The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne
Fairbourne Quartet [1]
Madeline Hunter
Jove Books (2012)
Rating: ****
* * *
Review
". . .imbued with a deliciously dry sense of humor and graced with a striking cast of characters, . . . impeccably researched . . .a masterpiece of wit and passion." Booklist starred review
Product Description
A woman running a prestigious London auction house? Preposterous! But that is exactly what Emma Fairbourne intends to do when her father dies, leaving her the reins of this fabulous enterprise. Of course, she is not addlepated enough to do this openly and scare away her wealthy collectors. So she and her friend concoct a deception, hiring a handsome and charming front man who will do her bidding...
All would have proceeded smoothly--if it weren't for the maddening interference of Darius, the arrogant Earl of Southwaite, who has been her father's "silent partner" and now shares ownership of Fairbourne's. An earl, of course, has no interest in running an auction house--and Darius is certainly not interested in allowing the lovely Miss Fairbourne to run it either, her ludicrous scheme notwithstanding. Clearly the business must be sold.
But the headstrong Emma is like no other lady he has ever encountered, refusing to follow his dictates. Holding his temper in check, Darius decides to attack on a different front. There is another way to achieve her surrender, one far more pleasurable for both of them...
PRAISE FOR
MADELINE HUNTER’S NOVELS
Ravishing in Red
“Richly spiced with wicked wit and masterfully threaded with danger and desire, the superbly sexy first book in Hunter’s Regency historical quartet is irresistible and wonderfully entertaining.”
—Booklist (starred review)
Provocative in Pearls
“Hunter gifts readers with a fantastic story that reaches into the heart of relationships and allows her to deliver a deep-sigh read.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Sinful in Satin
“Hunter deftly sifts intrigue and exquisite sensuality into the plot of the third book in her exceptionally entertaining quartet.”
—Booklist
Dangerous in Diamonds
“Hunter…masterfully weaves a sensual web…Fans will be delighted.”
—Publishers Weekly
Berkley titles by Madeline Hunter
RAVISHING IN RED
PROVOCATIVE IN PEARLS
SINFUL IN SATIN
DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS
THE SURRENDER OF MISS FAIRBOURNE
eSpecials
“AN INTERRUPTED TAPESTRY”
from TAPESTRY
The Surrender
of Miss Fairbourne
MADELINE HUNTER
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE SURRENDER OF MISS FAIRBOURNE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / March 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Madeline Hunter.
Excerpt from Ravishing in Red copyright © 2010 by Madeline Hunter.
Excerpt from “An Interrupted Tapestry” copyright © 2002 by Madeline Archer.
Cover photography by Claudio Marinesco.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-10156-089-1
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is dedicated to the memory of my brother,
Nicholas Cirillo
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 1
MAY 1798
The final sale at Fairbourne’s auction house proved to be a sad affair, and not only because the proprietor had recently fallen to his death while strolling along a cliff walk in Kent. It was also, from the viewpoint of collectors, comprised of very minor works, and hardly worthy of the reputation for selectivity that Maurice Fairbourne had built for his establishment.
Society came anyway, some of them out of sympathy and respect, some to distract themselves from the relentless worry about the expected French invasion for which the whole country had braced. A few flew in like crows, attracted to the carcass of what had once been a great business, hoping to peck a few mors
els from the body now that Maurice did not stand guard.
The latter could be seen peering very closely at the paintings and prints, looking for the gem that had escaped the less experienced eyes of the staff. A bargain could be had if a work of art were incorrectly described to the seller’s detriment. The victory would be all the more sweet because such oversights normally went the other way, with amazing consistency.
Darius Alfreton, Earl of Southwaite, peered closely too. Although a collector, he was not hoping to steal a Caravaggio that had been incorrectly called a Honthorst in the catalogue. Rather, he examined the art and the descriptions to see just how badly Fairbourne’s reputation might be compromised by the staff’s ineptitude.
He scanned the crowd that had gathered too, and watched the rostrum being prepared. A small raised platform holding a tall, narrow podium, it always reminded Darius of a preacher’s pulpit. Auction houses like Fairbourne’s often held a preview night to lure the bidders with a grand party, then conducted the actual sale a day or so later. The staff of Fairbourne’s had decided to do it all at once today, and soon the auctioneer would take his place on the rostrum to call the auction of each lot, and literally knock down his hammer when the bidding stopped.
Considering the paltry offerings, and the cost of a grand preview, Darius concluded that it had been wise to skip the party. Less explicable had been the staff’s failure to tell him of their plans. He learned about this auction only through the announcement in the newspapers.
The hub of the crowd was not near the paintings hung one above another on the high, gray walls. The bodies shifted and the true center of their attention became visible. Miss Emma Fairbourne, Maurice’s daughter, stood near the left wall, greeting the patrons and accepting their condolences.
The black of her garments contrasted starkly with her very fair skin, and a black, simple hat sat cockily on her brown hair. Her most notable feature, blue eyes that could gaze with disconcerting directness, focused on each visitor so completely that one would think no other patron stood nearby.
“A bit odd that she is here,” Yates Elliston, Viscount Ambury, said. He stood at Darius’s side, impatient with the time they were spending here. They were both dressed for riding and were supposed to be on their way to the coast.
“She is the only Fairbourne left,” Darius said. “She probably hopes to reassure the patrons with her presence. No one will be fooled, however. The size and quality of this auction is symbolic of what happens when the eyes and personality that define such an establishment are lost.”
“You have met her, I expect, since you knew her father well. Not much of a future waiting for her, is there? She looks to be in her middle twenties already. Marriage is not likely to happen now if it didn’t happen when her father lived and this business flourished.”
“Yes, I have met her.” The first time had been about a year ago. Odd that he had known Maurice Fairbourne for years, and in all that time he had never been introduced to the daughter. Maurice’s son, Robert, might join them in their conversations, but never Robert’s sister.
He and Emma Fairbourne had not spoken again since that introduction, until very recently. His memory of her had been of an ordinary-looking woman, a bit timid and retiring, a small shadow within the broad illumination cast by her expansive, flamboyant father.
“Then again…” Ambury gazed in Miss Fairbourne’s direction with lowered eyelids. “Not a great beauty, but there is something about her…Hard to say what it is…”
Yes, there was something about her. Darius was impressed that Ambury had spotted it so quickly. But then, Ambury had a special sympathy with women, while Darius mostly found them necessary and often pleasurable, but ultimately bewildering.
“I recognize her,” Ambury said while he turned to look at a landscape hanging above their heads on the wall. “I have seen her about town, in the company of Barrowmore’s sister, Lady Cassandra. Perhaps Miss Fairbourne is unmarried because she prefers independence, like her friend.”
With Lady Cassandra? How interesting. Darius considered that there might be much more to Emma Fairbourne than he had assumed.
He did not miss how she now managed to avoid having that penetrating gaze of hers connect with his. Unless he greeted her directly, she would pretend he was not here. She surely would not acknowledge that he had as much interest in the results of this auction as she did.
Ambury perused the sheets of the sale catalogue that he had obtained from the exhibition hall manager. “I do not claim to know about art the way that you do, Southwaite, but there is a lot of ‘school of’ and ‘studio of’ among these paintings. It reminds me of the art offered by those picture sellers in Italy during my grand tour.”
“The staff does not have Maurice’s expertise, and to their credit have been conservative in their attributions when the provenance that documents the history of ownership and supports the authenticity is not clean.” Darius pointed to the landscape above Ambury’s head. “If he were still alive, that might have been sold as van Ruisdael, not as follower of van Ruisdael, and the world would have accepted his judgment. Penthurst was examining it most closely a while ago, and will possibly bid high in the hopes the ambiguity goes in van Ruisdael’s favor.”
“If it was Penthurst, I hope it was daubed by a forger a fortnight ago and he wastes a bundle.” Ambury returned his attention to Miss Fairbourne. “Not a bad memorial service, if you think about it. There are society luminaries here who probably did not attend the funeral.”
Darius had attended the funeral held a month ago. He had been the only peer there, despite Maurice Fairbourne’s role as advisor to many of them on their collections. Society did not attend the funeral of a tradesman, least of all at the start of the Season, so Ambury was correct. For the patrons of Fairbourne’s, this would serve as the memorial service, such as it was.
“I assume everyone will bid high,” Ambury said. Both his tone and small smile reflected his amiable manner, one that sometimes got him into trouble. “To help her out now that she is alone in the world.”
“Sympathy will play its role in encouraging high bids, but the real reason is standing next to the rostrum right now.”
“You mean that small white-haired fellow? He hardly looks to be the type to get me so excited I’d bid fifty when I had planned to pay twenty-five.”
“He is astoundingly unimpressive, isn’t he? Also unassuming, mild-mannered, and unfailingly polite,” Darius said. “Unaccountably it all works to his advantage. Once Maurice Fairboune realized what he had in that little man, he never called an auction in this house again, but left it to Obediah Riggles.”
“And here I thought that fellow over there was the auctioneer. The one who gave me this paper listing the things for sale.”
Ambury referred to the young, handsome man now easing the guests toward the chairs.
“That is Mr. Nightingale. He manages the exhibition hall here. He greets visitors, seats them, ensures they are comfortable, and answers questions regarding the lots. You will see him stand near each work as it is auctioned as well, like a human signpost.”
Dark, tall, and exceedingly meticulous in his elegant dress, Mr. Nightingale slithered more than walked as he moved around the chamber, ushering and encouraging, charming and flirting. All the while he filled the chairs and ensured the women had broad fans with which to signal a bid.
“He seems to do whatever he does quite well,” Ambury observed.
“Yes.”
“The ladies appear to like him. I expect a bit of flattery goes far in helping the bids flow.”
“I expect so.”
Ambury watched Nightingale for a minute longer. “Some gentlemen seem to favor him too.”
“You would mention that.”
Ambury laughed. “I expect it causes some awkwardness for him. He is supposed to keep them coming back, isn’t he? How does one both encourage and discourage at the same time?”
Darius could not swear that the exhibition manag
er did discourage. Nightingale was nothing if not ambitious. “I will leave it to you to employ your renowned powers of observation and let me know how he manages it. It will give you something to do, and perhaps you will stop complaining that I dragged you here today.”
“It was not the where of it, but the how. You deceived me. When you said an auction, I just assumed it was a horse auction, and you knew I would. It is more fun to watch you spend a small fortune on a stallion than on a painting.”
Slowly the crowd found seats and the sounds dimmed. Riggles stepped up on a stool so he showed tall behind the rostrum’s podium. Mr. Nightingale moved to where the first lot hung on the wall. His perfect features probably garnered more attention from some of the patrons than the obscure oil painting that he pointed to.
Emma Fairbourne remained discreetly away from the action but very visible to everyone. Bid high and bid often, her mere presence seemed to plead. For his memory and my future, make it a better total than it has any right to be.
Emma kept her gaze on Obediah, but she felt people looking at her. In particular she felt one person looking at her.
Southwaite was here. It had been too much to hope that he might be out of town. She had prayed for it, however. He went down to his property in Kent often, her friend Cassandra had reported. It would have been ideal had he done so this week.
He stood behind all the chairs, dressed for riding, as if he had been heading down to the country after all, but had seen the newspaper and diverted his path here. He towered back there and could not be missed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him watching her. His harshly handsome face held a vague scowl at the doings here. His companion appeared much more friendly, with remarkable blue eyes that held a light of merriment in contrast with the earl’s dark intensity.
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