THE FORTUNE HUNTER
Julia Herbert
She struggled but he held her fast!
Amy Tyrrell named him the Fortune-Hunter. But Jeffrey Maldon mattered little to her in the tumultuous whirl of balls and fetes and the attentions of a certain dark-eyed courtier...
Until catastrophe exploded around them!
Her father was accused of murder— framed by the smuggling gang who made up jury and judge, who would stop at nothing to see a government man hang.
Amy despaired when he was thrown into Winchester Gaol. Then Jeffrey Maldon swore to free him. But could she trust him? When he took his pay in savage kisses and warned her of the final reckoning?
CHAPTER
ONE
Miss Tyrrell was on her knees in the herb garden, harvesting the blossoms of the cinquefoil for the making of a skin lotion, a preparation much in demand among the friends and neighbours who thronged to her father’s house. A wide canvas apron protected her taffeta gown; her head was protected from the buffeting sea breeze from the Solent by a straw hat securely tied down with a broad blue ribbon; over her little high-heeled shoes were slippers of bast, woven by the adoring hands of the under-gardener. If young ladies of quality will insist on the actual practice of gardening instead of merely admiring the results, thought Bryce, they must be safeguarded against their own foolhardiness.
Amy was engrossed in her work. The small basket at her side was half-full of small yellow petals. She wriggled further along the narrow path between the herb beds and stretched for a plant some two feet off; it eluded her because the folds of her skirt caught, behind her, on a shrub.
“Allow me, Miss Tyrrell,” said a voice. And a long arm shot out over her shoulder, a hand gathered the flower, and it was deposited in her basket.
Amy, still on her hands and knees, looked round and up.
“Mr. Maldon.” She said the name without enthusiasm.
“Good morning, Miss Tyrrell. They told me I should find you here.”
Had they indeed. It was extremely provoking of them to tell him anything of the kind. Did Palmer the butler really imagine she wished to be discovered on her knees on a gritty garden path in gardening gloves and looking a fright? Since it was only Mr. Maldon, it didn’t greatly matter. But supposing it had been Bernard?
“Good morning, Mr. Maldon,” she replied, scrambling to her feet with his help. And despite the fact that it was not Bernard, she took off the thick gloves and began to untie the apron.
“I’ve been sitting for a quarter of an hour with your parents, ma’am, and since you did not come in they were so good as to suggest I might come out.”
Really, Papa was extraordinary! Could he not see what was plain to herself and Mama, that the man was only waiting his opportunity to propose? But no—Papa was all that was good and honest and upright, and could not be expected to notice such small matters as another fortune-hunter. He was too taken up with local affairs, and the troubled politics that had succeeded the Jacobite Rising of ’45.
Sometimes Amy doubted that Mr. Maldon was a fortune-hunter. She had seen three or four since she came out, and in general they talked a lot more than Mr. Maldon and, when talking, paid a great many more compliments. Maldon was not precisely taciturn, but he shared a characteristic with her father—he seemed to have little time for empty chatter. In a way, that made his favourable comments all the more valuable—or would have done if Amy’s heart had not been already safely lodged with Bernard.
To her it was a mystery why her father seemed positively to encourage Mr. Maldon. He had come to Markledon, a quiet Hampshire market town, practically unknown and with his living to make as a lawyer. He had been settled here not quite three months. For eleven weeks of those three months he had been paying Amy marked attentions. She reflected that since he was tall, well-spoken, and reasonably good-looking, she might have been in some danger from him even though—on the debit side—he was clearly not rich and probably wanted her money more than her person.
To Amy it was a source of secret amusement that the various young men who had thought to marry into her money were quite unaware how safe she was from them. She was going to marry Bernard—no one else. That was settled, even though it had never been put into words between them. One day ... when Bernard got tired of playing the gay bachelor ... one day ... he would say it: “I love you, Amy. You must be my wife.”
“I hope I don’t interrupt your employment,” Mr. Maldon was saying as he took from her the ugly apron and folded it under his arm. “But I must confess I’m glad of an opportunity to speak to you alone. With so many friends continually calling at your house, Miss Tyrrell, such chances are rare.”
Oh dear, thought Amy. Here it comes.
If she hadn’t been taken so much at a disadvantage, she would have tried to turn the conversation to some safe route—for after all, it gave her no pleasure to say no to a man who had hopes of whatever kind, in asking her to marry him.
“I came to take my leave, ma’am,” he went on. “I am going to London on business for a while.”
Amy had the grace to colour a little. So much for her self-importance! Mr. Maldon had merely come, as politeness required, to take a temporary farewell.
“But before I go,” he said, “there is something I should like to ask you.”
“Yes, sir?” she said bravely.
“Shall we walk into the shelter of the chestnut trees? I’m sure it’s too cool for you in this strong sea breeze.” He offered his arm, and after a momentary hesitation she took it and walked with him. It was best to get it over.
Maldon led her to a smooth stone bench that had acted as bed to many a French doll of hers. Overhead the chestnut trees spread their broad green fingers. She sat down and looked up at him, outlined against the green, and wished he would sit down and look less like a well-bred giant about to eat her.
“What I wish to ask,” he began, after a fractional hesitation, “is prompted by the general chit-chat of the neighbourhood. You’re no doubt aware that your affairs are often talked over by your acquaintance.”
“Lud, yes, sir. I discuss theirs, why shouldn’t they discuss mine?”
“And yet, it’s sometimes vexing to hear that thoughts of great importance and privacy are the topic of small-talk.” He gazed down at her, his expression grave. “In short, it is generally supposed by your friends and neighbours that you are engaged to a gentleman of this district. Is it impertinent to ask if they are right?”
“No, sir,” Amy said with some reluctance, “if they say I am engaged, they are wrong. If I were, I should let it be known—it wouldn’t be a matter for conjecture.”
“Your pardon, Miss Tyrrell. I didn’t mean to imply anything so reprehensible as a secret engagement.” Maldon’s broad hand went up to his plain cravat, and it occurred to Amy that for a fortune-hunter, he was very ill at ease. “The feeling is that you are ... strongly attached to a gentleman, and as, so far as they can see, the match would please both families, they regard it as likely that you will soon be married.”
“Well, sir?” Amy said, feeling a little prick of resentment against him. Why should he interfere in her affairs? Why should he bring up before her this puzzle that had begun to trouble her greatly—the lack of a declaration from Bernard? “Was that your question? Whether or not I am engaged? If so, I have answered it.”
“Forgive me, I have expressed myself badly. I needed to know whether your friends were correct in their assumption that you were already promised to another—or if there is any room for me to hope.”
“I can answer the last part for you,” she said with an appearance of composure. “The answer is no.”
He gave a wry smile. “From the tone of your voice I take it there was no
chance for me in any case, even without the prior claim that your neighbours speak of. I apologise for embarrassing you with my entreaties.”
There was an unexpected note in his voice as he said this; something, she thought, more than the disappointment of a man seeing a wealthy catch elude him. Her resentment melted away. Perhaps, after all, it had not been entirely a matter of finance with him, even though he clearly had little money of his own. Standing there so tall and imposing in his plain blue coat, he had little of the gallant about him; he looked like a man with a great deal of self-control who was taking a hard knock with stoic acceptance.
She was surprised at her surge of sympathy for him. Ever since he had appeared in her circle of acquaintance, she had been using up energy in being rather cool towards Mr. Maldon, even though other young ladies of the district declared him to be the handsomest newcomer Markledon had welcomed in many a long day. Handsome? Was he handsome? For Amy, good looks in a man were always measured by Bernard’s fine pale skin and dark eyes. Mr. Maldon, with his fair hair brushed back in a plain bow, his cool grey glance, his sinewy body better suited to the open air than the drawing-room, was almost the opposite of her pattern of masculine attractiveness. Yet at this moment she felt an absurd longing to put a hand upon his arm and feel the firm muscles under his sleeve. She almost wished ... yes, almost but not quite ... that she had flirted a little with Mr. Maldon. He might have been allowed to steal a kiss—what would it be like, she wondered, to be kissed by Jeffrey Maldon?
Astounded at this errant thought, she pulled herself together.
“You haven’t embarrassed me, sir,” she said gently. “I’m sorry that you should be disappointed, but some other young lady will have the good fortune to make you happy.”
He shook his head. “That’s unlikely. And now, as I can think of nothing in the way of small-talk, I’ll make my retreat if you wish to turn back to your gardening.”
“No, the wind as you say is too strong. I believe I shall go indoors, if you will give me your arm.”
He stooped and offered it. As she got to her feet she felt the strength of the muscles under the blue cotton of his summer coat, and found herself wondering what it would be like to have that arm come about her in an embrace ... Bernard sometimes hugged her, and that was—oh, delightful, entrancing. But there was something brotherly about it. Whereas if Mr. Maldon were to sweep her into his arms, she sensed that it might be an experience to make the world rock under her feet.
“Shall you be long in London, Mr. Maldon?” she inquired, hurrying into speech to banish these strange thoughts.
“That’s uncertain. I have to attend to some complicated matters of business which may take some time, since their completion depends not on myself but on others who may prove dilatory. From what your friends were saying, I gather that on my return I may find you married?”
“Oh no, sir,” she exclaimed. Really, people were odd! As if she would be asked for and married within a couple of weeks—! “No, I must confess to you that although I think of myself as promised, I can’t believe I shall be a married woman so soon.”
“In that case I apologise again,” Maldon said, frowning. “Your friends talked in such a way that I felt I must speak before I left, however slender the chance. Perhaps I’m wrong to report it, but they seem to think you will be married within the month.”
“He has been gambling again,” Amy said with a sigh. “When he loses money at cards, the gossips always become more active! As if the only way to pay his gambling debts was to marry me—which is absurd!”
Jeffrey Maldon stifled the words that rose up in him, which were to the effect that any man who allowed Miss Tyrrell to be spoken of in that way by gossips deserved to be horsewhipped. New in the area, and slow to be accepted by the parochial minds of Markledon, he had had to piece together hints and nods about Amy’s situation. Her father was kind enough to invite him quite frequently to the house, and on the occasions when Bernard Gramont was present he had sensed a strong affection flowing out to the man from Amy. But he was less sure that the current flowed the other way.
Incredible though it seemed, Bernard Gramont didn’t appear to be in love with Amy.
Well, there are some men who are utter fools, Maldon knew. Men who are given all the gifts of the gods—good looks, charm, money, a family of some influence and, as if that were not enough, the love of the most beautiful and intelligent girl in the world—and yet who seem to want to do nothing with it. Bernard was one such: his mother and sisters adored him, his father had handed on to him the fine features and winning ways that made him the conqueror of all the young ladies in the neighbourhood. Maldon had never been invited to their home, Parall, but from all accounts it was very handsome inside. Their clothes, their style of living, bespoke money. Certainly Bernard had no need to take Amy for the sake of her fortune.
But to have Amy Tyrrell in love with him made him the most fortunate man in the world. Could he not see that she was a nonpareil? That flawless skin, touched with soft warm colour along the cheekbones ... the wide mouth that could curve into a smile impossible to resist... the trim, upright figure moving elegantly through the minuet at the Assembly Ball, easy to distinguish even in the throng because no other woman carried her head in just that proud way...
Yet instead of settling down with her, he preferred to racket around with card-players and horse-copers; his exploits were the talk of the coffee-houses.
Perhaps he was just immature. Still sowing his wild oats, as the saying went. All the same, Maldon understood why Mr. Tyrrell sometimes looked anxiously at Bernard as he teased Amy. When was the man going to come to the point? How long must his daughter be kept dangling? It was a wonder that the situation had not caused an eruption of Mr. Tyrrell’s rather unruly temper—but then, where his daughter was concerned, Mr. Tyrrell would do almost anything rather than upset her.
Once indoors, Amy and Mr. Maldon found other visitors assembled. Her father, ever anxious to further her cause, had invited the Gramont family to dinner, or at least that part of it that was inevitable—only one daughter was “out”, Janet, a year or so older than Bernard. She was sitting by her mother, the two of them dark and pretty, although Mrs. Gramont was faded now. It always seemed to Maldon that Mrs. Gramont’s looks had drained away as if to enhance her husband’s, for he was still one of the handsomest men Maldon had ever seen. “Beau” Gramont, men called him: elegant, dark-eyed, his hair always finely dressed and sparkling with the best imported French powder, his clothes setting off his almost Italianate skin and black brows.
His son Bernard was as good to look upon, perhaps even more so because, darting about the country after entertainment, he spent less time on his appearance. His clothes were more casual than his father’s—plainer shoes without diamante on the buckles, less lace about the throat. Yet such lace as he wore was the finest Point d’Alenin, and the buttons of his waistcoat were skillfully wrought gold.
Mr. Maldon sighed a little to himself. He felt very conscious of some worn edges to his coat, the plainness of his linen. No wonder Miss Tyrrell preferred Bernard Gramont...
Amy had been in love with Bernard for nearly eleven years. She remembered well the first time she ever saw him. The house whose land ran with her father’s was called Parall, and it had stood empty for some months. Then there was talk of a new owner, a man with a family, and she had rejoiced at the thought of other children to play with. Aged ten, she had had some lonely days since the Hayhams went away.
Through a gap in the hedge she had watched the travelling coach draw to a halt outside the great porch of Parall, and seen the newcomers alight. Bernard had been first, jumping down with a shout of glee at being free of the stuffy conveyance. Even then he had had that heart-catching charm which never left him. His father had it too. Quick, enthusiastic, a little flamboyant—and irresistible. It was no wonder to Amy that the women of the family were their willing slaves.
Perhaps Bernard would speak today. Perhaps, in the cl
ose society of Markledon, some rumour had reached him of Mr. Maldon’s interest, and he would be spurred to action. True, two proposals in twenty-four hours were a little too much to hope for, but one day Bernard must speak. One day he would ask her. It had to be so. If not, why was she alive at all?
She greeted the guests; then, with a nod of approval from her father, invited Mr. Maldon to join them. As she went upstairs she wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry that Mr. Maldon was staying.
Ah well ... he’d be gone soon.
As she passed her mother’s room Mrs. Tyrrell, still dressing, heard her footsteps. “My dear, come in a moment,” she called. “What did he say? He seemed very anxious to see you.”
“Who, Mama?” asked Amy, feigning obtuseness.
“Mr. Maldon, of course. What did he say to you? A little bird did tell me it was something very particular.”
“Couldn’t the same little bird have given you the particulars?”
“Come, don’t be secretive, Amy. What did you Say to him? Isn’t it strange, my love, fair-haired men always seem to fall in love with you. I remember Mr. Standish, who was so mad after you during the London season—”
“It might be truer to say that the fair-haired Mr. Standish was mad after my money. And in any case, Mr. Maldon’s hair is quite a different shade from Mr. Standish’s—he wears almost no powder, have you noticed?”
“I notice, dearest, that you are a great deal more aware of Mr. Maldon than you appear,” teased Mrs. Tyrrell. “So I hope you were kind to him?”
“Not unkind, I believe. But he seemed to make up his mind about me so very quickly—almost as soon as he saw me, in fact. One might almost say, before he saw me—as if he’d come to Markledon on purpose to try for my hand.”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 1
