Frannie and Sebastian stared at her. Even Sebastian seemed momentarily bereft of words.
“Dearest,” he said, “do you mean to say, you wish me to arrange a wedding for the man who may very well disinherit me if he has his own child?”
A frown crossed his mother’s face. “Well, of course—I wasn’t thinking of that. I suppose Frannie, being so young, would of course—” She giggled.
“What were you thinking?” Sebastian asked, smiling. “Of Miss Fanshawe’s future?”
She swallowed a sip of coffee. “I thought only of Hugo—that big, bumbling oaf!” she finished, vehemently. “He needs a sweet tempered girl, an amiable creature; Frannie is just the thing. And with her fortune, I thought her most suitable.”
Sebastian thought it now more and more evident that something of significance had occurred between his mama and his cousin. A broken heart was his thought. But Sir Hugo hardly seemed the type to bestow broken hearts on lovely young women, which his mother, still lovely now, had surely been in her youth. A portrait of her shortly after marrying his father hung in the library, a testament to that beauty. His cousin, while not a fright of a man, was paunchy and heavily fleshed in the face, which was often reddened, either by nature or self-effacement. He had bushy brows, and moved timidly, light on his feet as though trying to be unnoticed.
Frannie interrupted his musings when she cleared her throat, giving him a look imbued with meaning, her brows raised at him in expectation.
“Oh, er,” he said, leaning forward to his mama, “You should know that Miss Fanshawe’s fortune is far from certain.”
Mrs. Arundell gave him an impatient look. “Well, Beau, dearest, in that case, you must leave no stone unturned on her account! Put Mr. Harley on the case, you have my permission.”
“Our solicitor may be of some use,” he acceded, “in future. After I’ve finished inquiries of my own.” While his mother buttered a piece of toast, he added, “As it stands, I await a call from Frannie’s relation, Charles Fanshawe. We shall see where that interview leads.”
“I didn’t know you had family!” cried the lady. “Is this a close relation?” she asked curiously.
Frannie squirmed in her seat. Now it would come out. That she didn’t know for certain how he was her relation, or what the name of her father was, or whether there was even a fortune. She had wanted to clear up this very thing with Mrs. Arundell, but now they were come to it, her toes curled.
But Sebastian cleared his throat and said, “Mama, I am much more interested this morning in why you feel it incumbent upon you to marry off my cousin to anyone. Particularly when said marriage is more than likely to result in your son’s being disinherited.”
Again Mrs. Arundell frowned, but she waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I was addle brained, I suppose! I thought only of the poor man being alone all these years, and as he has expressed his wish, according to you, to find a wife, though he said nothing to me about it—”
Sebastian leaned forward and steepled his hands upon the table. “Do you know, dearest, I have an idea about that?”
His mother was just lifting a cup to her lips but stopped to hear it, her small features framed prettily in a frilly mob. Frannie also looked curiously at him.
“I think,” he said, with a little smile, “that you ought to marry my cousin.”
CHAPTER NINE
Sebastian’s suggestion was bold but impulsive, more a test to gauge his mother’s reaction than a genuine wish. Mrs. Arundell nearly dropped her cup.
“Heavens! You couldn’t have shocked me more!” she cried. She dabbed an eye with a handkerchief. “But you mistake the matter,” she said, composing herself. “There was, at one time,” she added, carefully weighing each word, “an expectation that Sir Hugo would offer for me.” She paused, her eyes roaming the room and settling upon the far wall, lost in memories.
Sebastian silently congratulated himself for having correctly divined that much.
“But as you know,” his mother continued, “and fortunately for you, I married your father, his cousin.”
Sebastian’s brows furrowed. “Why did you never tell us he was to offer for you? And do you mean to say, that Sir Hugo failed you, dearest?”
Mrs. Arundell’s head popped to attention, and she said, archly, “He did, indeed.” But her face softened. “I daresay it was the dearest wish of Sir Malcolm, who considered my father his nearest friend; but it was not enough to Hugoʼs liking to bring it to pass.”
Sebastian added astutely, “And it is this for which you never forgave him. Until now.”
She blinked at him. “I met your father at Bartlett Hall. And even my mother, who longed to see me become the wife of a future baronet, encouraged that courtship. We had all considered Hugo was quite, quite decided against marriage and would never come round.” She shook her head. “It matters not. All is ancient history now. I have you and Edward because of how it turned out, and I assure you, I am eternally grateful for that.”
There was no call from Mr. Fanshawe that day, or the following two. Frannie despaired again for the coming inevitable disappointment, though Mrs. Arundell maintained an enormous optimism regarding the fortune. In two weeks they’d be arriving at Bartlett Hall for Christmas—Frannie was assured that she must accompany the family, for Mrs. Arundell had grown inordinately fond of her. Indeed, Frannie wondered at it. Why should the lady regard her kindly? Why did she not wish, rather, to banish her from the house with two handsome, perfectly eligible young men living in it? Young men were known to choose wives poorly just as often as young women. Yet Mrs. Arundell treated Frannie with affection, like a social equal, though Frannie did her best to make herself useful in as many ways as possible.
Mr. Arundell was another mystery. She knew that, had he wished, he could change his mother’s view of her situation merely by portraying the truth of it in cold, hard facts. Mrs. Arundell did not bother herself with cold, hard facts in most things, such as how she regularly overspent her jointure and would be in debt if not for Sebastian. But he never made it plain to her in a way that would condemn or shame her, and he never enlightened her on Frannie’s circumstances in a way that would cast doubt upon Frannie’s respectability. He seemed determined to treat her kindly, though she did not know why.
In her nightly prayers, Frannie gave thanks and held her breath, wondering how long it could last. She also wondered how much time Sebastian would wait before going again to Cheapside to confront the Fanshawes. In the meantime, she went on drives and errands with Mrs. Arundell, and in the evenings joined her in knitting caps and socks for the poor box while Sebastian read from one of his treasured tomes. Then one morning, he announced, “Tomorrow we shall call again in Cheapside. I have written to my solicitor, as it seemed best to have the law on our side.”
Our side. Frannie’s heart skipped a beat. Mr. Arundell might have said, “your side,” but he spoke of the matter as if it were as much his concern as hers.
“After Harley has an audience with Mr. Fanshawe we will know how the case stands.”
Frannie hardly heard the last sentence, for her heart was still beating strangely, and not only because Sebastian had taken ownership of her wrangle, but because of the way his eyes spoke to her as he did. She swallowed, reminded herself strongly that she had no guarantee of a happy settlement, and no right, no right at all, to set her heart on a future baronet. He meant only to be kind. Perhaps the look in his eyes was given to all young women. Did not Edward say that his brother caused hopes to rise in many a female breast without the least intention of making them do so? She must not forget it; nor that despite his kindness, indeed the kindness of all the Arundells, Frannie might end up being an outcast to society. Or, at best, companion to a less fine lady.
“Mr. Harley will call tomorrow morning,” Sebastian continued. “And has sent word to Cheapside of our coming, using the strongest terms to adjure their compliance in the matter of an audience.” He gave her a questioning look. “My mother is with Mrs
. Spencer, the housekeeper, planning, I believe, our menu for the next week to take to cook. I propose an outing, Miss Fanshawe. Mr. Harley expresses a desire to meet you before confronting your relations. Can you suffer it? You must know, he will examine you, I have no doubt, minutely. The facts of your case may distress you when presented in the manner of a barrister. If you prefer, he will make do with my account of the matter, which I’ve written to him in as much detail as you afforded me.”
Frannie said, “Sir, if you think it is beneficial to—she hesitated here, not being able to say “our cause”—to my cause, then I am all willingness. I wonder, however, at his learning anything useful or new from my testimony, as I’ve told you all that I know.”
“He wishes, nonetheless, to hear it from your own lips.” His clear eyes pierced hers.
“I am at your service,” she said.
When they arrived at the offices of the solicitors on Mount Street, Sebastian entering first to hold the door for Frannie, Mr. Harley stood to bow a greeting, but with a troubled look. Upon being presented to Miss Fanshawe, his look became yet more befuddled. “Do you mean to say, sir, that this is the young woman you wrote of?” He glanced at open papers on his desk. “Miss Fanshawe?”
“Of course,” Sebastian replied, put off by the man’s countenance.
He cleared his throat, motioning them to take a seat, if they pleased. When they were seated, he said, “Sir. You must know that a woman by name of Mrs. Charles Fanshawe was here only an hour since.”
Frannie and Sebastian shared a look of surprise. “What was her mission?” asked Sebastian.
“She wished to assure me that a grave hoax is underfoot. She gave me to understand, sir, that Miss Fanshawe resides beneath her roof; that she is, in fact, their only daughter, and that a trust fund awaits her upon her majority.” He paused and looked sadly at Frannie. “She claims this young woman is trying to wrest the trust from her daughter on a false pretense.”
A gasp escaped Frannie. Sebastian placed a hand upon one of hers, which now gripped the arm of her chair.
But his face hardened as he faced the man. “I put it to you, sir, that the case is exactly opposite. Here before you is the Miss Fanshawe entitled to that trust. You must give your assurance that you will do everything in your power to prove her case.”
The man relaxed. “Sir, as my firm has served your mother’s family since long before her marriage to your father, I am predisposed to take your side in the matter.”
Frannie had felt ready to sink, but these words gave her heart. She took a deep breath.
“Perhaps Miss Fanshawe can start from the beginning.” He looked at Frannie. “Allow me to summon my clerk. Then you must give me your full history, everything you know of it, every detail you can recall, beginning with the parish where we may find record of your birth.”
“Certainly, sir,” she replied. Sebastian gave her an approving nod, and she straightened in her seat. She would need to face the man’s disapproval of her circumstances, no doubt, but if she had the least hope of ever meeting Sebastian on grounds as anything near an equal, it was paramount that her case be examined in its entirety. When the clerk had come in and drew up a seat and had a pen and ink at the ready, she began. “I was born, sir, on 4th June 1796. All my life I have lived with my mother, until her passing a year ago, and Mrs. Flora Baxter in …”
A letter from Mr. Harley arrived by messenger the next morning. Tipps paid the rider and conveyed the note to Sebastian, who sat at breakfast with Mrs. Arundell and Frannie. Edward was out.
Sebastian read the note and laid it on the table. “Mr. Harley asks us to postpone our call to Cheapside until he’s had time to further investigate your case.”
Frannie nodded. “I see.” She had a little sinking of heart at his words, for she interpreted the solicitor’s meaning to be that he had suspicions about her claims.
Mrs. Arundell opined that Mr. Harley was known to be meticulous; and what good hands Frannie’s case was in.
Sebastian too, nodded with satisfaction. “I am glad for this. He’ll root out whatever evidence exists, I am certain.”
Frannie leaned forward, the sole hearer of the tidings who was left troubled. “What sort of evidence might he find, sir?”
Sebastian gazed at her. “He’ll start with the parish record of your birth; the name of your father should be found there. If not, he’ll look elsewhere for a record of your mother’s marriage. All marriages are recorded, even many of the Covent Garden sort.”
Frannie winced inwardly. Did Sebastian think her mother’s marriage might have been one of those spurious unions made by fly-by-night hucksters posing as clergymen? They offered their services to perform hasty weddings, no questions asked. While such a wedding might be recorded somewhere, it would likely not stand legal scrutiny. She shuddered at the thought.
As if reading the direction of her thoughts, Sebastian said, “Have no fear, Miss Fanshawe. The more I think on your situation, the more certain I am that you are indeed in expectation of some reward; else the Fanshawes would hardly contest the matter.”
Mrs. Arundell’s head popped up. “Are they contesting it? Oh, poor Frannie!”
Frannie acknowledged the sympathy with a small smile and nod of her head. Sebastian said, “It only adds weight to her claim, ma’am. Where a fortune is at stake, the greedy will assemble.”
Mrs. Arundell cried, “Indeed!” Sighing, she looked upon Frannie and exclaimed, “I have it, my dears! Let us cast aside all of this for now; let us not give it another thought until we hear from Mr. Harley on the matter. Take us somewhere diverting, Beau, dearest. Perhaps a drive through the park…”
Sebastian looked at Frannie. “Is there somewhere diverting, Miss Fanshawe,” he asked, smiling, “in early December, that you might wish to see?”
Frannie gazed at him with surprise and gratitude. Would he indeed cater to her preference? And how propitious that she had one! “I confess,” she said, looking meekly at her companions, “I have longed to see Vauxhall. I know ‘tis past its heyday; they say ‘tisn’t fashionable any longer, but I understand ‘tis nevertheless a pleasant place and well worth a visit.”
Mrs. Arundell said, “The gardens are best in spring, my dear. But no matter! We’ll bundle up with bricks for our feet in the carriage and come home to hot negus. I daresay we shall have a cose together. Beau can read to us as he likes to do, while we warm ourselves by the fire.” She strained her head to see, from the window, beyond the neighboring buildings to the sliver of sky that was visible. “The skies are middling blue; I think we must brave the weather and show Frannie the place, even though it is nothing now to what it is in summer.”
Sebastian was secretly pleased at her choice. While it was hare-brained, in his opinion, to visit Vauxhall in winter, he expected to see no acquaintances equally pigeon-headed and braving the elements. There would be no awkward introductions for Frannie to suffer. Society was uncommonly hungry for details about anyone who approached the circles of the upper class. Until her story was bolstered by legal evidence, he could not, of course, even hint at a fortune; and the possibility that she was in fact hardly respectable still presented itself as an unfortunate reality. If it came to it, he’d introduce her simply as a family friend and hope the matter ended there. But far better to keep Frannie from prying eyes until they heard back from Harley.
“Why do we not call upon my cousin, Mama, and see if he will accompany us?” Sebastian asked, as he rose to help himself to more coffee.
“Sir Hugo?” she asked, amazed. “He is no doubt in Gloucestershire by now.”
“He is not,” Sebastian said calmly, returning to his seat. “He stops in town.”
Mrs. Arundell let out a breath. “Wife hunting, no doubt!” She took a determined sip from her cup.
Sebastian smiled. “You could save him the trouble, dearest.”
She looked at him warily, her sweet countenance shaded with suspicion. “Do not say you are clinging to that nonsensical
notion of my marrying him!”
“Very well, I shan’t say it.” He winked at Frannie, who felt a frisson of pleasure run through her at the unexpectedly playful gesture. Sebastian was normally staid and proper.
“However,” he went on, raising a finger to press his point to his mama, “you did almost marry him once. There must be something of that old affection lurking somewhere—for both of you.”
Mrs. Arundell stared at him for a moment. “You mistake the matter. I grant, it was the wish of both our parents. And I own, I did think Hugo amiable and pleasing—though no more an Adonis then, than now—but let us just say he had no ambition for marriage, and really, now I look back, I see we did not suit. Let us just say we did not suit.” She stopped and stirred her coffee slowly—”And it all proved fortunate for me, as I have said.” She gave him a bright smile. “I lived happily with your father, God rest his soul. And I got you boys as a result.”
“Did he ever tell you outright that he had no ambition for marriage?”
Flustered, she said, “There was an extenuating circumstance. I—I don’t wish to talk about it!”
Sebastian finished chewing a bite of toast and said, very calmly, “Dearest, you know I’ve no wish to distress you, but none of us are children here. I think it long past time we unlocked this buried conundrum. My cousin’s sudden appearance in our lives has dug it up—he evidently has ambition for marriage now—and we’ve only to look at what happened then in the light of day. Afterward, you can toss it into the past for good, never to be opened again. This circumstance you speak of—it cannot be so very dastardly in nature to be beyond mention now. I know my cousin at least well enough to be sure of that.”
Mrs. Arundell’s face clouded while he spoke, and she took to stirring her coffee with more vigor. Frannie’s heart went out for her. “Sir, you are too severe on your poor mama.”
Miss Fanshawe's Fortune: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance (The Brides of Mayfair Book 2) Page 9