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

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Mrs. Forsythe chose not to quarrel with her spouse. She would simply commit the matter to prayer. If the Almighty decided that Ariana must be removed to Agatha’s house, then He would make it clear to her husband. In her years of marriage she had discovered that God was the Great Communicator, and she had no right to try and usurp that power. Her part was to pray, sincerely and earnestly.

  Mr. Forsythe gave his judgment: “I fear that rather than exerting a godly influence upon her aunt, Ariana would be drawn astray by the ungodliness of London society.”

  “Do you doubt her so much, Charles? This infatuation with Mr. Hathaway merely results from her youth, her admiration for his superior learning, and especially,” she said, leaning forward and giving him a meaningful look, “for lack of a young man who has your approval! Have you not frowned upon every male who has approached her in the past? Why, Mr. Hathaway is the first whom you have failed to frighten off and only because he is our rector! ʼTis little wonder a young girl takes a fanciful notion into her head!”

  When he made no answer, she added, while adjusting the frilly morning cap on her head, “Mr. Hathaway causes me concern.”

  Mr. Forsythe’s countenance was sober. “’Tis my sister who warrants the concern. She will wish to make a match for our daughter—and she will not be content with just any mister I assure you. In addition to which, a girl as pretty as our daughter will undoubtedly attract attention of the wrong sort.”

  Julia was flustered for a second, but countered, “Agatha is no threat to our child. We shall say we are sending Ariana to see the sights, take in the museums and so forth. Surely there

  is no harm in that. A dinner party or soiree here or there should not be of concern.

  And Ariana is too intelligent to allow herself to be foisted upon an unsuitable man for a fortune or title.”

  Too intelligent? He thought of the aging minister that no one had had to “foist” her upon. Aloud he merely said, “I shall speak with her tonight. She shall be brought to reason, depend upon it. There will be no need to pack her off to London.”

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  PREVIEW of FOREVER, LATELY

  A REGENCY TIME TRAVEL ROMANCE

  by Linore Rose Burkard

  CHAPTER ONE

  Love alters not with (time’s) brief hours and weeks

  But bears it out ev’n to the edge of doom.

  Shakespeare

  Julian St. John dug in his heels and spurred on Brutus, his thoroughbred of sixteen hands, as he approached the drive to his estate. A light rain was obscuring the moonlight, and he wanted nothing more than to get home and return to his books and the fireside. He’d been dragged off by a messenger who’d claimed that a “proper lady” was on the road and in need of assistance.

  He’d ridden all the way into the village and found no lady in need of help. Neither did he see the boy who’d appeared at his door claiming there was one. He didn’t mind an urgent gallop—he was born for speed, and thrived on racing—but it was a fool’s errand and he was tired. He secured his hat and nudged on Brutus with his heels. As he neared the turnoff to his own drive, suddenly the lights of a coach against the side of the road about fifty feet ahead lit up, looking dully at him like two sleepy eyes.

  St. John squinted and slowed Brutus. The coach hadn’t moved, so he spurred the animal gently towards it, wondering if his assistance was needed after all. But the sound of a whip and a coachman’s yell brought the idle vehicle to life, and it barreled down the road—straight towards him. He moved

  Brutus to the side but was astonished when the coach veered again in his direction. Was the coachman buffle-headed?

  He spurred the animal’s sides and maneuvered off the road and up a steep incline, and then turned to watch the vehicle. Unbelievably, it was still coming crazily at him, its lamplights brighter now, blazing like evil eyes. And closing in. This wasn’t poor driving—the coach was trying to hit him! As it bowled towards him, the coachman’s face materialised out of the haze, his eyes opened wide in terror. A fence prevented St. John from vanishing into the trees that fronted his property, but just as the coach and four would have bowled into him, he shouted at Brutus, snapped his spurs, and cracked the reins—they missed a collision by inches as the sturdy animal lunged out of harm’s way. The coach’s horses hit the fence, whinnying.

  Turning Brutus around, St. John patted his neck while surveying the vehicle as it came to a rollicking stop, balanced precariously on the incline. The messenger boy, he saw now, must have fallen from the coach, and was on his backside in the wet brush.

  Taking a deep breath at the close call, St. John quietly reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a pistol. Good thing he rarely rode in the evenings without one. Good thing, too, that he was an excellent horseman or that insane coachman might have caused his demise. Brutus nickered nervously, so he patted his mane. “Good job, old boy,” he said, never moving his eyes from the sleek black coach, silent and mysterious, but whose horses stamped impatiently. He cautiously approached. There was no sound as he made his way past the closed door, but he found the coachman huddled on his perch.

  “How the devil do you explain your driving? Are you hocused?” he asked, thinking the man was in his cups.

  “Nay, guv’nor. Followin’ me orders, that’s what.”

  “Orders from whom?” St. John demanded. “Who do you have in there?”

  “T’mistress an’ ʼer sister,” he answered sullenly.

  St. John’s heart sank—two women—if the driver could be trusted. “And you drove like a madman with women aboard!” The man shifted uneasily on his perch but muttered, “I follows me orders, guv’nor.”

  “And what were your orders, precisely?” he asked in a scathing tone.

  Again the man shifted uneasily. “Ask t’mistress.”

  “Who is your mistress?”

  The coachman gave him a guarded look. “Ask t’mistress,” he repeated.

  St. John turned away in disgust and urged his horse nearer the window of the equipage. He peered cautiously inside but saw only darkness. Dismounting, he kept the reins in one hand.

  “Hello?” No answer. He readied his pistol. “If you do not answer, I warn you—I am armed.” When still no sound came forth, he reached for the latch and turned it, eliciting a gentle click. Holding the pistol out, he swung the door open, and peered inside. “Hello,” he said again, wishing the clouds weren’t obstructing the moon so well.

  He heard some movement and tensed. A muffled sob came from the far side of the coach. He shoved his pistol in a pocket—heavens, it was a woman—and was about to jump in when a female laugh, very close to his head, rang out, clear and distinct.

  “Oh, Margaret,” the voice scolded. “You’ve spoilt it! You needn’t blubber; we are unharmed, are we not? And you can see St. John is equally unscathed.”

  Julian forced himself to take a deep breath before he spoke. “What the devil have you done?” he hissed at the speaker, who now pushed her face forward from the shadows, where the coach lamp illumined the lovely features of Clarissa Andrews in all her wicked, seductive beauty.

  She smiled at him, turning her head demurely, only it wasn’t an honest movement, for there was nothing demure about Miss Andrews. She was a vixen, a minx, a she-devil, and she’d been trying to get St. John beneath her power since the start of the season. She knew, as did all of London, that St. John, after thirty-four years of bachelorhood, was in need of a wife. Heʼd made an oath to the Marquess of Worleydon, his former guardian, and he meant to keep it.

  “Allow me to congratulate you, Julian, on the excellent handling of your horse,” she purred. “I am infinitely relieved you have kept yourself in one piece, you must know. I should have been utterly cast down had you been harmed.”

  Steely blue eyes glinted at her. He wished he could tell her to go to the devil, to plague him with her incessant fooleries, but he was too much a gentleman—by God, he would be a gentleman. So he said only, “You could have got
someone killed.”

  “Yes, you,” she agreed calmly. “But here you are, as handsome and alive as ever.” She gave him a sweet smile, reminding him of what he found so vexatious in her. She had an innocent smile, delectable lips, but behind it all a black heart.

  “Oh, come, Julian, you give me too much credit. No one was anything near being killed. You know it was naught but a lark, only a lark!”

  “Only a lark?” His voice dripped ice. “Your coach came directly at me, and if I had been any less a rider, I would likely have broken my neck. My horse might have died as well.”

  She was thoughtful a moment. “We were not supposed to drive quite so close to you, I own. And why do you insist upon riding such an immense animal? We should have fared the worst, not you; only it did not work out the way I planned.” She spoke with barely a moment’s stopping. “And I warrant you would have come to rescue me in a moment if Margaret had not spoilt everything.” She pouted at him from within the reaches of a richly beribboned bonnet. “I was perfectly prepared to swoon for your benefit. You would have come to my aid, would you not?” She looked at him hopefully, but he made no answer. He directed his next words to the opposite wall of the coach.

  “Are you all right, Miss Margaret?” He couldn’t see Miss Andrews's younger sister, but a sniffle came from the darkness.

  “I—I think so. Thank you, sir.”

  “Margaret’s perfectly well!” Miss Andrews cried, moving forward so her ample bosom, half revealed in the formal dress of evening wear, was not only plainly in sight, but she blocked any possible view behind her. St. John looked away, refusing to admire her.

  Other men did admire her, for she could have made any wall in the kingdom proud with her portrait on it. She had dark, lustrous hair, an ovaline face with a well-delineated nose, and dark, long-lashed eyes. She also had slim ankles and

  small feet, which he knew from attending many a ball or rout in town. But St. John could not admire Miss Andrews'ss face or slim ankles, for her brazen impudence gave him a disgust of her.

  In the past he would have taken advantage of her, welcomed her when she teased him with her alluring countenance and everything beneath it. At times he wanted nothing more than to take hold of her and…He forced his mind to concentrate only on her irksome behaviour. Tonight’s escapade, what she called a ‘mere lark,’ was the latest in a string of vexatious attempts by her to gain his attention. And it was merely a hoax, another of her tricks, to put him in her path.

  As he considered how best to give her a set-down, the jarring sound of a ring tone, quite close, made St. John turn in amazement and look around, not understanding the sound or its source. It was unrecognizable. But Claire Channing, the author writing St. John’s story, did. She shut her eyes with a low groan, while St. John and the coach, the dark road, all of it, vanished, and she was back, sitting before her laptop, waiting for the call to go to voice mail.

  “Good fiction creates its own reality.”

  Nora Roberts

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Linore Rose Burkard is a serious watcher of period films, a Janeite, and hopeless romantic. An award-winning author best known for Inspirational Regency Romance, her first novel (Before the Season Ends) opened the genre for the CBA. Besides historical romance, Linore writes contemporary suspense (The Pulse Effex Series, as L.R. Burkard), contemporary romance and short stories. Linore has a magna cum laude English Lit. degree from CUNY which she earned while taking herself far too seriously. She now resides in Ohio with her husband and family, where she turns her youthful angst into character or humor-driven plots.

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  A Short Glossary of Regency Terms

  A

  abigail: a lady’s maid; any female maid (servant).

  Ex. “I see you’ve hired a new abigail.”

  Ace of Spades: a widow

  ape leader: an old maid; based on a strange myth that single women who never bore children would end up leading apes in hell.

  ague: (Pronounced ah-gyoo) Originally, malaria and the chills that went with it. Later, any respiratory infection such as a cold, fever or chills.

  assembly, assemblies: Large gatherings held in the evening for gentry or the aristocracy, usually including a ball and supper. Almack’s in London was the ultimate Assembly in the early part of the 19th century. A handful of high-standing society hostesses had autocratic power of attendance as they alone could issue the highly prized vouchers, or tickets. . Competition to get in was fierce. The Duke of Wellington was once famously turned away—for being late.

  B

  ball: A large dance requiring full dress. Refreshments were available, and sometimes a supper. Public balls required tickets; private ones, an invitation.

  Banbury tale: A story with no basis in fact; A rumour; Nonsense.

  banns: Banns of marriage were a public announcement in a parish church that two people intended to get married. They had to be read three consecutive weeks in a row, and in the home church of both parties. After each reading, (and this was their purpose) the audience was asked to give knowledge of any legal impediment to the marriage. If there was none, after three weeks, the couple were legally able to wed. To bypass the banns, a couple could try to get a marriage license instead. Without banns or a license, the marriage would be illegal. (null)

  beau monde, the: The aristocracy and the rich upperclass. The fashionable elite. In practice, anyone accepted into their circle, ie., a celebrity or an “original.”.

  blow by: Illegitimate child; other terms were, baseborn child of, natural child of…

  blunt: (slang) Cash; ready money.

  C

  Carlton House: Given to the Prince of Wales by George III upon reaching his majority, Carlton House was in a state of disrepair (for a royal, at any rate). The house consequently underwent enormous alterations and changes, and was the London palace for the Regent. He spent a great deal of time there but eventually came to favour the palace at Brighton—an even larger extravagance. The Brighton “Pavilion” is today a museum, but Carlton House, unfortunately, no longer exists.

  chamber: A private room in a house, such as a bedroom, as opposed to the parlour or dining room.

  chaperon: The servant, mother, or married female relative or family friend who supervised eligible young girls in public.

  chemise: A woman’s long undergarment which served as a slip beneath her gown. Also, a nightdress. (Previously, the chemise was called a ‘shift’.)

  chintz: Patterned cloth, usually floral, with a pleasant satiny “shine” for texture.

  chit: A young girl.

  clubs: The great refuge of the middle and upper-class man in 18th and 19th century London. Originating as coffeehouses in the 17th century, clubs became more exclusive, acquiring prime real estate on Pall Mall and St. James’s Street. Membership was often by invitation only. Among the more prominent were Boodle’s, White’s and Brooke’s. Crockford’s began to dominate in the very late Regency.

  consumption: Pulmonary tuberculosis (TB)

  corset: A precursor of the modern bra, usually meant to constrict the waist to a fashionable measurement, as well as support the high bust required for a Regency gown. It consisted of two parts,reinforced with whalebone that got hooked together in front and then laced up in the back.The garment could also be referred to as ‘the stays.’

  countess: The wife of an earl in England. When ‘shires’ were changed to ‘counties,’ an earl retained the Norman title of earl; his wife, however, became a countess.

  cravat: (pronounced as kruh-vaht, with the accent on the second syllable). A loose cloth that was tied around the neck in a bow. Throughout the Regency, a fashionable gentleman might labour much over this one detail of his appearance, hoping to achieve a number of different, much-coveted effects.

  curricle: Two-wheeled carriage that was popular in the early 1800s. It was pul
led by two horses, and deemed rather sporty by the younger set.

  curtsey: The acceptable mode of greeting or showing respect by a female. By mid-century the curtsey was less in evidence except for social inferiors like maids to their betters, or by any woman presented at court.

  cut: An effective means of social discouragement that involved pretending not to know or see a person who was trying to be acknowledged. A woman might use this technique to discourage unwelcome attentions from a gentleman; but many others ‘cut’ people, too. Getting the ‘cut direct’ from a social superior was vastly humiliating.

  D

  Debrett’s: A published guide to the peerage, often called simply, “the Society Book.”

  dowager: The name given to a widow of rank. Ie., if you were a duchess and your husband died, and your oldest son was married, his wife would become the duchess, and you would be dowager duchess.

  draper (linen draper): Merchant who sold cloth.

  drawing room: A formal parlour used in polite society to receive visitors who came to pay calls during the afternoon.

  F

  first floor: The second floor in the US. The English called the floor level on which one entered from the street the “ground floor.” Entertaining was never done on the ground floor.

  foolscap: A paper of certain dimensions, some varieties of which originally bore a watermark of a fool’s cap and bells.

  footman: A liveried male servant beneath the butler but above the boy or page. He had many duties ranging from errands to lamp-trimming to waiting table, or accompanying the lady of the house to carry packages when she shopped, or to deliver calling cards when making calls.

  fortnight: Two weeks.