacious and comfortable billiards room, full of masculine details like claw-footed furniture and the distinctive scent of fine tobacco.

  The marquis gestured to an impressive humidor. “Can I offer you a cheroot? Cigar?”

  “A kind offer, but no, thank you.” He doubted it would be a credit to him if he was coughing through the interview. His sister had weak lungs when it came to smoke and soot, so it was a habit he had never picked up.

  Nodding, Granville bypassed the box and settled into one of the wide chairs, the leather creaking beneath his weight. Leaning back in the chair, he regarded Colin with a slight tilt of his head. “I imagine you expected me to lead you to the dungeon and interrogate you.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind. You’ll be wanting to ensure your daughter’s happiness, after all.”

  “You may be relieved to know that I trust my son implicitly. If he has deemed you a good match for Beatrice, then I will defer to his judgment. However,” he said, his voice ever casual, “that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish to get to know my future son-in-law. How has it been, stepping into society for the first time?”

  “Well enough. People seem to have respected my father and are extending a certain amount of courtesy to me.”

  “Courtesy or curiosity?”

  Colin allowed a small grin. The man was astute. “Both, I think. Then again, I think my father was always a bit of a curiosity to the ton, so it stands to reason that I would be as well.”

  “I met him once, you know. He didn’t necessarily frequent the same events we did, but he attended the Duke of Thornton’s ball a year and a half ago.” He gave a soft snort of amusement, shaking his head. “Damned if the man didn’t turn down my attempts to hire him.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Colin responded, his voice dry as winter wheat. “My father didn’t possess the most prudent of souls.”

  “No, but it is my understanding that you do. And to be honest, I find the situation has a rather impressive irony to it.”

  “That is one way to look at it. I’m merely relieved you don’t hold his idiosyncrasies against me.” Actually, Colin was relieved about a lot of things. The marquis wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.

  “A man can be responsible only for his own actions. Which brings us quite neatly to you.”

  Here was the talk he had been waiting for. “Yes, sir. I’ve one more year at the Inns of Court—”

  Granville’s upraised hand stopped him midsentence. “I’ve read quite enough about your prospects, Sir Colin. What I wish to know is how you will treat my daughter and what you expect from her.”

  Not a question he would have ever anticipated from the Marquis of Granville. And not a question to be taken lightly. The older man watched him with keen eyes, a subtle warning that what Colin said mattered to him.

  “Lady Beatrice is a remarkable woman, my lord. It is my wish to provide for her a house in which she can be comfortable, a studio in which she can paint, and a marriage in which she can be loved and honored.”

  “And in return you expect what from her?”

  “It is my wish for her to be a contented wife, a reliable mistress of my household, and a devoted mother to our future children. She already hails from a family that values hard work, so I have no doubt she will thrive as the wife of a baronet barrister.”

  Granville’s eyes softened the slightest bit at that compliment to his work ethic. One didn’t run a thriving horse-breeding business without hard work and dedication. “I see. My daughter is accustomed to the finest things in life. Two thousand a year is a pittance compared to the wealth she was raised in.”

  Is that what the man thought was important to Beatrice? Colin held his ground, refusing to be cowed by Granville’s blunt words. “Your daughter is accustomed to a loving family. She will be welcomed most joyfully into mine, I am certain. Her needs will always be met, and she will of course be able to spend her marriage settlement in any way she chooses.
But it is my belief, sir, that so long as she has her paints, most everything in life is secondary to her.”

  This time the marquis actually smiled as he leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. “It appears my son was correct. Clearly you have an understanding of what makes Beatrice happy. And only a simpleton would miss the fondness with which you speak of her. I am well aware that many of the ton believe love to be unnecessary to a marriage, but I couldn’t disagree more. As far as I am concerned, it is the cornerstone to a happy life.”

  Colin blinked, working to keep the surprise from his face. Unexpected emotion welled up within him at the approval in the older man’s voice. Certainly not a sentiment he was used to from his own father. “Thank you, sir. I am deeply honored to not only be gaining a wonderful wife, but to be joining your fine family as well.”

  As they rose and shook hands, Colin let go of the stress that had plagued him since the debt collectors showed up at his door. For a short amount of time, he would keep his secret from Beatrice, but once they were married, all would be well. He would have a wife he loved, a family he could count on, and the estate safely preserved for the next generation.

  The wedding couldn’t come fast enough.

  * * *

  “Bonjour, monsieur!”

  The old man didn’t even look up from his inventory as he held up a hand, more in acknowledgment than greeting. “I will be with you in just a moment.” The last word was said with a hard “T,” emphasizing the English version of the word.

  Bent at the waist as he was, all Beatrice could see was the top of Monsieur Allard’s dark cap and the tufts of white hair poking out in disarray. She walked up to the counter and peeked over at what new supplies he had just received. “Oh, I love those broad-handled new brushes.”

  “Broad handles for broad hands, my lady. They would rest like bricks in your fingers.” Brushing off his hands, he straightened slowly, eyeing her over the rims of his spectacles. “Was there something you needed?”

  It was beyond her why the man was so endearing to her. He was abrupt with her at every turn. Although, come to think of it, that might be exactly why. So many people groveled or kowtowed to a woman of her station. Monsieur Allard gave no special treatment, and his gruff manner made her like him all the more. And there was the small issue of him helping her with the engravings.

  “Yes, indeed. Apparently, I have quite a fascination with shades of gray lately. I’m very nearly out of both black and white pigments.”

  Nodding, he turned and rifled through his stores, coming up with two small pots. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He shook his head, wrapping up her purchase with slow but steady hands. “You do realize that footmen are very good at fetching such things.”

  “Remarkably, so am I,” she said, not at all offended by his usual grumbling, “especially when I have good news to share. Or perhaps you may think it bad, since you soon may be deprived of my patronage.”

  His bushy eyebrows rose the slightest amount—a veritable outpouring of emotion for him. “Yes?”

  She grinned hugely, not caring for once that her crooked front tooth was on display. “I’m getting married.”

  She had his attention now. “Married?”

  “Indeed. And you will never guess who my betrothed is—or, rather, who his father was.” She could hardly wait to tell him, a fellow artist. Normal people might appreciate what Tate had achieved, but a true artist was in awe of him. With her hands gripping the edge of the counter, she leaned forward. “Sir Frederick Tate.”

  Monsieur Allard’s mouth opened in surprise, and his eyes blinked rapidly behind his spectacles. “The famous painter? That is . . . I mean to say . . . My lady, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Congratulations is perfectly acceptable, I assure you,” she teased, floating with happiness. It was hard to imagine how a single person could be so unaccountably fortunate.

  “But . . . your letters.” He shook his head, his brow crumpled together like a discarded piece of parchment. “I do not understand.”

  She cocked her head. “What do the letters have to do with this? I can still write them, after the marriage.” The Frenchman wasn’t making a lick of sense.

  “That’s not what I meant. Your letters were so fiercely against the fortune hunter.” He raised his shoulders to his ears, his hands spread palm up. “How could you marry a man who is en faillite?”

  “En faillite?” she repeated, at a complete loss. She knew French fairly well, but the word was unfamiliar. She had no idea why he somehow seemed upset instead of elated, or at the very least mildly happy for her.

  “Eh, how to say . . . ?” He shook his head, trying to recall the translation. All at once his expression cleared, and he snapped his fingers. “Bankrupt!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The word reverberated in her head like a cannon shot, echoing over and over as she stared at him with her mouth wide open. “Bankrupt?” Her voice was a ragged whisper, unfamiliar to her own ears. “Sir Colin Tate is bankrupt?”

  Saying the words together was almost as absurd as saying Sir Colin Tate is purple, or Sir Colin Tate is Chinese. Her brain couldn’t seem to reconcile them.

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  The whole situation was made all the more odd by Monsieur Allard’s use of his native language. He was just as unnerved as she was, especially as it became obvious she had no idea what on earth he was talking about.

  “That can’t be right. Monsieur, you must be mistaken.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, rubbing a hand over the raspy afternoon stubble on his cheek. “But I do not think so. Please, my lady, sit down.” He gestured to the ancient stool at the end of the counter.

  She shook her head. No, this was all some mistake. She wasn’t going to sit down and have a fit of vapors because it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “Explain yourself, please. Why do you think this?”

  He sighed and pulled his work stool over, the legs screeching as they dragged over the old floor. Settling onto it, he leaned an elbow on the counter and studied her. “I know my business, my lady. A year ago, old Georges received an offer to work in a new engraving company in Edinburgh, headed by the great Frederick Tate himself. He wished for me to be his master engraver and to help train new recruits in the art.

  “I did not wish to leave the shop, so I turned him down. My competitor, John Gotter, was hired instead. It was a decision that Gotter bitterly regrets, since not only did the business fold before it ever even really began, but the journal he worked for had already replaced him.”

  Beatrice held a hand over her stomach, but it did nothing to stop the turmoil. “How could this be? Why wouldn’t anyone know about it?”

  “Because of so much mishandling, it never actually opened. Tate’s business partner ran off with much of the money from investors, venders refused to refund the cost of equipment that was never used, and voilà, there wasn’t even a farthing to pay Gotter for his trouble. The word never got out because no announcements were made. It could be called a silent catastrophe.”

  A silent catastrophe. The perfect description for the agony of discovering the man she had pledged her life to had in fact been the exact thing she’d thought to avoid. Her blood turned to ice in her veins, making her shake in a way she could not seem to stop.

  A scurrilous, duplicitous, deceitful fortune hunter.

  “I’m so sorry, my lady. I see that I have brought you much pain.”

  She looked up to him, her gaze meeting his. Compassion and empathy reflected from within. Or was it pity? She swallowed and nodded, using every bit of willpower she possessed in the world to hold back the tears that stung the backs of her eyes, demanding to be freed. “Merci, monsieur,” she said, her voice choked with the force of her emotions.

  “Please, can I—”

  “No.” The word was wrenched from deep within her, from the place unwilling to hear even another word from anyone until she had a mo
ment to think. She swallowed, lifting her chin with the effort to maintain her crumbling composure. “But thank you. I’ll just see myself out.”

  It was all she could do to turn and walk from the store, leaving behind all of the hopes and dreams on which she had floated in. They lay like shattered china on the floor where she had stood, forever marking the loss of her innocence.

  * * *

  Beatrice had devised a thousand different ideas for how best to respond to Monsieur Allard’s shocking news. She could burst into Colin’s home—or rather, his aunt’s home—demanding to know the truth. But whether it proved to be true or not, such a tactic was unlikely to result in anything good. Besides, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was simply no way for her to approach him with any amount of rationality right now.

  She could go to her brother and insist he tell her every last detail of what transpired during the meeting he had with her betrothed. However, she was loath to bring such a thing to her brother’s attention if it were false. If it were true and he knew about it, she might have to kill him, and she really didn’t want to deal with the mess.

  Of all the ideas that had come and gone during her walk home, only one seemed to make any sense.

  “Ah, Benedict, there you are.”

  Beatrice’s brother-in-law glanced up from the ledger book he was studying, one dark brow raised in a wary greeting. “Here I am. Is there something I can do for you?” No doubt he had already noted her puffy eyes and reddened nose.

  Glancing behind her, she ducked into the study and eased the door closed. By some small miracle, her mother and sisters had stepped out to do some shopping while she was gone, which enabled her to come this far without being noticed by anyone other than Finnington and a handful of servants. She wasn’t taking any chances with her family stumbling upon the conversation she was about to have.