Flirting With Fortune swak-3

by Erin Knightley

  “That depends on how you interpret the information I come bearing.”

  Well, that certainly didn’t put one at ease. “Come, have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the old sofa. The morning sun poured into the studio, warming the space far better than even a fire would. That had been a good thing, a few moments ago. Now, a prickle of concern combined with her heavy winter morning gown, making her sweat.

  “I could certainly use some good news, Benedict.”

  He smiled, his dimple creasing his left cheek. “I can see that. Unfortunately, I have no idea whether you will like or dislike the information I come bearing, but I decided you should have it nonetheless.”

  “My, that does sound serious. All right, then, let’s hear it.” She braced herself, completely uncertain of what he could possibly have to tell her. If it was bad news, she was not opposed to boarding the next ship to France for an extended sojourn. Five or so years ought to do it.

  “I received a missive today from one of my contacts who I had requested help from last month. There is to be an announcement in tomorrow’s paper, but select private invitations have already been issued.” Benedict leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Evidently, a single portrait is to go to auction next week. Sir Frederick Tate’s final masterpiece.”

  Beatrice’s mouth dropped in utter astonishment. He could have just as well said Rembrandt was in town. “A final masterpiece? Does Colin know?”

  “Colin is the one who is to sell it.”

  The words were like a blow to the chest. “How could that be? He never . . .” She trailed off, unable to comprehend the enormity of the situation. He’d never said a word. She thought back to their meeting, which he had so eagerly arranged the moment he had returned. Was there a significance to them meeting in his father’s studio?

  “From what I gather, it is a previously unknown work, discovered at the estate during his recent visit.” He leveled his chocolate gaze on her, taking in her reaction. “There are bound to be questions about why he would choose to sell the work.”

  She nodded slowly. Of course there would be. Everyone would think the estate was in trouble—why else would a man sell his newly deceased father’s last piece? But in that moment, it didn’t matter to her. The whole world could think he was a penniless fortune hunter, for all she cared.

  Because in that moment, in a sudden, blinding flash of clarity, she knew better.

  He had every right to sue if she backed out of the betrothal. He would win, too. She had no case—and more than that, she was quite certain every detail of the settlement had been attended to in order to be certain it was legally binding.

  He could ruin her. He could take his rightful settlement, and he could restore his estate. He could choose some sweet bride—a thought that had Beatrice balling her fists into the fabric of her skirts—and move on with his life.

  But he wouldn’t.

  Her mind reeled, dashing back and forth between their many conversations about Sir Frederick. About how difficult their relationship had been, about how hard things had been. Yet whenever he looked at one of his father’s paintings, his face lit up. She knew he mourned the fact that not a single one had remained with his family, save the four in his aunt’s collection, which probably belonged to her late husband’s estate, anyway.

  Yet here was a previously undiscovered painting, and instead of keeping the piece and exploiting the money from her dowry, he was taking the last thing he had from his father and he was sacrificing it. Giving it up, lost to the highest bidder. Tears welled in her eyes, an outward manifestation of the emotion overwhelming her on the inside. Of all the tangled feelings balled up in her belly, there were but two exploding in her heart.

  Incredible love and burning regret.

  The surge of love was indescribable, filling her chest to near bursting. Her mind finally accepted what her body and soul had believed since the moment she laid eyes on him in the empty portrait hall. Since they had danced in the gallery, since he’d presented her with the paintbrushes, since his lips had touched hers.

  Oh, but the regret was just as strong.

  Why had she forced him away? Putting him through hell, making him chase after the impossible only to turn her back on him? She had been so wrong. Horribly, wretchedly, terribly wrong. How could she ever set this right?

  Concern darkened Benedict’s eyes and creased his brow. “Are you quite all right, Bea? Should I send for someone? Your maid perhaps?”

  “Yes.” He started to rise, and she waved a staying hand. “No. I mean, I’m all right.” Warm, wet tears spilled down her cheeks, and he raised a doubtful eyebrow. “No, I swear to it. I am well. But on second thought, you can find someone for me.”

  “Yes?” He was on his feet, ready for action. Poor man—he imparts simple news to his sister-in-law and ends up with a watering pot on his hands.

  She drew a deep breath, swiping away the moisture from her face. She was not a crier—she was a doer. And she had something she had to do. “Richard. Please, tell Richard that I need to speak with him at once.”

  * * *

  “I have a most unusual request.”

  “Excellent,” Richard said, leaning back in his desk chair with a wink. “It wouldn’t be any fun if it were usual.”

  Beatrice paused in her pacing to smile at her brother. “I’m so glad you think so. Because I need to borrow ten thousand pounds.”

  Richard, who had been balancing on the two back legs of his chair, wheeled his arms as he very nearly fell backward. He overcompensated, slamming the two front legs onto the floor with an echoing bang.

  “Good Lord, don’t tease like that. You almost made me fall flat on my arse.” He resituated himself, sitting more properly in the chair this time.

  “Oh, no, not teasing. Although, technically, I don’t wish to borrow money so much as I wish to have a portion of my dowry now.”

  “I’m afraid the paint pigment dust must have finally done in your brain, Bea. Shall I order some biscuits and a cup of tea to supply you with some much-needed sugar?”

  Leaning on the back of the chair in front of her, she shook her head. “My brain is in perfect working order, though I admit I have been rather stupid these past few weeks.”

  “Perhaps you should get to the point, Bea. I’m feeling a bit lost.”

  “Oh, good idea.” Stepping around the chair, she sat and crossed her arms, facing her brother and all of his cautious glory. He was completely incongruous with the space, his gorgeous blue jacket sticking out among the dark wood of the furniture and walls. To Beatrice, he looked exactly like the bull’s-eye in the center of a target. “Let’s start in the middle and then work our way backward and forward, shall we?”

  Richard’s eyebrow went up. “Convoluted, but I think I can keep up. Carry on.”

  “Several weeks ago, I learned I was betrothed to a fortune hunter.” As shocking statements went, it was a darn good one, if she did say so herself.

  Richard’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing his chin. “I . . . see.”

  “Well, I did not—before that moment, that is. I was shocked, furious, humiliated—basically every negative emotion you can imagine. I confronted Colin, at which time he confessed the truth of the allegations, though he did proclaim his love for me.

  “As you can imagine, it was not enough. Not nearly enough. After such deception, I couldn’t marry a man like that. He begged for a chance to prove himself, and I agreed to let him try. An impossible task, but I couldn’t deny that I loved him—or at least thought I loved him—and so I was willing to see what he could come up with.”

  Richard said nothing, simply watching and listening as if a blond-headed statue.

  “So let’s move forward to five days ago. Colin returned, we fought, and the engagement was called off.”

  “What?”

  Beatrice smiled sweetly. “No interruptions until the end, if you please.”

  He nodded, though she was fairly
certain she heard his teeth grind.

  “Thank you. Now, let us back up. Apparently, while Colin was in Scotland, he somehow discovered an unknown painting from his father. I believe it was his intention to reveal this to me the night he returned, but I, in all my indignant glory, made it clear the trust between us was destroyed and I could never truly have faith in him again.”

  Beatrice stood, resuming her pacing, her footfalls silent on the thick rug. “At this point, I fully expected him to sue for the dowry owed to him in the marriage contract. It was worth it to me, however—I’d rather be ruined and dowryless than marry a fortune hunter. So imagine my astonishment when I learned this very day that he had put up the newfound treasure for auction.

  “Now, why would he do such a thing? He has won whether I marry him or not. He is a barrister, so I have absolutely no doubt that the marriage contract is ironclad, carefully and meticulously created to the benefit and protection of both parties involved.

  “And then it came to me—because he really does love me. Oh the joy! Except for the minor detail of me effectively renouncing his suit, of course. As I sat there, exulting in my grand fortune, it hit me.” She stopped, turning to face her brother with both hands on her hips.

  When she didn’t say anything more, just stood there eyeing her brother, he finally raised his hands, palms out. “Yes?”

  “The contract was ironclad.”

  “Yes, you said that.”

  “Which means you had to have known about his finances.”

  He exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath for days. “Indeed.”

  “Indeed?” she exclaimed, stalking forward to brace herself with both arms on the desk. “I’ve suffered the worst anguish over a deception that you already knew about, and all you have to say is ‘indeed’?”

  It took almost all her willpower not to sweep her hand across his paper-covered desk, throwing a proper fit. She would have trusted her brother with her life, and as casually as a cruel-hearted sinner, he had betrayed her in the worst possible way.

  He leaned forward, meeting her gaze head-on. “If you had come to me with any of this, any of it, I would have told you everything. But none of us had any idea you were anything more than moody about the fact that your betrothed had gone away. We thought you were missing him, for God’s sake.”

  “Why, Richard? Why did you do it in the first place?”

  “To protect you from yourself, Bea. Any idiot with half a brain could see how much you were in love with the man. Man to man, I believed he loved you, trusted not only his words but his actions when he signed over the bulk of the dowry to a trust for you.”

  Pushing away from the desk, she whirled and resumed her pacing. As much as it was a dagger to the heart to admit it, he was right, for the most part. Still, he was her brother, and he should have been honest. “Right. Well, I made a fine mess of everything by declaring that I could never really trust him. At that point, whatever trust he had in me was well and truly crushed.

  “And that,” she said, spreading her arms, “is where the ten thousand pounds comes in.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The gathered crowd was a surprise, considering the time of year. Apparently, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity really meant something to the art world.

  Sitting in the back of the room, Colin kept from making direct eye contact with anyone. He didn’t wish to see the speculation in anyone’s eyes. They might all be glad for the circumstance that propelled him to sell the last and most remarkable portrait his father had ever created, but that didn’t keep them from judging.

  Evidently, he was a man others found it easy to judge. For God’s sake, the woman he loved would rather live as a social outcast than be married to him. She had yet to make the split official, but he knew when he was beat. No matter how devastated he was, he couldn’t afford to sit back and do nothing. His family’s well-being came first, and that meant selling the painting to save the estate. Suing Beatrice’s family would never, ever be an option, so here he was, cloistered in a large, overwarm room filled with men coveting his only tangible link to his father.

  He glanced back to the portrait, hoping to soak in his father’s likeness for the last time. He hadn’t bothered to do so the last time they had parted. Who would have known that he would never see the man alive again? So instead he memorized the portrait. At least it was static—he could better remember the painting he had spent weeks staring at than the man he had casually glimpsed his whole life.

  Mr. Christie, the auction house owner, walked into the room and headed to the small podium. With his gray hair and fastidiously neat grooming, he might have looked unassuming, but the moment he spoke, he commanded attention. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. As you know, today’s auction is for the sale of a single portrait, notable as the final painting ever completed by the late Sir Frederick Tate and the only known self-portrait.”

  Colin put his head down, squeezing his eyes closed. If he could live without his mother, his father, and even his betrothed, then he could damn well live without the painting.

  “Now, may I have an opening bid please at one hundred pounds?”

  His gut clenched. It was a long, long way to ten thousand pounds from here.

  A hand lifted in the front. “One hundred pounds.”

  “We are started, gentlemen, at one hundred pounds. May I have two hundred? Excellent, now three?”

  “Three hundred.” Lord Northup’s man, if Colin wasn’t mistaken

  “We are at three, can I have four hundred. Yes? Now five?”

  A wealthy landowner raised his hand, though his name eluded Colin at that moment. Drake, was it? Derby?

  Mr. Christie nodded. “Very good—we have five. Can we have six, please? There’s six and now seven? Seven hundred pounds.”

  Northup’s agent raised his hand again, just as another solicitor said, “Eight hundred.”

  “Eight in the room, how about nine? There’s nine, now one thousand pounds? One thousand?” Mr. Christie paused, and Colin’s eyes darted to the gathered men. For God’s sake, it had to go for more than a thousand pounds.

  At last a hand slipped up, the landowner again.

  A nod from the auctioneer.

  Colin blew out a pent-up breath and bowed his head again. Around him, the numbers climbed as the men continued to bid. He lifted his gaze, tuning out the drone of Mr. Christie’s voice as he focused on his father’s face again.

  His father had come through for him. When he needed him most, his father hadn’t let him down. Even if it wasn’t enough in the end, he had truly tried.

  “We have six thousand. Who will give me seven? Can I have seven thousand—Yes, thank you, Mr. Smith. Seven, now eight, seven thousand, now waiting for eight? Can I have eight, please? Who will give me eight?”

  Colin leaned forward in his seat, willing the stakes to be raised. Seven thousand wasn’t good enough. It was a huge amount of money, more than the estate made in two years, but it didn’t hold water against the debt owed.

  Mr. Christie pressed on, his eyes scanning back and forth over the room. “We have seven now, can I have seven thousand five hundred? Seven thousand five hundred for a piece of history? Yes, excellent, seven five from Mr. Darcy.

  “Going now to eight thousand. At seven thousand five hundred now, only need five hundred more.” He kept on with his monotonous litany, sweeping his eyes over the room, pointing to former bidders. Each time, they gave a shake of their head.

  Damn it all—the painting was worth so much more than that. He knew it was a rotten time of year to move forward with the auction, but time was of the essence. If it wasn’t going to hit ten, he’d lose the estate anyway, so what was the point? It would buy them time and comfort, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to yank the portrait from its place of honor and walk away, keeping his father close to him in a way he never had in life.

  “Now’s your chance, gentlemen. Don’t let five hundred pounds get in the way of you and this ext
raordinary painting. Seven thousand five hundred now, only need five hundred more. Can I have five hundred more, just eight thousand.”

  Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement, just the smiling profile of Mr. Darcy, clearly pleased to be winning.

  “Fair warning, gentlemen. It will go at seven five. Fair warning. I need to hear five hundred more. Going once . . .”

  No, not going! Colin gritted his teeth, holding on to the bottom of his chair to keep from coming to his feet and making a fool of himself.

  “Going twice . . .” Christie made one last sweep of the room, then lifted his knocker to seal the deal with a single slam on the desk.

  “Ten thousand pounds.”

  A low gasp echoed through the room as men turned in their seats, looking toward the back door. Colin jerked around, unable to believe the turn of events. A nondescript man in an understated brown jacket and with neatly cropped hair stood just inside the door. Colin had never seen the man in his life—he was quite certain—but he very nearly leapt to his feet to kiss the man.

  A ripple of low conversation buzzed through the room, and Mr. Christie cleared his throat. “Ten thousand pounds. Mr. Darcy, do you want to bid ten thousand five hundred?” The man gave his head a decidedly firm shake. “Very well, fair warning at ten, ten, ten. . . . Sold, to the man in the back for ten thousand pounds.”

  The strike of the knocker rang through the room, a bullet through the heart of Colin’s nightmare. He pressed his eyes closed for a brief moment, long enough to give thanks for the incredible turn of events. His financial worries were over.

  He expected a rush of happiness, a joy born of the surge of relief filling his veins and setting his mind at ease. But there was none. Though the release of stress and worry was profound, there was no accompanying excitement, no elation.

  He had what he had set out to attain since the moment he learned of the estate’s debt, yet it didn’t matter like it should have. How could it? His finances might be safe, but his heart had been lost.