Miss Fanshawe's Fortune: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance (The Brides of Mayfair Book 2)

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mrs. Fanshawe stiffened. She stalked into the room, lips pursed. “I know naught of another Miss Fanshawe, sir, besides my only and dearest child! I tell you, there is no other! My husband is the only male in his line, and he is not this—this—imposter’s father!”

  “When do you expect the return of your husband, ma’am?” he asked now in his strangely calm tone. He’d told Frannie and Sebastian earlier that Mr. Fanshawe was first mate on a commercial vessel. His tone was reassuring to Frannie, whose consternation rose considerably when she heard there were no other Fanshawe males. If that were true, would it not mean that this Mr. Fanshawe must be her father? But he held no title; how would such a man of middling means have a fortune set by for her in a trust? Despite this perplexity, and the venomous looks of the lady, still there arose in Frannie’s breast a faint hope. If he was indeed her father, nobleman or not, her paternity would at least be settled. More, she would know her father!

  “My husband’s ship is not expected for a month, sir. But I assure you, I await his arrival anxiously, as he will settle this matter.” She tossed her head and added, “I warrant you, he has no child other than ours. This one here,” she motioned derisively at Frannie, “is none of his get, I tell you.”

  “What do you know about the trust?” Mr. Harley asked.

  Mrs. Fanshawe’s face blanched as if she’d little expected to have the question thrust upon her. Hesitantly she said, “I know only that it awaits my daughter upon her majority.”

  “How much is it worth, ma’am?”

  She gave him an alarmed look. “If you do not know, sir, I shan’t enlighten you.”

  Mr. Harley’s countenance darkened. “Do not trifle with me, madam. If I find your claim has merit, I will be your advocate. I seek only the truth. I will defend the rightful claimant, whoever it is. Now, unless you are prepared to admit your daughter is not the heiress of this trust, then I suggest you cooperate fully.”

  All of this was spoken in decided tones. Frannie’s anxiety returned, for it seemed as though Mr. Harley might yet be convinced that Mrs. Fanshawe’s child was the rightful claimant. She happened to glance at Sebastian, but his gaze was upon the woman of the house. He turned his head, as though he felt her eyes upon him, and, when he saw the look of trepidation on her face, gave another bracing look, with a slight nod. “Do not fear,” it seemed to say. She swallowed and returned her attention to the others.

  Mrs. Fanshawe said, almost meekly now, “I don’t rightly know the value. It’s an investment of some sort. All I know is that there is a trust, and it belongs to my daughter.”

  “Who is the benefactor?” he asked, with his peculiarly officious, detached tone.

  Uncertainty flickered in her eyes momentarily, but was replaced by a hard glint. “My husband! He wins prizes at sea, you know—all kinds of cargo and chattel. He alone has the particulars. If you must know, he never wished to tell me of it, but I overheard it, I did. There’s a fund, alright, and ʼtis a fortune by now. It belongs to my daughter, and there’s an end of it.” Raising her voice and with a finger pointed at Frannie she added, “We shan’t be fobbed off by this upstart! How she knows aught of it, I cannot say, but ’tis our business only.”

  Mr. Harley rose and paced the room, staring at the lady. “Do you mean to say, you have never inquired about it?” He turned to share with Frannie and Sebastian a look of stark incredulity before turning it in full force upon the lady. She seemed to shrink beneath his gaze. Mr. Harley raised a finger and pointed it at her. “You are aware of a trust fund, and you say it belongs to your daughter—” he waved an arm as though he were giving a summary in a court of law to a jury—“but you never asked the amount? It’s value?” His voice filled more and more with doubt.

  Mrs. Fanshawe’s face grew rosy. “As I said, sir, my husband has the full particulars of the case. He never wished to speak of it. I daresay he thought I’d put an anchor on it, make him spend the hard-earned prizes.” She glowered at them. “Or perhaps he won it at gaming and didn’t wish me to know. I own, all men succumb to gaming at one time or other. I did not inquire—to spare his feelings—and because I wanted the money for my daughter.” With pride in her voice she added, “She is to marry Lord Whitby, you know.”

  Mr. Harley had been watching her keenly and now said, “The fact is, if a family man wins a fortune, whether by gaming or other means, he uses it to better himself and for the good of his family. You reside in middling circumstances, I perceive.” He made a pointed glance at worn carpet. “Not exactly living in clover now, are we? It makes little sense that your husband—or anyone in such a case—would start a trust fund rather than enjoy the full benefits of the prize for himself and his wife. Miss Fanshawe here,” he turned and gestured at Frannie, “has subsisted all her life upon the interest of that trust.” He raised a brow and settled an icy stare upon the woman. “Men of ordinary means would do their utmost to keep their current family in the best possible situation, rather than economizing for the sake of an earlier mésalliance. Surely you see the unlikelihood of it.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe for the first time looked unsure of herself. She cried, “I know not his reasons! But I do know there is only one Miss Fanshawe, and she lives beneath this roof!” She turned to Frannie with blazing eyes and pointed. “This young woman is a tufthunter! Brazen hussy!”

  Frannie gasped. A gold digger she was not!

  “Remember yourself, madam,” said Sebastian coldly.

  She gave him only a cursory glance and sniffed in an injured fashion before turning back to Mr. Harley. “Only Mr. Fanshawe can supply you with the particulars of the trust, including its value. But this is monstrous! You, sir, have offered no proof that this—impostor—has any business in our affairs! Why should we divulge to you any of our concerns?”

  With a sinking heart, Frannie swallowed her indignation. No words came in which she could defend herself. All she could manage was to falter out, “My name is Frances Fanshawe, ma’am.”

  Suddenly the door opened. A young woman walked in and looked about curiously at the various faces, all of whom stared back at her. She had hair every bit as dark as Frannie’s, and a mild resemblance in features. But where Frannie’s chin was narrow, this young woman’s was wide, much like Mrs. Fanshawe’s. She shared the lady’s broader nose and prominent brow as well. She had hazel eyes, intelligent but mild. Her gaze flicked from one face to another, then hovered upon Frannie’s pretty countenance with apparent interest, offering an uncertain little smile. Frannie returned a relieved nod and smile of her own.

  “This!” cried Mrs. Fanshawe majestically, sweeping an arm in the direction of the young woman, “is my daughter, Miss Catherine Fanshawe—the only Miss Fanshawe in England, I daresay!” The young lady coloured rosily. “Mama, you—you didn’t tell me we had guests.”

  “They are not guests,” said Mrs. Fanshawe coldly. Glaring at the company she added, “In fact, they are just leaving.” She went and stood by the door, opening it triumphantly so they could exit.

  Mr. Harley stood first. “Inform your husband that I await his call. If I do not hear from him, I will take Miss Fanshawe’s claim to King’s Bench.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe let out a snort of a breath. “You have no case against us!”

  “We shall see, madam,” he replied. “The law will be the judge. You will incur legal fees, whatever the outcome. If you wish to avoid them, Mr. Fanshawe must call upon me at his earliest convenience.” The others had risen and now were heading behind the solicitor to the doorway. Catherine stood by surveying them with perplexity. The two young women met eyes. Like Frannie’s, Catherine’s clear, thoughtful gaze was troubled, but there was no incrimination in them. Frannie felt certain she did not share her mother’s hostility. Perhaps she did not know about Frannie yet, or what her claims were. Perhaps she, too, would despise Frannie when she learned of them.

  Sebastian stopped before Mrs. Fanshawe. “What is the name of your husband’s ship?”

  The lady glared, her
mouth twitching. “The Golden Sovereign,” she said coldly. He bowed politely to both women.

  When they were outside again, Mr. Harley said, “Good of you to get the name of the ship. We’ll watch the papers for news of when it docks.” Turning to Frannie, he added, “If Fanshawe doesn’t come to me directly, we may have a long fight ahead. Despite what I said inside, I’ll need more evidence before putting a barrister on it to bring it to court.”

  While he and Sebastian continued to discuss the matter, Frannie sat by, her heart sadly flummoxed. She hadn’t considered that she might be bringing such ruckus into the Fanshawe home. Clearly, Mrs. Fanshawe hadn’t known of her existence, any more than Frannie had known about Catherineʼs. It now seemed likely that she, Frannie, must be the illegitimate daughter of her husband! If Mr. Fanshawe had never told his wife about her, it could only follow that he must be ashamed of her. Catherine Fanshawe looked to be about the same age as Frannie. If it turned out they were of the same age, surely only one could be legitimate. And only the legitimate daughter, she was certain, could have claim to sums owned by the father.

  But it all came back to the central perplexity: would a man of Mr. Fanshawe’s means have a large sum set aside at all, much less in a trust for someone outside his legal family? The Fanshawes lived respectably, but not affluently. The contrast of their home to the Arundells’ smartly appointed furnishings and rich artwork was noticeable. The more she thought on her case, the bleaker and more hopeless it appeared. She wondered if she ought to drop the enquiry. Leave the Fanshawes in peace. Let Catherine have the inheritance that surely she deserved more than Frannie. Her mother and Mrs. Baxter had never rightly understood how things were. If only her mother had told her that she was a baseborn child! Had she known it from the outset, she could have saved all of them, the Fanshawes, Mr. Arundell, Mr. Harley, a great deal of bother and vexation.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After the strangers had gone, Catherine Fanshawe turned to her mother with a questioning look. “Mama, one of those men said he would take ‘Miss Fanshawe’s case’ to court. I am aware of no dispute. Why would he call it my case?”

  Mrs. Fanshawe’s eyes sparked daggers. “That young woman you saw just now; she claims to be Miss Fanshawe!”

  Catherine cried, “She claims to be me?”

  “She claims your rightful due! The trust fund. Says her name is Frances Fanshawe.”

  “Is that why they wish to speak to papa? To verify her claim?”

  Mrs. Fanshawe nodded.

  “Is papa in trouble?” she asked, her eyes filling with worry.

  “If that girl is his, you can be certain he is!” She paused, stopping to meet her daughter’s worried visage. “The law may acquit him of guilt, but I’ll give him grief like he’s never met with!” She stalked from the room, leaving Catherine blinking, her face a picture of deep concern.

  An only child, Catherine tried to imagine what it would mean if she had a sister, a half-sister, that is. She remembered the troubled countenance of the young woman who had been in the parlour earlier. She looked like an amiable, well-bred creature, just the sort of young woman Catherine would most like to associate with. She said the name in her mind, slowly. Frances Fanshawe. It was a nice name. And suddenly she remembered something she had witnessed, though it had taken place many years before.

  She’d been playing in her father’s study, the only room in the house aside from the servantsʼ quarters that she wasn’t supposed to enter. She looked around curiously at the forbidden sanctum, an ordinary study. Shelves of books, dark wainscot, and a simple desk with a globe, barometer, and an issue of “The Maritime Report” upon it met her eyes. Hearing people approaching, she ducked quickly into the recess beneath the desk. She feared no one in the house, but a child’s sense that she ought not be in the room gave her enough fright to stay huddled with knees pulled up against her chest, determined not to make a sound. Soon she heard voices, one belonging to Papa, but another that of an unknown woman. They entered the room, talking in low voices.

  Childish curiosity made her hazard a peek by looking around the edge of the desk. Across the room she saw Papa and the lady standing by an inlaid bookcase. She was a pretty woman, dark-haired and large-eyed. She looked faintly familiar, and yet Catherine knew she’d never seen her before. The woman drew some folded papers from a purse and handed them to papa.

  Frowning, he read them. Afterward, he gave her a very disturbed look and glanced at the papers again. Certain words jumped out at Catherineʼs curious ears, words she still remembered. His Lordshipʼs signature…trust fund… a tidy sum. Only an extraordinary brain could have recalled the entire conversation, but Catherine had always excelled at her lessons due to a memory that was sharp to a turn. Clearly she recalled her fatherʼs voice: “Why should you accept this agreement?” And then the womanʼs tight-lipped reply: “’Tis the only way. He’ll disinherit him, otherwise. Weʼd all be penniless! He’s a blackguard, as heartless as they come!”

  “Weʼll get a solicitor,” her papa said.

  “No! His Lordship forbade it. The conditions are clear, and I must abide by them…or forfeit all.” She drew in a shuddering breath.

  Other phrases floated across Catherineʼs memory. The womanʼs voice, I will not be the cause of his ruin… aristocratic pauper…stripped of his rights… at least ʼtwill provide for my child.” The lady was crying now. Her last desperate words rang in Catherineʼs brain to this day: I revert all my rights and must never contact him again, or the agreement’s null and void. Give me your word that I may depend upon you, Charles, to keep my secret!

  He nodded sadly. “Of course.” His final words then were so ominous that they too lingered in Catherineʼs brain. If the old devil passes on, then all will set to rights.

  Papa searched among the books and pulled one out. Opening it, he inserted the folded papers, closed the book, and returned it to its place. Watching him, the woman’s face relaxed. She sighed. I’m obliged, Charles...

  Her father nodded again, took her hand and squeezed it hard. Blessings go with thee, Meg.

  At this point, Catherine unfortunately had to sneeze—she could not contain it, and the adults heard the sound. Mr. Fanshawe strode to the desk and peered beneath at her. “Come out.”

  Shame-faced, she scrambled out and to her feet. A quick peek told her the woman was staring at her, but her face showed mild amusement, an indulgent look. She’s nice! Catherine thought in surprise, which added to her shame for eavesdropping though she hadn’t meant to, exactly.

  “Whatever you heard, Cat, you will now forget; and say nothing of it to Mama.”

  “Yes, papa.”

  “Go, now.”

  She stole a final peek at the nice, pretty woman, who was now almost smiling at her. To her surprise, when she left the room, she found her mother beside the door against the wall, a finger to her lips. While Catherine watched, Mama bent over at the keyhole, listening.

  Inside the study, after Catherine had gone, Frannie’s mother looked again at Charles. “When he comes looking for me, tell him I’ve gone to America.”

  Mr. Fanshawe nodded sadly.

  “He’d keep looking, otherwise,” she said simply. “And nothing must nullify the agreement. The papers are in your hands for safekeeping—payable to Miss Fanshawe upon her majority.”

  When Catherine sat on her father’s knee before the hearth that evening, she had asked who the pretty lady was that heʼd spoken to earlier. Papa was usually soft-spoken, but his voice hardened. He told her again to put it from her mind and to say nothing to Mama. Ironically, his stern injunction to forget the incident seemed instead to have seared it into her brain.

  “Do you have a fortune, Papa?” Catherine had asked. “Is that what a trust fund is?” She’d thought those words quite wonderful. Images of gleaming gold coins, stacks of them, spilling out of a pirateʼs treasure chest, ran through her child’s brain.

  “No, mʼdear. And not another word about a fund. It’s a great secre
t, do you understand? Or it may all be lost.” He put a finger to his lips and gave her a conspiratorial look. “Not another word. Especially to your mother.”

  Now, all these years later, Catherine understood. Papa had a sister, but due to some mysterious circumstance (that neither parent would disclose) her name was never mentioned. The most she’d learned was from Mama, who once said Papa’s sister had foolishly gone to America many years ago after a tragic affair of some kind; she was not to be thought of.

  Now it all made sense. The woman she’d seen with Papa in his study must have been that sister. The child she mentioned, the one that would be “provided for” was her child, the other Miss Fanshawe. This explained the disgrace, for she must be a child out of wedlock! But it reassured her that Papa was not Miss Fanshawe’s father.

  What neither of them knew was that Mrs. Fanshawe had heard only enough to assure her there was a secret trust fund for ‘Miss Fanshawe’—and who could that be but Catherine! Indignation that he had income not at her disposal was quickly followed by mollification, for would not her daughter be rich one day? A daughter who would surely take care of her mother? What woman could be cross over that?

  Over the years Catherine had thought about the hushed meeting and the secret fund, but dutiful daughter she was, for she adored Papa, sheʼd never spoken of it. Only once had she tried to find the mysterious papers that had passed from her auntʼs hand to her fatherʼs. After his ship had left port, she’d returned to the forbidden room, straight to the bookshelf where she’d seen him tuck the papers into a book. But which one? With the room to herself, she searched through one shelf of books but to no avail. At that point, Mama found her in the room and gave her a great combing, for was not Papa’s study for himself alone, his privacy not to be intruded upon? Catherine never attempted to find them again.

  Now, a decade later, she went again to Papa’s study with fresh curiosity. Surely Papa wouldn’t be angry now if she wished to investigate, not under the circumstances. That man earlier had threatened Mama with the law. Surely that was reason enough for her to get to the bottom of the matter. Whatever was on those folded sheets, the ones which had settled her aunt’s mind, must be the answer. One by one she went through each shelf in the room.