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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Sebastian said, “Happy day, indeed!” He put an arm about Frannie. “But I must disagree with my cousin about one thing; that bit about being the happiest of men. That blessing,” he said, moving a tendril of hair gently from her face, “belongs entirely to me.”

  All this time Mrs. Fanshawe, clutching her reticule, had been squirming in her seat. She rose now and scuttled toward the door with her head down, daring not so much as a glance behind her. Sir Hugo tore his gaze from his future bride. “One moment, Mrs. Fanshawe! What did you mean by claiming you adopted my child?”

  She stopped and turned to face the room. Swallowing, she looked with trepidation at Frannie. “We only did what ’er mother asked. We kept ’er secret!”

  The baronet’s face reddened. “For keeping a devilish secret, do you consider I should thank you? When I might have been told—”

  “And yer father would ha’ left ye with an estate entailed, and in debt! That’s why she done it! Fer yer own good. Said she wouldn’t be the cause of yer ruin. And without Mr. Fanshawe’s help, I daresay you’d be low in the pocket, and with not a farthing to spare!”

  “Had we not overheard you speaking to Sir Hugo,” put in Sebastian with narrowed eyes and in a strong tone, “you and your husband would have ‘helped’ Miss Arundell out of her fortune, and worse, prevented her from knowing her father!”

  She gave him a belligerent look, but it was laced with fear. In a second, without another word, she turned and slunk out of the room and made her way back to the great hall blubbering like a baby. She must gather her family and make a hasty exit. She had not only failed utterly to procure the slightest benefit for their daughter, but now feared that her bungled attempt at gain might lead to prosecution. That creature Miss Fanshawe might be of a mind to cause trouble for them seeing as how she, Mrs. Fanshawe, had misrepresented the case to the baronet.

  She took her place by her husband but was forced to wait for Catherine who was among the horde of dancers. Gesturing frantically, she tried to get Catherine’s attention. “Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, “I desire we should leave this minute!” She looked at him searchingly a moment, assessing whether or not he’d enjoyed the baronet’s ale a little too well and might not be amenable to a hasty exit.

  Understanding the reason for her scrutiny, he said, “I’m all of apiece, m’dear; the ale’s weak. Not at all the thing such as what we drink aboard ship.” He reflected ruefully that the pleasant sense of inebriation he’d enjoyed earlier had already ebbed away, leaving as quickly as it came.

  “That’s a mercy, sir, for we must make haste!”

  “What’s this? In a hurry, now? Did you speak to Sir Hugo?”

  “’Tis no matter now,” she replied, turning back to the dance floor and resuming the gesticulations that she felt sure would gain Catherine’s attention.

  “What is the hurry, Mrs. Fanshawe?”

  She turned to her husband, her face scrunched in an effort not to wail. “We’re all done up! There’s naught in it for Catherine, and her betrothal is ru—ruined!” She produced a handkerchief from within her bodice and blew her nose heartily. “She’ll be an old maid, an ape leader!” She let out a shuddering sob.

  He patted her hand, “There, there, m’love, cain’t be as bad as all that.”

  “There’s more, Mr. Fanshawe!” she cried, staring at him in despair. “That other creature Miss Fanshawe is here! It’s all out, now. They know each other for father and daughter! There’s naught we can do for them. And I fear that creature will have the law on us!”

  He looked thoughtful a moment. “Did they speak of the trust?”

  Her eyes blazed. “His Lordship knew nothing of a trust! My hopes were raised all these years in vain. A fine husband you are, to raise a woman’s hopes for naught! A trust, indeed! I suppose it don’t, and never did exist!”

  “But it does, my dear.” He patted his waistcoat pocket.

  She turned incredulous eyes upon him, blinking. “Do you mean to say, Mr. Fanshawe, that you have the papers of the trust upon you? On your person?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe’s countenance transformed in an instant. Tears vanished; her face cleared and she smiled. “Why, sir, you are the finest husband in the world! In the world, sir! Come, we must hasten to the baronet, for now we may do him a service!”

  He looked out at the dancers. “Catherine is yet upon the floor. A very gentlemanlike young man is her partner. We mustn’t leave without alerting her.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe followed his gaze and saw their daughter was indeed partnered with a very respectable looking gentleman—in fact—she gasped. “Mr. Fanshawe! That is the young man who took me to see the baronet!” She gazed at the dancers with a calculating eye. “And now he must do so again.”

  Frannie, Sebastian, Mrs. Arundell and Sir Hugo were just about to leave the study when there was a knock. The door opened; Edward poked his head in.

  “Right, they’re still here,” he said to someone behind him, and then entered, followed by Mrs. and Mr. Fanshawe. The stout woman looked about with an air of triumph before settling her gaze upon the baronet. “Sir, we have something what should interest you, I daresay.”

  Her husband was standing almost behind her but he came about now and went toward the baronet, his hand extended. “Sir,” he said, “very glad I am to see you well.”

  Sir Hugo accepted the handshake, though his heart ached at the knowledge that this man had known his wife and child were in England, all these long years. “What is this your wife refers to?” he asked.

  “It is this, sir.” Mr. Fanshawe put a hand inside his waistcoat pocket and drew out a small sheaf of papers yellowed with age and tied with a string. But Mrs. Fanshawe jumped to his side and grabbed them. Holding them up triumphantly she cried, “This here is what can solve the mystery of the trust fund! These are the very papers my husband’s sister left in our keeping.”

  Sir Hugo’s eyes gleamed. “The papers concerning the trust? Excellent. I must require them immediately.” He held out a hand.

  “Not so fast, Yer Honour, if you please,” said Mrs. Fanshawe, quickly shoving the hand with the papers behind her back. She darted to the hearth and held it out precariously over the flames.

  “I must require something in return,” she said.

  Sir Hugo said, “Of course, of course, no problem at all.”

  But Mr. Fanshawe, frowning at his wife, went to her. He held out his hand. “Mrs. Fanshawe, we will not extort Margaret’s family. I am no such brother who would use my sister that ill.”

  “Think of Catherine’s betrothal!” she cried pleadingly. “She must have a good future, sir! You are her father and must provide for her!”

  Before he could reply, from the side of the room Frannie spoke up. “Dear Aunt Fanshawe, if those papers do assure me of a fortune, I wish to be of assistance to Catherine.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe turned to her in astonishment. “You wish to help our Catherine?” she asked in a small, incredulous voice, her face wrinkled in doubt.

  Frannie smiled. “I do indeed, freely, and with all my heart.”

  Mrs. Fanshawe was suddenly faint. She put out a hand to steady herself, and her husband quickly put an arm about her. He helped her to a chair where she sat blinking at Frannie, her face distorted with the effort to hold back tears. Frannie moved toward her and took her hand.

  “I give you my word on it, ma’am. I will do all in my power to help Catherine keep her betrothal.”

  The lady’s tears now gave way, silently rolling down her face. She freed her hand only to take Frannie’s in it and kiss it. “My dear, dear, niece!” she said, handing over the papers. “My darling Miss Fanshawe!” Frannie passed them immediately to the baronet, who had joined her by the chair.

  Turning back to the lady she said, smiling, “I am your niece, but I am not Miss Fanshawe. I am Miss Frances Arundell, if you please.” The truth rolled over her again like a great big victory banner. With a trembling mix of pride and
humility, she said, “I am a baronet’s daughter and the future wife of a baronet.”

  “Sir Hugo’s daughter?” Edward’s face froze in astonishment. “Did you ever hear of such a quiz!” he exclaimed, but then his face fell. “Wait. What’s this? The future wife of a baronet?”

  “Edward, dearest,” put in Mrs. Arundell, hurrying to his side. “You cannot hold the smallest doubt that they must wed. Pray recollect I had an inkling of it, my love!”

  In the great hall, the waits played their last number, “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” The faintest strains could be heard in the room as Sebastian, taking one of Frannie’s hands, squeezed it gently. “So there really is a trust fund, sir?” he asked, looking to Sir Hugo, who had rounded his desk while reading the papers.

  Sir Hugo looked up with a sparkle in his eyes. “There is indeed! I daresay from the amount of the initial investment, something exceeding £30,000 must be accrued in my daughter’s name by now, waiting only for her to claim it.” He looked at Frannie. “Heaven be blessed that my father did this for you! His refusal to accept my choice of bride made him more generous than his nature would otherwise allow. He preferred to pay such a price rather than to enjoy the greater rewards of a happy family, and grandchildren about his coattails.”

  Mrs. Arundell went toward Frannie with open arms. “Did I not always say it would all work out? That you would get your fortune?” The women shared a quick but warm embrace.

  Frannie said, “You did, indeed! But my greatest joy today is not the trust.” She looked up to meet Sebastian’s eyes, finding the warmth in them that melted her insides and made her long to be in his arms. As if knowing her thoughts, he stepped closer and put an arm about her.

  “Nor is it that I have found my father, though I rejoice in that.” Tears brimmed in her eyes as she added, “My greatest joy is that I am no longer unfit to be your wife!”

  He raised her hand and kissed it lingeringly, his beautiful eyes locked onto hers.

  “You were never unfit for that, dearest.” He pulled her into his arms, lowered his head, and kissed her.

  TIMELINE Before the Story Opens

  1786: Sir Malcolm arranges for his son Hugo to meet Penelope Markham, the daughter of a wealthy nabob. Hugo likes Penelope very much but he makes no offer for her.

  1787: Penelope marries Hugo's 1st cousin, Richard Arundell.

  1788: Sebastian is born to Penelope and Richard (he's 27 in 1815)

  1796: Frannie is born. She is raised by her mother, Margaret Fanshawe, and a lady, Mrs. Baxter.

  1797: Edward is born to Penelope and Richard.

  1800: The boys' father, Richard Arundell, dies.

  1813: Margaret Fanshawe, Frannie's mother, dies.

  1814: Sir Malcolm, Hugo Arundell's father, dies. Sir Hugo is now the baronet of Bartlett Hall.

  1815: Mrs. Baxter dies. Before dying, she tells Frannie that she is heiress to a great trust fund, and that her father is a nobleman.

  1815: STORY OPENS Frannie is broke after paying off what she could of Mrs. Baxter's debts. After calling upon the Fanshawe's of Cheapside seeking help, she is almost run down by Edward Arundell driving his brother's curricle.

  Map: 1818 Map of Mayfair (Inset)

  The Arundells’ Home on King Street (Red star on right)

  PREVIEW of BEFORE THE SEASON ENDS

  THE REGENCY TRILOGY: BOOK ONE CHAPTER ONE

  by Linore Rose Burkard

  “A Tasty Confection.”

  Publishers Weekly

  There was indeed a certain fair and fairy one

  …A lovely being scarcely formed or moulded,

  A rose with all its sweetest leaves unfolded.

  Byron

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chesterton, Hertfordshire

  England

  1813

  Something would have to be done about Ariana.

  All winter Miss Ariana Forsythe, aged nineteen, had been going about the house sighing, “Mr. Hathaway is my lot in life!”

  She spoke as though the prospect of that life was a great burden to bear, but one to which she had properly reconciled herself. When her declarations met with exasperation or reproach from her family—for no one else was convinced Mr. Hathaway, the rector, was her lot—she usually responded in a perplexed manner. Hadnʼt they understood for an age that her calling was to wed a man of the cloth? Was there another man of God, other than their rector, available to her? No. It only stood to reason, therefore, that Mr. Hathaway was her lot in life. Their cold reception to the thought of the marriage was

  unfathomable.

  When she was seventeen (a perfectly respectable marrying age) she had romantic hopes about a young and brilliant assistant to the rector, one Mr. Stresham. It was shortly after meeting him, in fact, that she had formed the opinion the Almighty was calling her to marry a man of God. Mr. Stresham even had the approval of her parents. But the man took a situation in another parish without asking Ariana to accompany him as his wife. She was disappointed, but not one to give up easily, continued to speak of “the calling,” waiting in hope for another Mr. Stresham of sorts. But no man came. And now she had reached the conclusion that Mr. Hathaway—Mr. Hathaway, the rector, (approaching the age of sixty) would have to do.

  Her parents, Charles and Julia Forsythe, were sitting in their comfortably furnished morning room, Julia with a cup of tea before her, and Charles with his newspaper. A steady warmth emanated from the hearth. Mrs. Forsythe, being an observant mamma, had been growing in her conviction that the situation called for some action.

  “What shall we do about Ariana?”

  “What do you suggest, my dear?” Her husband reluctantly folded his paper; he knew his wife wanted a discussion of the matter and that he would get precious little reading done until she had got it.

  She held up a folded piece of foolscap: the annual letter from Agatha Bentley, Charlesʼs sister, asking for Alberta, the eldest Forsythe daughter, for the season in London. It had arrived the day before.

  Aunt Bentley was a childless wealthy widow and a hopeless socialite. For the past three years she had written annually to tell her brother and his wife why they ought to let her sponsor their eldest daughter for a London season. She owned a house in Mayfair (could anything be more respectable than that?) and knew a great deal of the big-wigs in society. She had, in fact, that most important of commodities which the Forsythes completely lacked: connexions. And as Charles’s family were her only living relatives, she was prepared—even anxious—to serve as chaperon for her niece

  Much to the ladyʼs frustration, Julia and Charles had annually extinguished her hopes, replying to her letters graciously but with the inevitable, “We cannot countenance a separation from our child at this time,” and so on. Charles was unflinching on this point, never doubting his girls would reap a greater benefit by remaining beneath his own roof. They knew full well, moreover, that Aunt Agatha could not hope, with all her money and connexions to find as suitable a husband for their offspring as was possible right in Chesterton.

  Why? For the profound reason that Aunt Bentley had no religion whatsoever.

  And yet, due to the distressing state of affairs with Ariana, Julia wished to consider her latest offer. With the letter waving in her hand she said, “I think we ought to oblige your sister this year. She must be lonely, poor thing, and besides removing Ariana from the parish, a visit to the city could prove beneficial for her education.”

  Ariana’s father silently considered the matter. His eldest daughter Alberta was as good as wed, having recently accepted an offer of marriage—to no one’s surprise—from Johnathan Norledge. Ariana, his second eldest, had been irksome in regard to the rector, but to pack her off to London? Surely the situation was not so dire as to warrant such a move.

  “I think there is nothing else for it,” Mrs. Forsythe said emphatically. “Ariana is determined about Mr. Hathaway and, even though we can forbid her to speak to the man, she will pine and sigh and like as not drive me
to distraction!”

  Taking a pipe out of his waistcoat pocket (though he never smoked), Mr. Forsythe absently rubbed the polished wood in his fingers.

  “I recall other fanciful notions of our daughter’s,” he said finally, “and they slipped away in time. Recall, if you will, when she was above certain her destiny was to be a missionary—to America. That desire faded. She fancies this, she fancies that; soon she will fancy another thing entirely, and we shan’t hear another word about the ‘wonderful rector’ again.”

  Mrs. Forsythe’s countenance, still attractive in her forties, became fretful.

  “I grant that she has had strong…affections before. But this time, my dear, it is a complicated affection for in this case it is the heart of the ah, affected, which we must consider. It has ideas of its own.”

  “Of its own?”

  Mrs. Forsythe looked about the room to be certain no one else had entered. The servants were so practiced at coming and going quietly, their presence might not be marked. But no, there was only the two of them. She lowered her voice anyway.

  “The rector! I do not think he intends to lose her! What could delight him more than a young, healthy wife who might fill his table with offspring?”

  Mr. Forsythe shook his head. “Our rector is not the man to think only of himself; he must agree with us on the obvious unsuitability of the match.”

  The rector was Thaddeus Admonicus Hathaway, of the Church in the Village Square. Mr. Hathaway was a good man. His sermons were grounded in sound religion, which meant they were based on orthodox Christian teaching. He was clever, and a popular dinner guest of the gentry, including the Forsythes. If these had not been true of him, Mr. Forsythe might have been as concerned as his wife. Knowing Mr. Hathaway, however, Charles Forsythe did not think a drastic action such as sending his daughter to the bustling metropolis of London was necessary.