The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  George’s eyebrows climbed. “Nonsense. That is no longer the opinion of the majority. A few benighted souls, perhaps—”

  “Perhaps? Pray remember, I am educating poor women! Many people say I am giving my charges ideas that are above their station in life.”

  “By teaching them cooking and housekeeping? Ridiculous.”

  Olivia’s smile was warm with relief. “Thank you,” she said, with real gratitude. “I must tell you that I have met with a great deal of resistance—indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that I have met with strenuous opposition!—to my efforts here, from other members of your sex. Even the clergy.” A shadow crossed her face. “I regret to say, especially the clergy. I have been chastised roundly and regularly, to the point where I am, frankly, quite sick of hearing it.”

  There was no need to feign his astonishment. “The impertinence!” he exclaimed. “Who dares to criticize you? On what grounds?”

  “Oh, always on the same grounds. You see, I founded the institution myself, and quite alone.” Her voice became hesitant, almost apologetic. “I used the money I inherited from my mother. Her entire legacy to me is bound up in the charity I named for her. The school is funded, staffed, and overseen entirely by women. I even—” She bit her lip and looked anxious, as if bracing herself for his censure. “I even do the banking.”

  Light began to dawn. “I see,” said George slowly. “There is no man holding the reins.”

  “Yes.” She stared woodenly down at her hands, folded tensely in her lap. “I am, therefore, criticized. There is nothing unusual about women working within a charity—indeed, they nearly always form the backbone of a charitable organization. But for a woman to actually run one is deemed unnatural. Unfeminine.”

  George frowned thoughtfully. “Do you need a figurehead? A puppet who will put his name at the top of your stationery, sign whatever documents you need signed, do your banking for you, et cetera, and silence your critics?”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing. “No, sir, I do not!”

  “Well, don’t fly out at me.” He folded his arms across his chest and grinned sardonically at her. “I thought for a moment I had finally divined a way I could be useful to the school. I do know how to sign my name.”

  “Oh, no, you are missing my point. I do not need your assistance—at least, not quite in that way! I am merely commenting upon how odd it seems, to me, that you do not object to the education of these girls, nor to the institution being run by women. You only object to becoming a part of it.”

  “For an intelligent female you can be remarkably dense,” said George, amusement coloring his exasperation. “A short while ago, you pointed out that I know nothing of a spinster’s life. Allow me to tell you, madam, that you know nothing of men.”

  “I never claimed to,” she said stiffly. “What of it?”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and assumed an expression of exaggerated patience. “Men, my dear, generally dislike being ruled by women,” he informed her, his silky tone barely masking his irritation. “And our dislike increases in direct proportion to the personal stake we have in the woman.”

  Her eyes widened. “But you have no personal stake in me!” she exclaimed.

  Something in his expression must have alarmed her. She shrank back a little in her chair. “Surely you have given up on—on that ridiculous notion you once had of courting me? We know one another now! We are—we are friends.”

  He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “Unless, of course, we are enemies,” he reminded her.

  Her brows snapped together. “Why, it was you who told me we were partners! After all, we will be working together.”

  “That is by no means certain,” he said shortly. “We have yet to determine a function I can perform here, and I have strong personal objections to accepting your authority—whatever you may say.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded her, his eyes hooded.

  Olivia appeared rattled. “Well, how are we to get around it?” she demanded. “I hope you do not expect me to relinquish my post and allow you to run things, merely as a sop to your vanity!”

  “I have neither the skills nor the ambition to operate a school for girls, thank you,” he snapped. “I am merely telling you that I do not run well in harness. Even as a boy I was exceedingly difficult to rule, and I am no longer a boy! I feel reasonably certain that any attempt to adapt myself to a subordinate role will end in failure. Particularly, as I have said, if it is you before whom I must abase myself. You will find such unreasoning rebellion difficult to understand, I daresay—”

  “No. Not at all.” She gave a queer little laugh, then surprised him by reaching out her hand and touching it briefly, impulsively, to his sleeve. “You have at last said something I understand very well.”

  His brows shot up. “Have I?”

  “Oh, yes! I have struggled with—with unreasoning rebellion all my life. It is my besetting sin, in fact—and very uncomfortable it has made me! Now, I wonder . . .” She leaned against her elbow, studying him with great seriousness. “I wonder if we could work together as equals?” she said slowly. “Neither of us commanding the other. Or each leading in a different area of endeavor.”

  “Ha! Interesting.” He looked thoughtfully at her, then grinned. “Forgive me if I seem to have more interest in leading than in following. I am generally a stubborn fellow, and compromise has never been my strong suit. But since there is a tidy sum at stake, I am feeling unusually pliant this morning.” He waved a languid hand. “Lead away, my dear. What can I do for you? Er, what can I do for the school, I should say.”

  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I’m afraid I—I must begin by asking you a—a personal question, my lord.”

  His eyes gleamed at her. “You cannot ask a personal question of anyone you address as ‘my lord.” ’

  She colored up at once. “Very well,” she said, in the defiant manner of one throwing caution to the winds. “I have a personal question I must ask you—George.”

  One barrier down. He bowed gravely, careful not to let his triumph show. “Thank you. Ask away.”

  Her cheeks were pink, but her eyes met his unwaveringly. “You have called Mr. Beebe’s annuity a—a tidy sum. Pray tell me whether it would relieve you of your financial difficulties.” She looked away, embarrassed. “The question is dreadful, I know,” she said hastily, “but I must know the answer. It goes to the heart of whether we can work together. I cannot forget—I dare not forget—that you told me you were interested in pursuing me—or, that is, interested in pursuing an heiress—because . . . well, because—”

  “Because I need money,” George supplied politely. “Certainly. Why else does a man pursue an heiress?”

  Olivia took a deep breath. “Yes. Exactly. So I was hoping—”

  She seemed to be floundering again. This question was nearly as painful for her as it was for George. Nearly, he reflected, gritting his teeth, but not quite. It was obscene that it had come to this. Disclosing any portion of his fiscal embarrassments to anyone, let alone this particular someone, was humiliation of the keenest order. Anger propelled him from his chair and set him prowling restlessly through the room.

  “You thought that Beebe’s bequest might be enough for me,” he said harshly. “That if I managed to earn my eight hundred pounds per annum, I could abandon the notion of marrying a woman for her purse.” His mouth twisted. “What a greedy rogue you will think me! The answer to your question is no. Eight hundred pounds a year is not sufficient for my needs.”

  He thought fleetingly of what eight hundred pounds could give him: freedom from the uncertainty of cards and dice. Freedom from the disgusting maneuvers he engaged in, gulling rich women into losing their jewels and pin money to him. Freedom from the struggle of living with no income at all, and the contortions he performed to hide his insolvency from the Polite World. He was so weary of it all. The annuity could ease his life in a hundred ways, some small and some significan
t. It was not a fortune, but it was certainly what the world would call a “competence.”

  Yes, it would ease his life—but his alone. It would do nothing for his tenants. It was not enough money to save Rye Vale.

  He knew, because he had gone over it and over it in the past two days, wrestling with the figures, attempting to work out how he could somehow stretch Beebe’s annuity to cover the expense of restoring his estate. It could not be done. Even if he sent every penny of it to Rye Vale and continued to live in London, relying on his wits and his skill with cards as he had done for the past twelve years, it would not be enough. He might be able to hire a decent land agent—just. But what could a land agent do with no funds to plow into the land? George could take another route and invest the money, hoping for a windfall at some point in the future—but the three-percents would be too slow, and anything else too risky.

  No, there was no easy way out. He would have to marry one of the women on his miserable list. If Lady Olivia Fairfax would give him nothing more than a pleasant flirtation, he had to either discard her and move on to the next name, or change her mind.

  He looked at her. God in heaven, he hoped he could change her mind.

  At the moment, it seemed unlikely. Olivia had not moved from her seat by the table, so close that he could reach her in three swift strides, but she suddenly seemed very far away. There was condemnation in her clear, silvery gaze, and he felt the distance between them flowing as cold and unbridgeable as the River Styx. It would be wrenchingly difficult to discard his hopes and turn elsewhere, now that he had met her. His gambler’s mind knew the odds of finding another rich woman who stirred his blood the way she did: nil.

  She spoke then, her voice cool with regret. “I had hoped that we would work together. I had even hoped that you and I might become friends—of a sort.”

  He forced a smile. “We still may. As I think I have made clear, I am in no position to turn down a guaranteed income. However much it goes against the grain, I will probably swallow my pride and accept it in the end. And you have suggested that I might fulfill the terms of the bequest and yet, somehow, salvage my manhood.”

  Olivia’s attempt at a smile was less successful than his. “I feel sure your manhood will survive. The question burning in my brain, at the moment, is whether you will find the task I am about to propose too dull.”

  “What is it?”

  Some of her nervousness had returned. She gestured to the chair and he sat across from her again, but she immediately rose and began pacing. Since she had bade him sit, he remained in the chair, watching her. When she reached the edge of the largest desk, she stood her ground and pivoted, like an animal at bay, looking anxiously at him. “Do you know anything about bookkeeping?” she asked.

  The intensity with which she asked such a mundane question made him grin. “Nothing at all. You are right; it sounds dull. But don’t you already have a bookkeeper?”

  “Yes. Culpepper performs that function for the school.” Her mouth set in a grim little line. “I would be glad to—relieve him of those duties.”

  “Good God. Why? It’s hard to imagine Culpepper stealing from orphans.”

  “Oh, no, no, it’s nothing like that!” she hastened to say. “We do not suspect him of any impropriety. But he is very . . . old-fashioned in his views. Quite set in his ways, you know. And we find his attitude extremely trying, at times.” She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “I think I had better tell you the whole.”

  “Pray do so,” said George, his curiosity piqued.

  Olivia returned to the chair across from him and sat, steepling her hands before her as she chose her words. “Culpepper was my father’s solicitor,” she explained. “Despite the disparity in their ranks, they were actually friends—as much as my father could be a friend to one he deemed so far beneath him. Their affinity was really remarkable. In nearly every respect save rank and temperament, they were identical. Culpepper had a more benevolent mien than my father, for my father could be quite harsh. But Culpepper echoed and seconded his every thought. Their attitudes, ideas, opinions, and approaches to life were in complete agreement. It always seemed, to me, that my father’s autocratic nature, his mania for control, was actually worsened by his association with Culpepper. No matter how—how outrageous my father’s fits of tyranny became, Culpepper wholeheartedly approved.”

  “It astonishes me, then, that you have kept him in your service. Did you not resent his influence?”

  “Oh, very much! But he means well. He is genuinely devoted to me, as he was to my father. It is just that—” She sighed again. “Nothing can shake his views. He honestly believes, for example, that women are incapable of rational thought.”

  George was startled into a laugh. “What! Including you?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled wryly. “Nothing can convince him otherwise. Challenge him and he will prate of phrenology, of the Bible, of the learned treatises on the subject which support his views—all written by men, of course. Women are irrefutably inferior to men. Our brains are smaller, our bodies weaker, et cetera. And we lack the moral sense—did you know that?”

  He blinked. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Culpepper will assure you it is true. Without the leadership and protection of men, women would be not only helpless, but utterly depraved.”

  George crossed one booted leg negligently over the other. “Fancy that. So I’ve been wasting my time all these years, trying to lead women astray, not realizing that depravity was your natural bent. What an excellent front you females do put up! How does Culpepper account for that, by the way—let alone your proficiency in what sounds like reasoned speech? I understand, now, that you must have learned English much the way a parrot does—”

  Olivia choked. “I cannot speak for the parrots, of course,” she said, her voice quivering. “But most of the women of my acquaintance have mastered more than a phrase or two. And they do not shout their remarks at random, in the way of a parrot.”

  “I have known a few that do,” mused George.

  “We are straying rather far from the point, my lord,” said Olivia severely. “Pray allow me to finish my tale.”

  “By all means.”

  “It was Culpepper who drafted my father’s will. Are you familiar with my family’s circumstances?”

  “A little.” He had researched this, to some extent, when learning what he could about available heiresses. Information on Lady Olivia had been scant. “I know that you are the child of the late earl’s second wife.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “That is correct. My father’s first wife, Blythe, bore him a son who is the present Earl of Badesworth. Blythe died while Ralph was still in leading strings, and my father soon married my mother. She was a considerable heiress in her own right. As part of the marriage settlements, papers were drawn up that would preserve her estate for the benefit of any children she might bear. I was her only child. She passed away when I was seventeen, and I inherited her money. All of it. Outright.” Olivia paused, and looked down at her hands. “My father immediately set Culpepper to discover a way to wrest my inheritance from me, since I was underage and female. I will say, in his defense, that Culpepper was disturbed by my father’s request. It was the only time I knew him to oppose my father’s wishes. His disapproval, however, did not prevent him from working diligently to obey my father’s command. Fortunately, he did not succeed. The settlement could not be broken.”

  She raised her eyes to George’s again. Her expression was steely. “I need hardly tell you, I’m sure, that my relationship with my father was . . . strained by all of this.”

  “I can well believe it.”

  “My mother had acted as a buffer between the two of us for many years, in ways I hardly understood as a child. With her passing, I saw him as he truly was. I bore the full brunt of his attacks. He was ever seeking to subdue and control me, and I to defy him. It was . . . an unpleasant time.”

  “It sounds appalling.”


  “My brother, Ralph, was of no help to me. If anything, he enjoyed the strife and egged us on for his amusement. I found an unlikely champion in, of all persons, Culpepper. He smoothed matters over when he could, and often made sincere efforts—in private—to explain my father to me.” She chuckled. “He never tried to explain me to my father, naturally. Culpepper thought it my duty to submit to my parent’s demands, reasonable or unreasonable. He merely sought to make submission easier for me.”

  “How kind,” said George dryly.

  Humor crinkled the corners of Olivia’s eyes. “Well, it was,” she insisted. “It was kindly meant, at any rate. The tension between my father and myself escalated steadily, nevertheless. I count myself extremely fortunate that he outlived my mother by only a matter of months. A hunting accident brought him down before I could murder him.” She caught herself suddenly and bit her lip, blushing with distress. “I beg your pardon. I should not joke about such a thing.”

  He smiled. “You may say what you like to me.”

  “No! It’s vile. But thank you for not chiding me.” She shook her head, smiling a little. “I should have saved my astringent comments for the next portion of the story. It concerns my father’s will.”

  “Great heavens, don’t tell me he cut you out?”

  “Nothing so simple.” She pulled a face. “He left me an inheritance of some kind—but I have not been told what it is. Yes, you may well stare! Is it not ridiculous? I have an income from it, and a very good one. Culpepper doles it out. It is always the same amount, every quarter. But I have no idea where it comes from.”

  “Er, have you asked?”

  “Well, of course I have! But those were the terms of my father’s will: that my inheritance be held in trust—with no information given me as to the actual amount held in trust, nor where it is being held.” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Is it all in the funds? Do I own a shipping line, perhaps, or a woolen mill, or a diamond mine in Africa? Can any of it be sold? Might the money be better invested elsewhere? I have no knowledge and I have no control. I have absolutely no idea what my net worth may actually be. And I can do nothing to increase it—or deplete it, for that matter. Unless, of course, I marry.” Her voice was brittle with anger. “For although I, as a female, am to be told nothing about what I own, Culpepper will be allowed to divulge everything to my husband. Who will then, under English law, own it all himself. He will be able to do with it whatever he likes.”