The Heiress Objective (Spy Matchmaker Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  “I simply do not understand why you are encouraging this fellow,” Martha complained with a sniff after Jenny had had her search through the wardrobe for the third time. “Isn’t he just another fortune hunter?”

  Jenny paused in her vain attempt to find the matching violet glove somewhere in the back of one of her dresser drawers. “To tell you the truth, Martha, I did think he was only that. But there is something about him. Remember what I was telling you the other day about my handsome prince?”

  Martha narrowed her eyes to two grey slits surrounded by wrinkles. “Yes, and don’t start on that again. I didn’t understand it then; I doubt I will now.”

  “It really isn’t all that difficult to understand,” Jenny told her, pulling her to sit beside her on the bed. “Who is the most handsome, charming man you’ve ever met?”

  Martha blinked. “I…I suppose I’ve never considered the matter before. There really isn’t much chance of meeting such a paragon in my post.” She blushed. “No offense meant, of course.”

  “None taken,” Jenny assured her, watching her companion sadly. Could Martha really have given up all dreams of love? She almost shuddered as she realized that, in a few more years, she would be in the same situation. She squared her shoulders. “I know. Remember when you read that novel last year and you thought the hero was the most elegant gentleman you had ever heard tell of?”

  Martha’s grey eyes shone. “Oh, yes,” she said breathlessly, clasping hands to her nearly flat bosom. “Now, there was a man.”

  “What would you do if he walked into your parlor and asked you to marry him?”

  Martha stared at her, frozen. “But he can’t, he’s just a story.”

  Jenny sighed and tried again. “But what if he was real, Martha? What if he wanted to marry you?”

  “I wouldn’t keep him waiting for an answer,” Martha snapped. “You can be very sure of that.”

  Jenny laughed wryly, rising. “And here I am doing just that.” She glanced around at the mess they had made of her meager wardrobe. “Yet, I feel compelled to make a good impression on him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Martha, if he could come to see me as his equal, his partner? Then I think I could accept his offer.”

  “He is very pleasant to look upon,” Miss Tindale offered, watching her from the safety of the bed. “But I cannot trust a man who admits he is in debt.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Would you rather he hid the fact? I think he should be commended for being honest about it.”

  “Yes, but how did he get in such difficulties to begin with?” Martha countered, wrinkling her long nose with distaste. “Was he a gambler? Did he throw it away on wicked women?”

  “Both?” Jenny guessed, and Martha gasped. “Oh, really, Martha, even you cannot be so innocent as to believe a man as attractive and charismatic as Mr. Whattling lived as a monk. I daresay any number of young ladies have tried to attract his attention.” The two debutantes from the park came readily to mind. “Besides, does it matter how he lost the money?”

  Her companion raised her chin. “Of course it matters! If his solicitor lost it on the Exchange with this business over Napoleon, that is one thing. But if Mr. Whattling was so precipitous as to gamble it away, that is something else entirely. In the first case, he is merely a poor judge of character. In the second, he has a poor character to begin with. If I were going to let him court me, I think I would want to know which it was.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Jenny mused, staring off into the middle distance. It was only logical, after all. She supposed she was being a bit odd again, but she often thought that marriage was like a partnership. Certainly she would have her solicitor Mr. Carstairs investigate any business partner she might want to take on. This would be no different.

  “Ring for Mavis to come help us with these clothes, Martha,” she declared, dusting off her hands. “Then you can help me pen a note to Mr. Carstairs to see to the matter. More information is always useful when trying to make a decision, I find.”

  She had not heard back from her solicitor before the fateful hour arrived. After what she felt was a dismal showing at the drive the day before, Jenny was determined that tea would be much more successful. She had some social skills, after all; she had only to portray them in the proper light. Accordingly, by the time Kevin Whattling arrived, she had set the stage to her satisfaction.

  Fiching in his polished black was at his station in the front hall, and Martha in her best navy bombazine was sitting properly as chaperon beside the tea cart in the sitting room. Jenny had her silver tea service and bone china cups and saucers waiting at her side along with a tempting assortment of jellies, pastries, and tea cakes. Outwardly, she was sure she looked calm and composed, the very epitome of ladylike restraint.

  Inwardly she found herself in turmoil, although again the reason eluded her. She’d poured tea a dozen times, had never so much as sloshed a drop on her father or friends. But one look at Kevin Whattling standing in the doorway of the sitting room, and her hands started sweating in her gloves, her fingers trembling. She could only hope his so-called admiration of her would last the hour.

  –

  Kevin had strolled up and down the street for some minutes to ensure he arrived precisely at three. He hadn’t had to borrow anything to make a good showing in his navy morning coat and trousers. But, after the way she had encouraged him to call the day before, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He was merely thankful she had encouraged him to call after his dismal showing on the drive.

  Why had Safton tried to insert himself? Wasn’t it enough Kevin had all but given him the cut direct at White’s? He couldn’t stomach being in the man’s presence. Just the sight of him took Kevin back to a night three months ago that still seemed more nightmare than reality. At times he could smell the stench of tobacco as it swirled in noxious clouds around the lamplight; hear the shouts of the crowd cheering for the Giant of Lancaster, who cast a darker shadow over Robbie, outmatching the lad in weight as well as reach. The one flash of brightness in the night was the gold in George Safton’s hand as it rose in triumph, even as Kevin heard the unmistakable crack of bone hitting bone.

  He shook off the memory. Robbie had made a disastrous choice, leaving behind grieving friends and a pile of debt Kevin felt obliged to eliminate. The important thing now was to put his miserable life back into order.

  Part of him had hoped for a few moments alone with the lovely Miss Welch in which to advance his suit, but he didn’t let his disappointment show when he saw that the companion he had succeeded in avoiding the day before was now firmly installed at her mistress’ right hand.

  And she was a dragon.

  It took only one glance at the narrowed eyes and pursed lips to determine that Miss Welch’s companion had taken him in dislike. He had blundered by not considering her sooner. In his experience, young ladies either cherished their companions as friends, relying on them for advice, or they ignored and avoided them whenever possible. Looking at the iron-haired woman sitting beside Miss Welch, her thin frame as straight as a billiard cue, he somehow thought she was one who wasn’t used to being ignored.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Whattling,” his delightful heiress said as he crossed the room to bow over her hand. “I don’t believe you’ve met my companion, Miss Martha Tindale.”

  The dragon affixed him with a glare that was more ice than fire. “Mr. Whattling,” she said with a sniff.

  Kevin bowed over her hand, feeling the frail bones beneath. The woman was older than she looked, which was old enough. “Miss Tindale. I regret you couldn’t join us yesterday for our drive.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Miss Tindale replied, and they both knew she was being sarcastic.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Whattling,” her mistress put in with a frown to her companion. “It was good of you to come. Martha and I could hardly wait for our discussion.”

  Her companion said nothing but snorted derisively.

  “A pleasure, as always,
” Kevin insisted. Charm was lost on Miss Tindale. Perhaps ignoring her was a better strategy after all. He steadfastly kept his eyes on Miss Welch’s ivory complexion and told himself sternly not to look at the dragon beside her. His gaze did not obey. It didn’t help that Miss Tindale had a long nose with a hook on the end and a rather large mole beside her right eye. When she squinted at him, as she was doing now, the hair in the center of the mole stood at attention.

  He smiled politely at Miss Welch.

  “Would you care for tea?” she asked, reaching for the silver pot, hand graceful.

  “Please,” Kevin replied.

  Miss Tindale sniffed again, and he swore the hook of her nose bounced against her thin lips. He wondered whether there would be room for the teacup.

  “Milk or lemon?” his bluestocking asked.

  “Neither, thank you.” He nodded his thanks as she handed him the cup. Their fingers brushed. He made sure of it. She pulled back so quickly he nearly dropped the china. But what surprised him was the tremor that went through his own hand.

  She recovered herself to pour for Miss Tindale, who somehow managed to sip without dipping her nose in the stuff. Kevin looked hurriedly down at the cup.

  “A lovely pattern,” he tried. “English?”

  “French,” she replied. “It was my mother’s.”

  “She obviously had the same excellent taste as her daughter,” Kevin said.

  He thought he heard a giggle, hastily smothered as his hostess took a sip of the tea. Lowering the cup, she gave him a smile. “I believe you would compliment this china,” she told him, “even if it was a hideous purple with gold cherubs about the rim.”

  “Eugennia!” Miss Tindale exclaimed.

  “Oh, hush, Martha.” Her gaze held Kevin’s. “Mr. Whattling and I understand each other. He is courting me, so he has to utter rubbish. I, on the other hand, am in the fortunate position of being able to be as rude as I choose.”

  “Not that you’d ever be rude, of course,” Kevin offered. “On the other hand, if you insist on baiting me, I could threaten to rhapsodize about your nose again.”

  “Your nose?” Her companion blinked.

  She giggled aloud this time, relaxing against the chair as if she was starting to enjoy herself. “No, please, not my nose. And not the weather, your friend’s horses, or the interesting way in which you’ve tied your cravat. You promised to enlighten me about the ways of a Corinthian, sir. Have you forgotten?”

  “No,” Kevin said, setting his cup down on the cart. “But I was hoping you had. Do you truly wish me to delineate what makes a Corinthian, madam? Surely there are better things about which to converse.”

  “There most certainly are,” Miss Tindale muttered. Kevin ignored her.

  “Nonsense,” Miss Welch told them both. “I explained to you yesterday that being educational was the highest compliment a bluestocking could give. So, please, Mr. Whattling, educate me.”

  She was playing with him, he could feel it. He ought to resent it, but some part of him relished the challenge. He wasn’t such a beggar that he’d forgotten how to play the game. “Very well,” he said, inclining his head in a bow. “The life of a Corinthian then. As you probably know, we are a breed enthralled with sporting pursuits.”

  “Such as?” she probed.

  “Horse racing, carriage racing, yacht racing, boxing, card playing, dice.” He rattled off every activity he could think of. “Cock fighting, dog fighting, bear baiting, wagering of any kind, dallying with the ladies.”

  “Good heavens,” Miss Tindale exclaimed before taking a fortifying sip of tea.

  She had leaned forward, her gaze bright with fascination. “And do you excel in all of them?”

  “Are you speaking of me personally,” he teased, “or the breed in general, Miss Welch?”

  A blush crept into her round cheeks, and he caught himself wondering how it would feel to caress the color into deepening. What, was he playing his role too well? That had never happened the years he’d committed to Lord Hastings’s service.

  “The Corinthian in general, sir, of course,” she said primly.

  “Ah.” He took a moment to gather his wayward thoughts. “Well, we do try to excel in all the manly arts, although some, I would say, do better than others.”

  “And I suppose you do them all disgustingly well,” her companion grumbled.

  He decided the safest thing was to take it as a compliment, even if her sarcasm was still evident. “Thank you, Miss Tindale. You are too kind.”

  “And which are your favorite pastimes?” Miss Welch asked while the older lady glared.

  Kevin grinned at her. “I’ll let you guess.”

  Miss Tindale set her teacup down with a proprietary thump. “Horse racing,” she wheezed.

  He kept his bluestocking’s gaze. “That’s one of them.”

  She knew what he wanted her to say. He could see it by the way the red deepened, her lips parted. Such pretty lips as well, full, lush. He forced his gaze up to hers.

  “Boxing,” she said with defiance.

  He inclined his head. “Yes, of course. Boxing. How very perceptive, Miss Welch.”

  Miss Tindale shuddered, reaching for her teacup again. “Nasty sport. Striking each other until someone is unconscious. I never understood how anyone could watch it.”

  “It isn’t a sport for the ladies,” Kevin agreed, taking his own sip of tea.

  “Do you fight often?” Miss Welch asked, color fading as if she were relieved to have turned him onto a safer subject.

  “Not anymore,” he replied. “Nor do I do many of the other activities we discussed. I suppose you could say I have retired.”

  The hair on Miss Tindale’s mole was standing at attention again as she frowned. “And why would you want to do that, if you were as good as you implied?”

  “Let us say that I found other pursuits more urgent,” he replied, careful not to allow the memories to intrude again. “And since you felt free to be rude earlier, Miss Welch, might I mention that I am particularly fond of raspberry jellies?”

  She immediately helped him to some off the cart and he maneuvered the conversation onto other subjects. No need for him to share his darkest secret and deepest shame. It wasn’t as if they were in love.

  Yet something told him that, if he wasn’t careful, his lovely bluestocking would discover everything about him, and send him packing.

  Chapter Eight

  Nigel and Giles met at White’s that night as they usually did, but they went out of their way to slip unseen into high-backed chairs at one of the farthest tables. They were so circumspect, in fact, that only one other gentleman noticed them, and he was so curious that he found his way silently to the chair nearest theirs to listen and observe.

  “I understand our man saw her again today,” Giles reported, wiggling to squeeze his bulk more effectively into the armchair.

  “Good thing you thought to set your footman after them,” Nigel commented. “Rather embarrassing being caught like that in the park the other day. I felt like some gossiping fishwife.”

  “Well, we had to do something,” Giles protested. “We had to be sure that Kevin would succeed. We owe him that as his friends.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Nigel grumbled. “If we’d done our duty earlier, Robbie might still be alive.”

  Giles paled. “Yes, well, as you say. But getting back to the matter at hand, if Kevin saw her today, that’s three days in a row. Don’t you think that’s a good sign?”

  “Could be,” Nigel allowed, signaling to a passing attendant to bring them port. “Unfortunately, Whattling does not have the luxury of tarrying. I took the liberty of checking about, and I heard he hasn’t paid the rent on his flat, among a few other bills. The creditors he couldn’t pay are beginning to make noises about serving notice. If he’s determined to marry that woman, he’d better be quick about it.”

  Giles shivered. “Women are so unpredictable. She could keep him dangling
for months.”

  “We don’t have months!” Nigel smacked his fist on the tabletop. “I tried to tell him he didn’t have time for this foolishness. I admire a man of action, but Whattling thinks entirely too much in the moment, if he thinks at all!”

  Giles chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Still, we cannot desert him. I don’t suppose we could help things along?”

  “What do you mean?” Nigel demanded.

  “I’m not sure,” Giles replied. “It’s just an idea, really. But don’t women generally expect little gifts and flowers? Tokens of appreciation? Kevin can scarcely provide her with that. But we could. Nothing untasteful or inappropriate, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nigel nodded, looking off into the distance. “Nothing personal or expensive. A real lady wouldn’t accept them. But flowers, you said. We might be able to manage flowers.”

  Giles brightened. “And candy?”

  Nigel nodded again, more firmly this time. “Certainly. Capital idea, Giles. Make the arrangements in the morning and have them send the bill to my establishment. And of course you will sign Whattling’s name to everything.”

  “I’m not totally lack-witted,” Giles told him with annoyance. “You can be sure that Kevin will be given all the credit.”

  And well he should be, George Safton thought, rising from the chair near theirs and strolling away before they could catch sight of him. Trust Whattling to find an easy way out of this mess. A rich spinster, no less. He had thought that was Eugennia Welch driving with Whattling the other day in Hyde Park. From the sound of it, it was an all-out assault—three visits in as many days. No woman of his acquaintance could have withstood Whattling’s considerable charms. Certainly an old biddy like Eugennia Welch would be in transports. She was probably already picking fabric for the wedding gown.

  But marriage was the last thing Safton wanted for Whattling. Of course, some men would have been able to put Miss Welch’s fortune to good use. And marriage was often a convenient place from which to conduct any number of lively affairs. But if Safton knew Whattling, he’d probably be true to the hag until death did them part. And he would probably stay by her side each night reading some ponderous tome designed to edify her mind and lure Whattling to sleep in minutes. That would keep him and her fortune away from the gambling tables, the boxing, and any other sport Safton might care to dream up. It was a decided nuisance.