A delighted chuckle escaped his friend.
“I’m willing to bet my best mare that Father regretted refusing you the moment he realized where my sister’s affections lay. Mother probably deduced the truth and gave him a piece of her mind in the process. Women seem much more perceptive to that sort of thing.”
Allen folded his arms, a pleased grin exposing his teeth.
“This is perfect, Falcon, don’t you see? You claimed Ivonne was promised to another. Who else would know that except her affianced? Now that you’re once again on British soil, we’ll circulate the tale that an agreement was reached before you hied off to India.”
“Why didn’t we marry before I left?” Chance eyed him doubtfully. “No one with an iota of sense would believe such fustian nonsense.”
Allen shrugged. “Ivy was what? Fifteen when you left?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Definitely too young.” Allen clasped both hands to his chest and, sotto voce, declared, “To leave her Mother’s bosom and trot off to another continent at such a tender age? Unfathomable.”
“You forget, Allen, I don’t have anything to offer her. No title, no fortune, no lands. Not even an annual income.”
Only the deepest, purest love a man ever had for a woman.
Would that be enough? For her, perhaps, but her father’s approval mattered a great deal to Chance as well.
Allen faced him, all signs of silliness gone. His attention sank to Chance’s mangled hand. “You love her. The rest shouldn’t, and doesn’t, matter.”
A far-off glint entered his eyes. “I learned that the hard way.”
Was love enough? Chance wasn’t certain. A title, even attached to a blackguard or rogue, meant much too many of le bon ton. Perhaps the viscount numbered among those. Chance didn’t know the man well enough to make that determination.
“Besides,” Allen stretched his arms overhead. “I have news that might turn providence’s favor your way. A few questions to the right chaps at Brooks’s and White’s, and I learned Robinson has a reputable establishment on Lombard Street.”
“He’s still conducting business?” Chance’s gaze leaped to Allen, and he couldn’t contain his surprise. “I thought him a thieving scapegrace long since gone.”
A dove landed on the lawn. Watching them with its tiny black-button eyes, the bird poked around beneath a shrub.
“Apparently not.” Allen brushed a speck of lint off his coat. “He’s reputed to be honest and diligent. Several gentlemen I spoke to have engaged in financial endeavors with him.”
He gave Chance a cocky grin. “Very lucrative dealings, I might add.”
* * *
Ivonne tore to her room, barely making the threshold before the torrent of tears overflowed. She’d feared she would cast up her accounts or swoon when Falcon offhandedly mentioned his interest in leaving England. Collapsing on her bed, she sobbed until her throat and head ached.
Shoving her soggy pillow aside, she rolled over and heaved a gusty sigh.
America.
Falcon’s announcement ripped her chest wide open, yanked out her fractured heart, and smashed it beneath the hooves of a thousand horses. Even breathing was a painful reminder of the annihilation of her pathetic dream.
She quirked her lips in self-castigation. When had she become so histrionic? Her gaze fell on a large basket sitting atop the chamber’s small, square table. A crisp white sheet of paper peeked from between several wrapped bundles.
She frowned. What was that, and when had it arrived?
Emelia!
Ivonne leaped from the bed, swiping at her damp face with her fingers. She snatched the paper, taking a cursory glance at the basket’s contents. After breaking the wax seal with her fingernail, she read the missive.
Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. A tight knot of defeat curled in her middle. Emmy wouldn’t help. She’d sent along several fashion magazines, the name of an exclusive modiste, and a basket full of cosmetics, fripperies, and fallalls.
My darling Ivonne,
You’ve no need for my expertise. You are supremely lovely in your innocence, and any man who fails to recognize that truth isn’t worthy of you. I sent along some new cosmetics ...
Ivonne wadded the note into a tiny ball. She tossed it in the fireplace as she dragged herself to the washstand. Eyes closed and fighting tears, she wiped her face with cool water from the pitcher. After changing into her nightgown, she climbed between the sheets. She lay staring at the canopy, her thoughts cavorting about in her mind.
No help from Emmy.
Falcon plans to leave England.
I must produce a groom in two weeks.
All is lost.
Dawson tiptoed into the chamber, her thin face etched with worry. Her astute gaze took in the basket, crumpled paper, and garments heaped upon the floor. “Can I get you anything?”
“Would you please tell Mother I’m indisposed?” Ivonne turned onto her side, tucking a hand beneath her pillow.
“Of course. I’ll bring you some mint tea and toast too.”
Dawson padded from the room, no doubt already aware of the reason for Ivonne’s distress. Servants knew every tidbit, though how they came by the tattle was baffling, if not downright eerie at times.
Several moments later, two raps sounded at the door. Mother glided into the chamber without waiting for Ivonne to bid her enter.
“Darling, you’re not well?” As she took in Ivonne’s appearance, her mother’s face creased with concern. “You’re pale as the moon. Is it your stomach? A headache? Your leg?”
“No, none of those ail me.” Ivonne shut her eyes lest her mother see the anguish that no doubt resided there.
Mother laid her cool hand on Ivonne’s brow. “No fever, but you look entirely done in.”
Ivonne released a shaky breath and opened her eyes.
“You’ve been crying.” Her mother’s brow furrowed into a frown. She sat upon the edge of the bed and smoothed Ivonne’s hair. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. This betrothal business has been too much for you.”
After tucking the counterpane around Ivonne’s shoulders, Mother kissed Ivonne’s forehead. “I’ll send our regrets to the Vanbrokes at once.”
“No, Mother. You and Father should go. Perhaps your presence will help alleviate some of the chatter.” Ivonne didn’t believe it for a minute. When the ton sank its talons into a juicy bit of gossip, no hope for redemption remained. Vultures on carrion, they delighted in everything foul and putrid.
Her mother shook her head.
“No, what’s done is done. I don’t give a rat’s behind what anyone thinks.” She patted Ivonne’s shoulder. “And I don’t mind telling you, after you left the study, I gave your Father a piece of my mind about this ridiculous marriage hullabaloo.”
“I’m sorry you and Father quarreled.” Ivonne sniffed as fresh tears threatened. “It’s rather a mess, isn’t it?”
Her mother opened her mouth then snapped it closed. She stared at Ivonne for a lengthy moment, uncertainty marring her expression.
“Have you considered ...? What I mean to say is, Ivonne is there the slightest possibility, that Mr. Faulkenhurst—”
“He’s meeting with Lord and Lady Sethwick tonight regarding a position in America.” Harder words Ivonne never spoke.
“Oh. I see.” Mother wilted upon hearing the news. Nevertheless, she painted a brilliant smile onto her face. “We’ll hatch a plan, darling. There’s a little time, yet.”
She didn’t sound convinced by half. “Here, give me a hug, and then I must inform your father of our change in plans this evening.”
Ivonne pushed herself into a sitting position and shoved her hair out of her eyes.
“I’ll check on you before I retire, dear.” Mother embraced her, her familiar iris and jasmine perfume oddly comforting. With another reassuring smile, she slipped from the bedchamber.
The moment her mother exited the room, Ivonne collapsed against the pil
lows.
What was she to do? Falcon contemplated a move to America. Across the Atlantic. A lifetime away from her. She bit her lower lip and fiddled with the ribbon at her neckline.
The answer was simple.
She’d stow away on the ship.
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Fourteen
“How much?” Chance ran a hand through his hair in disbelief.
Surely he’d heard wrong. There was some mistake. There had to be.
Fortune didn’t smile on him. But perhaps God’s favor finally had. He almost touched his jaw to make sure he wasn’t gaping open-mouthed like a gasping mackerel.
“How much did you say?”
“Four hundred ninety seven thousand pounds ... at last count.” Mr. Belamont smiled kindly, his eyes twinkling. “It’s rather I shock, I gather?”
“Yes, rather,” Chance managed to utter, sounding almost normal. He was a wealthy man.
A very wealthy man. A virtual nabob.
In one wondrous moment he’d gone from nearly penniless soldier to prosperous investor. Most importantly, he now had the means to care for Ivy, which meant Viscount Wimpleton would welcome his request to marry her. Only last evening Chance had expressed his concerns to Allen regarding the matter, and today, that worry no longer existed.
“I kept your documents locked in a private cabinet Tobbins doesn’t have access to. Given the amount of your fortune, I thought that wisest.” Belamont slanted his silvery head toward the closed door. “He’s efficient, but the man babbles when he’s taken a nip or is nervous.”
“Yes, I experienced that the other day.” Chance attempted to calm his thundering pulse.
“All the information regarding Mr. Robinson’s business ventures on your behalf are detailed here.” Belamont pushed the documents across his desk for Chance’s inspection. He pointed to the pages lined with neat columns of numbers. “It appears he invested heavily in silk and spices. Most wise.”
Rubbing his injured hand, Chance stared at the ledger, noting row after row of scrupulous records. He met the solicitor’s amused gaze. “I don’t understand how you came to have this information.”
Belamont relaxed into his chair, his hands folded across his slight paunch. “Robinson told me you gave him my name. When he couldn’t reach you in India, he forwarded your correspondences to me.”
Chance fingered the edge of the desk. Discovering one was wealthy did rather set one’s nerves on edge. Not that he had any complaints, mind you. “I’d forgotten I’d told him you were my solicitor.”
Overnight, everything fell into place in such a miraculous way; he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
“I suggest you call on him today. You might as well deal directly with one another from this point onward.” Sitting upright, Mr. Belamont withdrew a key from inside his coat. He unlocked a drawer then rummaged around a bit. “Where did I put that bank note?”
A triumphant smile lit his face. “Ah, here it is.”
He removed the note before dutifully relocking the drawer and placing the key in his pocket. “This is yours. Robinson sent the funds last week, and I didn’t have time to deposit the note before I left Town. By the way, Coutts & Company Bank is holding your monies.”
Chance accepted the note, giving it a perfunctory glance. Another six thousand pounds plus change. He grinned unabashedly. “I’m not going to even attempt reserved composure. In fact, Belamont, count yourself fortunate that I’m not dancing you about the room.”
“You’ve good reason to celebrate.” Belamont released a gravelly chuckle. He swept his hand in a mocking bow. “Dance away, Faulkenhurst.”
After folding the note, Chance tucked it into his pocket. He stood and gathered his possessions. Sobering, he faced the solicitor and extended his hand.
“Thank you for your diligence and honesty.”
Mr. Belamont came around his desk. He gripped Chance’s palm in a firm handshake. “It’s been my pleasure to be of service. Tell me, if you don’t mind, what’s the first thing you’re going to do with your newfound fortune?”
Chance clapped his beaver hat on his head and grinned. “Buy a wedding ring.”
Half an hour later, his mind still partially numb from pleasant shock, Chance inspected the rings the jeweler displayed for him. Primarily glittering diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, he dismissed most with a cursory glance. Ivy deserved something unique, like her. He pictured glistening ivory-tinted pearls, the exact color of her skin as she lay naked atop their bed.
“Do you have anything less ostentatious? Something with pearls, perhaps? My intended prefers simplicity.” At least he hoped to make her his intended before the day ended.
Ivy, his bride.
Indescribable elation sluiced through him.
“Yes, sir.” The jeweler rummaged in the glass case.
“Ah, here we are.” With great reverence, he produced a pearl and opal cluster ring. “This is a black opal, though if you’ll notice, there’s a strong blue color play.”
Chance lifted the ring, holding it to the light streaming in from the storefront window. A mazarine blue opal lay nestled amongst double rows of creamy seed pearls. Exquisite. “Have you any matching pieces?”
“Why, yes, there are.” An excited glint entered the jeweler’s eyes. He produced a grand parure set complete with earrings, necklace, pin, bracelet, and a delicate tiara.
“I’ll take the entire set.”
Ivy would be resplendent wearing them on their wedding day. For the first time, Chance harbored a genuine belief she’d be his bride.
God truly must be smiling down on him.
“Very good. Your lady is very fortunate indeed.”
Chance shook his head. “No, I’m the one who’s been blessed.”
After locking the display case and securing the key inside his coat pocket, the jeweler gathered the gems. “Let me wrap them for you. I’ll be but a moment.”
“Thank you.” Chance flipped his watch open. Less than an hour until his appointment with Lord Wimpleton. His stomach seized with unfamiliar nerves.
Steady on, old man.
He grinned. What a difference a single day could make in determining one’s future. Belamont’s missive early this morning, followed by a call to the solicitor, and then an appointment with Robinson had set a whole new course for Chance’s life.
Now, the only tasks that remained were to win Lord Wimpleton’s approval and to propose to Ivy.
* * *
“Miss Ivonne, you need to wake up.”
Dawson’s singsong greeting yanked Ivonne from a rather wonderful dream about a wedding. Her wedding.
“Your Father requests your presence below stairs,” the maid said, followed by the sounds of her laying out Ivonne’s morning tea.
Two days in a row? Seriously?
Ivonne flopped onto her back, her eyes firmly shut as she tried to recall the man standing beside her at the altar of St. George’s Parish Church.
No use, bother and blast.
His face flitted away on the fringes of her memory. And bother again. The one man she would ever accept as a groom decided to toddle off to the confounded colonies.
Her throat closed as a sudden rush of tears threatened. She clamped her lips together. No, by George, she wasn’t casting her lot in that easily. She could at least ask Falcon to consider marrying her.
Then there’d be no doubt in her mind, lingering year upon incessant year. No always wondering if the outcome of her life might have been different if she’d only plucked up a feather’s worth of courage and asked him if he would be her husband.
A cup rattled in a saucer near Ivonne’s head. She opened one eye and sniffed.
Hot chocolate. Dawson’s attempt at bribery.
“I brought you a cocoa topped with Devonshire cream.” Dawson lowered the painted floral saucer to eye level. Thick rivulets of melted cream dripped over the teacup’s rim. “You’d best take a sip. I was a mite too enthusiastic with the cream. I know y
ou have a preference for it.”
Dawson extended the cup and saucer, a hopeful expression on her face.
Poor dear.
She’d fussed and clucked so much last evening, Ivonne had finally snapped at the maid to leave her be. Immediately chagrined by her churlish behavior, Ivonne longed to apologize, but Dawson had taken her at her word and not returned to the chamber until this morning.
Ivonne sat up. She fluffed the pillows behind her back before accepting the hot chocolate. “Thank you, Dawson.”
She took a sip and smiled. “Delicious.”
The maid beamed, and after giving Ivonne a pat on the shoulder, set about selecting something appropriate for her to wear.
A full hour later, attired in a pink and white calico morning gown, she caught a glimpse of herself in a hallway mirror. At her request, Dawson had trimmed her hair before twisting the thick mass into a complex Grecian knot. Several curls framed Ivonne’s face, softening her features.
She’d experimented with the new cosmetics Emmy sent too. Well-pleased with the effect, she smiled. The paints enhanced her features, although no one could tell she wore any. Just how many other ladies of her acquaintance availed themselves of the same devices and feigned natural beauty?
Once again, Ivonne stood outside Father’s study, except today she had determined to take charge of her future. With a brisk knock, she thrust her chin upward a notch and pressed the latch, entering without waiting for permission.
She tripped to an abrupt stop.
Falcon, his legs crossed, lolled in an armchair across from her parents on the sofa.
Allen, one arm resting on the mantel, stood before the fireplace. His countenance remained unreadable, although a smile hovered about his mouth.
Why was Falcon here, closeted with her family? A quick perusal of their faces revealed nothing.
Allen strode to her and, after kissing her cheek, chucked her under the chin. “Courage, minx.”
He turned to the others, now standing as well.
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 30
