The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  She rose, shaking out her skirts in a businesslike fashion. “I do have a busy morning ahead of me, however, and had best be off. I shall tell Cook to make up a tray for you, and ask Bessie to bring it up. You do like Bessie, don’t you?”

  “Miss Fairfax? Oh, yes! She reminds me of my old nurse.”

  Olivia had to stifle a smile. She hoped Edith would not voice that observation to Bessie. Bessie was the dearest creature on earth, and the best friend anyone could have—but she was a bit touchy about her resemblance to everyone’s old nurse.

  Now that Olivia was standing, Edith’s gaze was traveling doubtfully over her faded dress and stout shoes. Olivia’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t you approve of my costume?”

  “It’s quite nice,” said Edith politely.

  “No, it isn’t! It’ll do well for what is in my dish this morning, however. I must spend it digging through crates, up to my elbows in sawdust and crushed paper.” She made a little moue of distaste. “Not my favorite occupation, I’m afraid, but there it is. An old friend of my mother’s has passed away and left the contents of his house to the school I named after her. They tell me it’s a shocking mess, so I must be prepared to dig through a bit of dust to put it all in order. I prefer to do this sort of thing myself, you know, when no inventory has been made. I’m told that the house is full of valuable trinkets—the sort of odds and ends that would be easy for a crew of dailies to slip into their apron pockets when no one is looking. So I dare not hire strangers to help me.”

  “But—an entire house? It sounds a bit much to tackle all alone.”

  Olivia smiled. “I won’t be entirely alone. Bessie has promised to come as soon as she is able, and a group of volunteers is coming from the school to act as charwomen. But as I have the keys, I must be the first to arrive.” She gave a last pat to Edith’s shoulder, taking care to touch her gently. “I will be back to check on you this afternoon. In the meantime, rest—and do not worry. You are safe now.”

  She closed the door softly behind her and moved quickly through the house, giving various orders to see to Edith’s comfort. Toast and tea would be sent up, together with a small basin of gruel. Fresh flowers would be brought to her room, and hot water for the washstand. Someone would check on her from time to time and brew willow bark tea if she became feverish. The bell rope would be moved to within reach so she need not rise or stretch her arm very far to ring for assistance. Her presence in the house would be kept utterly secret. And someone would purchase additional nightgowns this morning, since Olivia’s were too long and Bessie’s too wide for petite Edith.

  By the time Olivia reached the hall mirror near the front door, Bessie was trotting at her heels like the squat bulldog she resembled, grumbling and scolding. “How long are we to keep her here?” demanded Bessie, arms akimbo. “Badesworth will have the law on you, and then where will we be?”

  “He’ll have to find her first, and I mean to prevent that for as long as I can.” Olivia tucked her dark hair neatly into a mobcap as she spoke. “There’s no earthly reason why he should think to look in my house for his runaway bride. He’ll try her parents first, I should think, and then her aunts—and it may be months before he has run through all her old schoolmates and friends. By then, we will have thought of something.”

  Bessie looked skeptical. “I hope so. I’ll say this for you, Ivy: You generally do think of something.”

  Olivia laughed. “That’s my reputation,” she agreed. “Pray be kind to her in the meantime. I promised her you would bring up her tray and chat with her for a bit.”

  Bessie nodded briskly. “I’ll be happy to do that. Poor little chick. Men are beasts. And that brother of yours is the worst of the lot.”

  “Half brother,” Olivia reminded her. “I wonder what accounts for that brutish streak of his? Perhaps his life was blighted when his mother died.”

  Bessie snorted. “I’m old enough to remember Aunt Blythe, and I promise you that no one’s life was blighted when she died! She had something of a brutish streak herself. Ralph is Blythe’s to the marrow.”

  Olivia looked skeptical. “Do you think so? I think I see a bit of Papa in him. All the Fairfax men are tyrants at heart. Only look at the way my inheritance was left to me! Of all the skimble-skamble arrangements—”

  “Uncle Reuben was a bully, there’s no denying it, but he never raised a hand to anyone, male or female. Wouldn’t demean himself. Ralph might have turned out better if he had! I never met a boy who needed caning more than that lad.”

  “Ah, well. Too late now! You are coming to Mr. Beebe’s house later this morning, are you not?”

  “I am, and I’ll bring the group from the school, directly after I finish with Edith.” Her dark eyes, already small, narrowed as she scowled at Olivia’s cap. “I hope you don’t mean to wear a mobcap on the public street.”

  Olivia bestowed a saucy smile upon her cousin. “I suppose that would disgrace the family? You’ll be relieved to know that I am tying a bonnet over it. The ruffle will peep out around my face. Very fashionable!”

  “Humph. Anything fashionable will be wasted with that charity-barrel frock.”

  “It won’t, for I shall don a pelisse to cover the frock,” Olivia retorted, suiting her actions to her words. “You see? The Fairfax name remains unsullied.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now if you will walk sedately, rather than take those great long strides of yours, perhaps no one will notice the shoes.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Were you planning to wear formal attire to dig through Mr. Beebe’s crates?”

  “Oh, be off with you,” said Bessie gruffly. “It doesn’t matter what I wear. I’m not the beauty of the family.”

  “Edith is the beauty of the family,” said Olivia firmly, tugging on her gloves. “So we’ll hear no more nonsense about that, if you please.”

  Two hours later, Olivia emerged from the depths of yet another carton full of jumbled odds and ends and listened to the pounding going on upstairs. It was growing louder and more insistent with each repetition.

  “For heaven’s sake!” she uttered, exasperated. Was Grimsby never going to answer the door? It was bound to be Bessie and her team of charwomen from the school. If Grimsby continued to ignore the knocker, Olivia would be left alone with this houseful of dust and clutter.

  “This,” she announced to the empty basement, “is what comes of hiring a deaf butler.” She struggled to her feet and marched through the storeroom door and up the narrow stairs, wiping her hands on the apron she had tied over her dress.

  She reflected, with wry humor, that Mr. Beebe might not have been an intentional recluse. Perhaps Grimsby simply never answered the door. He was not only hard of hearing, he was all-too-obviously hostile to strangers—particularly females—and he seemed to be the only retainer left in the place. The only living creatures she had encountered here were Grimsby and an overfed cat, and both had whisked out of sight as soon as they were able.

  Still, it was hard to believe that no one had heard the knocker, when she had heard it all the way in the basement. Perhaps Grimsby had peered out the window, seen a gaggle of women waiting on the steps, and gone muttering and cursing back to his sanctuary.

  The knocker was still flailing away as she reached the dim and cluttered hall. “I’m coming!” she shouted inelegantly, which at least caused the irritating rapping to cease. Really, this was too much! Where was Grimsby?

  Frowning crossly, she finally reached the door, snapped the bolt back, and yanked it open. Whatever she was about to say to Bessie died on her lips. It wasn’t Bessie on the steps. It was a stranger, looking every bit as startled as she must.

  Olivia froze. Before her stood the embodiment of all her secret fantasies, her favorite daydreams, to the life. Divinely tall, elegantly dressed, broad-shouldered and capable-looking . . . heavens! What an attractive man.

  Olivia was as tall herself as many men, and secretly hated it. The novelty of encountering a man almost a head taller than
herself somehow made her feel a bit breathless. The gentleman’s dark hair and eyes were beautifully set off by spotless linen and a coat of blue superfine that hugged his athletic form indecently well. He had an air of command combined with a graceful, relaxed posture—as if he were so powerful that he need do nothing to prove it. His catlike grace, elegant clothing, tilted hat, and silver-headed walking stick might make a lesser man appear effeminate. Not this man. He was as beautiful and as dangerous as a panther. And so purely masculine, just looking at him made her feel weak in the knees.

  This was the man of her dreams. She had never envisioned him in such detail, but now that she was looking into his eyes she recognized him at once.

  He did not seem to recognize her, however. In fact, after staring into her eyes for perhaps three seconds, he snapped, “Who the devil are you?”

  2

  Every week, it seemed, Grimsby took longer to answer the confounded door. One of these days, thought George angrily, I am going to pound hard enough to break the hinges, and that surly old reprobate is going to lose his situation. But just as he raised his walking stick to amplify his efforts with the knocker, he thought he heard someone within give a shout. He paused his knocking to listen. The call was not repeated, but he heard the bolt on the other side of the door slide back with an emphatic bang, demonstrating an irritation equal to his own. What cheek!

  His brows snapped together in a black scowl, and he took a breath to say something blistering—but the door opened to reveal, not Grimsby’s sour visage, but a fresh-faced and fierce-looking housemaid.

  The thing one noticed about her, apart from a general impression that she had been interrupted in the midst of a pretty dirty job, was her eyes. She was tall for a female, so he had the unusual privilege of looking into them at almost eye-level. They were the most extraordinary pair of eyes he had ever seen. In fact, they were breathtaking. He was so surprised by them that he completely lost his train of thought for several seconds while taking them in.

  It wasn’t their size, or their shape—although both were very fine, even to a connoisseur of women like himself. It was the color. Her eyes were a clear, light gray. Or blue. Or green. Gray, he decided. A gray that was almost platinum, with a dark line like a halo ringing the irises for emphasis. Set in a smooth, pale skin and framed with stiff black lashes, they were utterly unique. Her lashes formed little points that made each eye look as if it were the center of a star. An oval star. A silver star. Good lord, his wits were babbling.

  He knew a portrait-painter who would give his right arm for the chance to paint those eyes. George felt a fleeting regret that a girl of her station would never be immortalized in that way. But eyes or no eyes, blast it, what had taken her so long to come to the door?

  He opened his mouth to chide her for her negligence. What came out instead was an idiotic, “Who the devil are you?”

  It was just as if he had dashed cold water in her face. For one crazy moment, Olivia felt crushed.

  Imbecile, she scolded herself, inwardly rallying. Naturally the gentleman sounds annoyed. He is annoyed. He has been standing on the step and pounding the knocker for a very long time.

  On the other hand, annoyance is no excuse for using strong language in the presence of a gently born female. Olivia gathered her wits about her and looked down her nose at him. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” she snapped.

  One of his brows flew up, and one corner of his mouth turned down. It was the most perfect expression of mockery she had ever seen. “I beg your pardon,” he drawled. “I was expecting Grimsby. Tell me, is the knocker on this door inaudible in the servants’ quarters?”

  Well, how rude! Handsome is as handsome does, she reminded herself grimly. This man only resembled her ideal on the surface. How dare he take that tone with her? She glared, furious with him for shattering her fantasy—and with herself for indulging it.

  “You’ll have to ask Grimsby,” she said shortly. She glanced behind the man, then down the street. “Where are my charwomen?”

  The handsome stranger’s brows climbed higher. “I’ve no idea. Where is Grimsby?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she replied, parroting his tone. A wicked inspiration struck, and she hooked her thumb toward the back of the house. “If you’ve come in search of him, the servants’ entrance is that way,” she said helpfully.

  He looked properly stunned, she noted with satisfaction. He even glanced at the numbers painted beside the door to make sure he had the right house.

  Olivia stepped back, her hand on the latch, and the gentleman immediately proved that his reflexes were as pantherlike as she had somehow known they would be. The walking stick that had been tucked negligently under his arm half a heartbeat ago was now firmly wedged across the threshold, preventing her from closing the door. His features had darkened in a frown.

  “Now, look here, my good woman—”

  Olivia smiled sweetly as she interrupted him. “I think it only fair to warn you, I’ve no objection to breaking that expensive-looking stick of yours.”

  He hastily removed it. She closed the door. The instant the door was shut, she had to cover her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle. Really, the expression on the man’s face had been priceless!

  The knocker sounded again, so loud beside her ear that she jumped. A baritone voice on the other side of the door was raised in fury, and she heard the words clearly even through the stout oak.

  “I shall report your conduct to Mr. Beebe, you impertinent chit, and you’ll find yourself banished to the kitchen!”

  Her jaw dropped. He thought she was a servant! She whirled round to stare at herself in the dusty hall mirror. She had completely forgotten about her appearance. Her reflection stared back at her, garbed in an ugly stuff gown covered with an apron, her hair tucked up under a mobcap, and—horrors!—a smut of black dirt on her cheek. She scrubbed hastily at her face with the corner of her apron, mortified. How embarrassing. It was a relief, under the circumstances, that he had not guessed her identity. Or her rank.

  The man was still pounding on the door. “Let me in at once!” his muffled voice commanded. “Mr. Beebe is expecting me!”

  Well, whatever the gentleman thought of her, she must, in good conscience, reply to that. Since he believed her to be a servant girl—and since she would rather die, she thought, than let him suspect the truth—she would play the role for him a moment longer.

  Olivia opened the door a crack and peered solemnly at him. She hoped he was neither a friend nor a relative. The information she must impart would be a terrible shock to a loved one. Still, from what she had been told, Mr. Beebe had no loved ones, which was why his earthly possessions had been willed to her charity.

  “Mr. Beebe is no longer among us,” she told the stranger gently.

  He appeared nonplussed, but hardly grief-stricken. “Where has he gone?”

  “As to that, I’m sure I could not say,” she responded pertly, “it not being my place to judge my betters.” This was very much in the manner of a wench she had dismissed from her own service for insolence. She wished Bessie could hear her do it. She rather fancied she had copied the tone perfectly.

  He stared at her as if she were a madwoman. Olivia, relenting, opened the door the rest of the way. “He’s passed on, sir.”

  “Passed on?” The gentleman looked stunned. “D’you mean he’s dead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The stranger suddenly got a very queer look on his face. He took a deep breath. “Dead. Why was I not informed?”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes at him. “Why should you be informed? Don’t tell me Mr. Beebe owed you money, for I won’t believe you.”

  “For God’s sake, girl, do I look like a tradesman? I was a friend of his!”

  “Nonsense. Mr. Beebe had no friends.”

  Really, it was wrong of her to have so much fun at someone else’s expense, but she couldn’t help herself; there was something positively liberating about her im
personation! She felt a stab of unholy delight when the stranger whipped out his card and rather savagely presented her with it. She pretended to study it, lips pursed with suspicion. What a pity she could not let him in on the joke. He looked the sort of man who would love a good joke.

  And then the meaning of the writing on the card suddenly registered. Merciful heavens, she was confronting the infamous Lord Rival. In the flesh! Her brows involuntarily flew upward, and then she looked at him with renewed interest. No wonder she had found him attractive. The man made a business of attracting women—or so one heard.

  The most notorious rake in London seemed an odd choice of companion for the reclusive Mr. Beebe. “You say you were a friend of his?” she asked doubtfully. This time, there was no need to feign her incredulity.

  Lord Rival suddenly looked very dangerous indeed. He leaned toward her, placing one hand on the lintel, which seemed, to Olivia, to bring his body unnervingly close. Her eyes widened as she stared into his. “Do you know,” he said pleasantly, the intimacy of his lowered voice making her heart seem to skip a beat, “I am not accustomed to having my word questioned.”

  She blinked helplessly at him. She could not seem to move away. She felt paralyzed, with her arms held stiffly at her sides and her face too close to his. “There’s a first time for everything,” she retorted faintly.

  Startled laughter lit his eyes. He straightened, and the movement of his body away from hers broke the spell that had gripped her. Olivia felt she could breathe again.

  “So there is. Perhaps you should ask Grimsby who I am,” Lord Rival suggested. “Or is he dead, too?” Amusement still quivered in his voice.