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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Ninety minutes or so later the carriage containing Frannie and Mrs. Arundell pulled away from the house on King Street. “I have a particular gown in mind for you,” the lady said, turning earnestly to Frannie. “And I know just the right modiste for it. Lady Russell uses her exclusively and swore me to secrecy—but I can tell you, I’m sure, for you won’t go gadding it all over town.” She produced a copy of the latest Bell’s Court and Fashionable Magazine, opened to an earmarked page, and pointed at a beautiful confection of peach satin, elaborately embroidered with pearls and spangles, short puffed sleeves, and a train at back. The neckline was square, with a standing lace collar—the kind the Empress Josephine had favored and which was still all the mode—and overall, dazzlingly elegant.

  “That is too fine a gown for me, ma’am, and certainly for Gloucestershire!” Frannie said.

  “But you’ll use it again for the Season next year!” Mrs. Arundell smiled sweetly. “You see, I haven’t entirely forgot economy.”

  Frannie was now deeply suspicious that the older lady’s plan was to make her the wife of the baronet. But surely she should not wish for it—not when her son stood to inherit the baronetcy as long as Sir Hugo was obliging enough not to have sons of his own. And even Sebastian had pointed out the obvious, that Frannie might indeed supply those sons! Mrs. Arundell had seemed to come round to this logic. Yet no other explanation presented itself. Why did she wish to see Frannie gowned so expensively and with such pomp and style? The gown could almost be considered ostentatious.

  As if reading her thoughts, the older woman said, “We leave for Bartlett Hall in two weeks, my dear. I already have two new gowns fit for the best company, but you are in need of this. A lady can never be too well dressed, you know.”

  “But ma’am, a lady can be over-dressed for an occasion, would you not say? Edward assures me the baronet’s gatherings promise to be thin of fashionable company.” She glanced again at the beautiful illustration on the page. “This would be proper for some great town mansion of your London acquaintance, I grant, but surely not for the country.”

  “Frannie, dear,” said Mrs. Arundell with a little smile. “You must trust my judgment. I know how to get to the top of things, but you my dear, in your quiet style, with your quiet manners, are simply not going to climb Mount Olympus without my help.”

  Frannie frowned. Gaining the summit of Mount Olympus, she could only presume, meant getting a husband. And the husband that Mrs. Arundell had in mind must be Sir Hugo.

  “I am indeed grateful to you,” Frannie said, “but—”

  “But let us not speak more of it. Come, come, dear—” For they had drawn up on a busy street lined with highbrow shops and well-dressed patrons coming and going. A footman opened the door and handed them down, Mrs. Arundell first, and then Frannie. As they walked toward a seamstress’s shop, the lady leaned toward Frannie. “You must allow that I am in the best position of knowing how to please the man, for I know him best!”

  These words were nails in a coffin for Frannie. There could be no further doubt. Mrs. Arundell’s object was now crystal clear. She clung to the ridiculous notion of matching Frannie with the baronet. Looking greatly troubled, Frannie had no choice to but follow the lady into the shop. The French modiste was soon speaking to them with experienced ease of fabrics and styles, which ones were all the mode, and which were faux pas. Mrs. Arundell produced the dreaded illustration of the richly embroidered gown, explaining that she wanted it copied for Frannie. The Frenchwoman seemed delighted, all smiling approval. She said something in French to two shop girls who descended upon Frannie with zealous fervor, drawing her away for measurings.

  When they exited the shop a good hour later, Frannie had resigned herself to the inevitable, eye-catching gown. Her one, tremulous hope was that, if she needs must wear it to please the lady, that it would be fetching enough to catch Sebastian’s eyes. For the baronet, she had only one thought, and that was to avoid him as much as possible, as much as was in her power. But if Sebastian should look with approval upon her, with something approaching admiration—ah! That would make Christmas special indeed

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning’s Maritime News column brought the encouraging announcement that The Golden Sovereign was expected to dock in London the following day! What they did not expect was the announcement by Sykes, entering the parlour after a cursory scratch at the door, that a Miss Catherine Fanshawe awaited Miss Frances Fanshawe’s pleasure. Only Frannie and Edward were home. Mrs. Arundell was on a morning call, and Sebastian was out to unknown destinations. Frannie looked in surprise at Edward, who said, “Another Miss Fanshawe? Delicious.” But at Frannie’s look of uncertainty, he asked, “Do you not wish to see her?”

  “My heart longs to know her, I assure you. But I fear she comes not on friendly terms.” Her insides were already aquiver. Had the young woman come to relieve her mind of the same resentment displayed by the mother? Had she come only to scold, or worse, threaten?

  Edward gave her a look of concern. “Leave it to me. I’ll sound her out. If she’s here to have a pet at your expense, I’ll spare you.” To Sykes he said, “The first parlour.” And with that Edward was on his feet and out the door before Frannie could make the smallest objection. Her insides churned uneasily. She came to her feet and paced the room. At the window she observed a nondescript carriage at the kerb, no doubt Miss Fanshawe’s. If only Sebastian would return from wherever he’d gone. He would handle this young woman if her intentions were unkind.

  But in a few minutes a short knock at the door was followed by the entrance of Edward and their guest, who had one hand upon his arm. Upon spying Frannie, the young woman nearly stopped at the threshold with a look on her face as though she feared she would receive at Frannie’s hands what Frannie feared from hers.

  Frannie left the window and Edward made introductions, giving Frannie a bright look and a furtive wink as the girls made their polite curtseys. She felt she’d been holding her breath but now relief settled upon her. If Edward was reassured, then she could be also. She might even hope for friendship to come of this!

  “Please, have a seat,” she said with a polite smile, motioning with a hand at a wingchair, while she took one opposite, so that the two young women faced each other. Miss Fanshawe registered the kind look with apparent relief, nodded, and took her seat. Frannie said, “May we offer you some refreshment, Miss—Fanshawe?” She’d hesitated over the word, never having had cause to address another Miss Fanshawe before. Catherine shook her head. “Thank you, no, Miss Fanshawe,” (spoken with a tremulous smile). “I will trespass upon your privacy only for a few minutes.”

  More relief filled Frannie at her kind tone, and because Catherine evidently accepted her as a relation.

  Looking toward Edward with concern, Catherine cleared her throat. “Mr. Arundell has informed me that you may not wish to speak with me privately, only I must tell you, I fear our conversation may be…delicate.”

  Frannie said, “I understand.” For surely they would wish to speak of the trust, and of the shrouded mystery of their connexion, both delicate matters to be sure. She leveled a quelling gaze upon Edward. “Dear Edward, please allow me to speak with my—my cousin—privately.”

  Edward came to his feet and made a deep bow to Catherine. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Fanshawe. I hope we may see more of you?”

  Catherine’s cheeks flushed. “I—I hope so, sir. Thank you.”

  He turned to Frannie and bowed. “Ring if you need me,” and then, facing her in a way so that Catherine could not see his face, made a raised brow and motioned imperceptibly toward the visitor. Frannie had no idea what this was meant to signify and merely smiled sedately. “Thank you. We won’t be long, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed. I only need a few minutes of Miss Fanshawe’s time,” added Catherine hurriedly. After the double door had shut behind him, Catherine turned to Frannie. “Do you know how we are related?” she asked, coming
right to the point.

  Frannie blushed. “To be honest, I’m not quite certain. I believe your father is my uncle.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “That is my belief as well!”

  Both young women had been sitting stiffly erect, but with that one thing established, that each considered the other a close relation, tension dropped from the atmosphere as if bright sunshine had shooed away clouds. They studied each other benignly and with undisguised curiosity.

  Smiling shyly, Catherine said, “You are the only female cousin I have.”

  Frannie said, “Do you have male cousins? Do I also have other cousins?”

  Catherine chuckled. “No, I’m sorry. I should have said you are my only known cousin. Until now, I thought I had none.”

  “As I thought also,” Frannie said, nodding. “But my mother was your father’s sister, I believe?”

  Catherine’s eyes clouded. “Was? Is your mother—?”

  “Passed from this life,” Frannie said, with admirable self control. “For nigh eighteen months.”

  “I’m sorry.” Catherineʼs blue eyes filled with sympathy.

  “Thank you,” said Frannie. “But she left me with quite the mystery…” Here she hesitated. Should she say outright that the biggest mystery of her life was the identity of her father? It was a shameful thing to own. “The trust,” she said at last. “Do you know about it?”

  Catherine bit her lip, blinking. “This is the reason I have called. I wanted to let you know that I remember a day when a woman called upon Papa. I believe it was your mother.”

  Frannie gasped. “Indeed?”

  Catherine nodded. Her face grew pensive as she thought back to the day. “It was in Papaʼs study; they looked over some papers together. She said something like, it must be this way, and that His Lordship would disinherit someone if she didn’t obey some sort of agreement.”

  “There was an agreement?” asked Frannie eagerly.

  Catherine licked her lips. “I believe those papers hold the details of the trust. Apparently your mother left them in my father’s safekeeping. I searched Papa’s study, but I couldn’t find them.”

  “But your father still has them, I suppose?”

  Catherine nodded. “I believe so. I seem to recall your mother saying she must not use a solicitor.” Here her brows furrowed. “But Papa told me never to speak of it, not even to mention the incident to my mother.” She gave Frannie an apologetic look. “Mama heard though. I found her listening at the door.”

  Frannie said, “My mother never spoke of having a brother, or told me of any family at all. I always found it strange. And she said my father died when I was young.”

  “I was told Papa’s sister ran off to America.” Again she looked apologetic. “After a tragic love affair.” She gave Frannie a searching look. “You do not speak like an American.”

  “We lived in Lincolnshire,” Frannie said. There was an awkward silence then until she added, “My mother evidently felt it incumbent upon her to cut off all society with her friends.”

  “It must have been a stipulation of the agreement,” said Catherine, “for certainly a woman and her child are in need of friends.” Gently she added, “Although unmarried women may disappear to some country village when there is a child…”

  Frannie’s eyes shone. “I was never given to understand anything else but that my parents were indeed married!”

  “I am glad of that,” she said, “only ‘tis curious that your mother kept her maiden name,” she replied, in that same gentle tone.

  “I believe that too was part of the agreement,” agreed Frannie. “But it is irregular, I grant.”

  “Yes, indeed!” Catherine said, staring at Frannie. “If you were not aware of the trust, I should think you were a Fanshawe that had nothing to do with our branch. But you evidently know about it, though my fiancé and his family are the sole recipients of the secret to my knowledge.” She paused and asked, “How did you find us if your mother never spoke of her brother or his family?”

  “Your father’s name and direction were given to me when my dear benefactress, Mrs. Baxter, left this world, only weeks since.”

  “Another loss for you! I’m sorry.” Sympathy again filled her eyes.

  Frannie sighed. “Thank you. All my life, both she and my mother assured me that, upon my majority, I would come into a fortune. The trust. And that it came from my father’s estate.”

  Catherine looked intrigued. “Then you must know who your father is?”

  Frannie swallowed. “I am afraid that is the mystery behind it all. My parents were separated before I was old enough to understand such things. I was told he’d died at sea. But we received an annual sum on his account, enough so that I was always kept in the first style of fashion.”

  “And now you have reached your majority?” Catherine asked.

  Frannie hesitated. “I have not. But I am in need of the funds. With Mrs. Baxter gone…you see.” She lapsed into silence, unwilling to divulge the unhappy circumstances that had beset her since Mrs. Baxter’s passing. Catherine seemed mesmerized, staring at Frannie. “Yours is a strange history,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Indeed, why your father would set up a trust for you to begin with, when he took no further notice of you…? When your mother failed, even, to use his name?” The questions hung in the air solemnly. The likelihood of how it could ever be sensibly—or respectably—explained seemed to grow more remote with each revelation. Instead, the stark realities seemed to point to only one thing: that Frannie had been born out of wedlock.

  With brows furrowed, Frannie said, “I understand your astonishment, believe me, Miss Fanshawe. I find it all rather astonishing myself. Indeed, most perplexing. I can make no sense of it.” She looked across at her frankly. “We are hoping your father will untangle the enigma.”

  Catherine nodded. “I believe he can.” Again a silence fell, until suddenly she added, shifting in her seat, “I beg your pardon, cousin, but—would not a marriage license contain your father’s name?” Her question was not shaded in judgmental tones, but merely curious.

  Frannie sighed. “I am certain it would, if only it can be found…” Her voice trailed off. She was suddenly desirous for the interview to end. How much she longed to be welcomed as family by the Fanshawes, but how estranged she felt! How ashamed. Why would they want her for a legitimate relation when for nineteen years they had seen fit not to know her or her mother? She said, “I am, as you might imagine, quite distressed over this…”

  “Yes, of course!” the other replied, very kindly. “I am sure it will be found. My mother refuses to believe we are cousins and would rather torment herself with the notion of there being infidelity on my father’s part. She sits upon pinpricks waiting for an explanation.” She shot Frannie a gleam of wicked amusement. “If she were right, we would be half-sisters!” She shook her head, smiling. “I confess the notion of having a sister never crossed my brain before!” But then she grew sober and said, “I know it isn’t true because I saw your mother with Papa, and I heard what I told earlier, talk of an agreement. I believe they may have mentioned your father’s name…”

  Frannie’s heart quickened.

  But she finished, “Only I cannot recall it… Harry, perhaps?... I’m sorry, I’m not certain.”

  Frannie said, “Your mother regards me as an impostor and a thief! But I assure you—!”

  Catherine shook her head. “There is no need! Please, I know how it is.” She looked away and then back, calmly. “My mother’s heart is much set upon the trust. That is why she behaves monstrously to you. I daresay her behaviour may yet grow worse, for if Freddie—Lord Whitby, that is—cries off when he learns I have no funds to bring to the wedding, well, Mama will be in rare form.” She swallowed. Before Frannie could interject a word, she continued, “My father’s return will silence her, for he will explain it all. But in the meantime, she persists in believing it must belong to me.” She hesitated, deliberating. “Papa replied with a my
steriously unhappy letter after he received word of the betrothal. I see now ‘twas because he knew it might not stand when the truth came out—that I have no fortune awaiting me.” She paused, her face scrunched in concentration. “Now I think on it, he wrote that ‘Old Swenson,’ that is Lord Whitby’s father, ‘would sink the ship soon enough.’” She looked up apologetically. “Sink the ship—that’s sailor speak for put an end to it.”

  She swallowed and continued. “My betrothal to Lord Whitby was accomplished with the promise of that fortune, and—and—as I did not know of your being in England, I saw no harm in hoping it was true.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Frannie cried. Gently she asked, “Are you in love with him?”

  Catherine looked away and licked her lips. “I am fond of him. I daresay I expect to love him once we are wed.” But a little smile formed and she added, “Though I must say, he is a bit of a fribble.” She looked up. “Mama will be furious, for surely he will cry off, now.”

  Frannie’s eyes clouded.

  Hurriedly Catherine added, “But I assure you, I will come clean to him.”

  Frannie held up a hand. “Say nothing to him. Not yet. We do not yet know the particulars of the case. Not until your father’s ship docks, shall we know what’s what.” She spoke eagerly, for it seemed now that the whole sordid mystery would finally be at an end. She leaned forward conspiratorially, leaning with hands upon her skirts. “And if it does turn out in my favour, I promise you, I shall assist you in whatever way I can.”

  Catherine sniffed, giving Frannie a wide-eyed look of hope. “I daresay I should never have asked it of you, but you are kind to make the offer.”

  Frannie smiled. “You are my only cousin. I could do no less in good conscience.” The girls came to their feet and stood smiling at each other with surprised gladness. “I’m very obliged to you for coming,” Frannie said.