The Fortune Hunter Page 13

  For years now, she had been privately growing more and more impatient with the shibboleths and strictures that hemmed a maiden lady in. At her age, by heaven, she ought to be able to think for herself. Explore the avenues that took her fancy. Decide on her own what was right and what was wrong. Encountering George Carstairs had somehow brought these feelings to a head, and she was now openly chafing at her prim little life. She hadn’t felt so restless and resentful since Mother died and left her warring with her father over every tiny freedom she tried to seize.

  Why this was, she didn’t know. Lord Rival certainly did nothing to encourage her rebellion. Since that one day when he had goaded her into riding in the hackney with him, his behavior had been admirably circumspect. In fact, he treated her with the same courtesy she took for granted from other men. He was unfailingly respectful in all their dealings.

  It was driving her mad.

  The more he kept a polite distance, the crosser she grew. Had he done anything outrageous, she would have instantly upbraided him—but it piqued her that he did nothing outrageous. He showed no inclination to flirt with her at all. The nervous excitement she had felt at the prospect of working with him, anticipating a daily battle to keep his amorous attentions at bay, fell flat in the face of his crushing indifference. And her resulting disappointment forced her to acknowledge just how much she had wanted those attentions—the very attentions she would have spurned, had they occurred!

  They met daily in the office of the Fairfax School. She showed him the various books and ledgers and explained the workings and organization of the charity. He surprised her by making excellent suggestions regarding the operation, especially relating to the transfer and ultimate disposition of the assets Mr. Beebe had willed to the school. Lord Rival, against all expectations, had a shrewd head for business. But his burgeoning interest in matters financial did not, unfortunately, extend to her. His attention was completely absorbed by the arcane twistings of the charity’s money trail and his detailed—and, really, rather inspired—analysis of which cash repositories were superior, and why.

  She wore the new clothes she had recently purchased on Bond Street. He smiled and bowed and showed no interest. She sat beside him and let her arm brush his. He considerately moved aside to give her more room. She deliberately spoke in double entendres. He appeared not to notice. Despite their casual use of Christian names—for she consistently called him “George” when they were alone—no intimacy grew between them.

  By the time he extended, in the most offhand way imaginable, the invitation to Vauxhall Gardens, she was wound so tightly that she very nearly sprang at his first invitation—the one that would have placed her in his sole company for the evening. This, of course, would have been wholly unacceptable. It was really shocking, in hindsight, to think how close she had come to saying yes. And even more shocking to realize how much she had wanted to. An evening spent making small talk with a party of strangers would be tedious, but she was relieved that he had offered this compromise at all. She had been half afraid he would make her choose—to go alone with him, or not at all. She would have been strongly tempted to go, and damn the consequences.

  It was pique, really, that had spurred her to order this particular gown. She had been thrown into such a temper by her chaotic and confusing emotions, and her overwhelming desire to attract George’s interest come hell or high water, that she had selected a fabric more suited for a high-class courtesan than a lady of quality.

  She compounded her recklessness by having the gown made up with a décolletage so low that she could not wear stays with it. At her final fitting, her eyes nearly popped in horror. Too late, she realized that she was constitutionally incapable of wearing such a garment in public.

  “But you look lovely!” Jenny cried, crestfallen. Since she was a graduate of the Fairfax School who had been apprenticed to one of the highest-priced modistes in London, there was both authority and familiarity behind her protest. “It’s the most elegant thing I’ve ever made.”

  “Merciful heavens!” Olivia patted her chest distractedly. “If my cousin sees me in this gown, she will shut me in the attic rather than let me go abroad in it. Can we not raise the neckline? I think I could wear stays after all, if the neckline were just a little higher.”

  “Stays would ruin it,” said Jenny firmly. Her expression had taken on a mulish cast. “Only look at the lines, how the dress curves round your bust and falls just so. If you put on stays, my lady, every seam and bone will show through the gauze.”

  “But I feel so . . . exposed!” Olivia indicated her reflection with a despairing gesture. She looked, frankly, more beautiful than she had ever dreamed possible. But the shimmering gauze that poured down her body and fell in graceful folds behind her, unadorned save for the tiny spangles that glinted in the fabric itself, left little to the imagination.

  “I promise you, Lady Olivia, that there is nothing shocking about this gown,” Jenny assured her fervently. “Ladies of fashion think nothing of revealing their figures these days. I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to know that this gown will be worn by someone whose figure does it justice! And, after all, we have taken great pains to ensure that everything essential is covered.” She watched anxiously as Olivia stared broodingly at the pier glass.

  Olivia was just about to shake her head in regretful denial when Jenny suddenly brightened, snapping her fingers. “I have it! Stockinette. I will line the body of the gown with stockinette.”

  “Do you think it will answer?” asked Olivia, torn between doubt and hope.

  “Oh, yes, my lady! Stockinette will add a bit of support—and a little warmth, which you may need in the evening air—and the gown will no longer appear transparent. But it will not ruin the effect with bumps and lines, as stays would do. Allow me, ma’am, to assist you out of it. I shall begin work straight away, if I might take it into the next room where the light is better.”

  Olivia readily consented, relieved that the solution was a simple one. The planned excursion would take place within hours, and her wardrobe contained nothing else that was remotely suitable.

  Jenny’s careful addition of the stockinette lining proved more difficult than anticipated, however, and as a result there was no time to try on the garment again until Olivia was actually dressing for the evening. By the time Jenny, beaming, pulled the gown into place over Olivia’s head, tugging and twitching it expertly to the exact fit she had designed, Olivia’s nerves were on the stretch. She turned to face the mirror, dreading what she would see.

  She scarcely recognized the exquisite creature staring back at her. As Jenny had promised, the elegant simplicity of the evening gown had been retained. If anything, the folds of material, now slightly heavier, fell more fluidly than before. But Olivia was not entirely sure that modesty had been achieved. The gown was certainly more opaque, and she felt less naked. But the stockinette added its own clingy quality to the thin gauze; her curves were more defined than ever. The sweep of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, even the curve of her belly were nearly as clear as if the dress had been painted onto her rather than sewn.

  The little dressmaker was clapping her hands in ecstasy. Olivia’s maid was also exclaiming with delight. Their enthusiasm made Olivia wonder if she was, perhaps, being too prudish. Just because she was an old maid, she didn’t need to think like one. Thanks to Jenny’s artistry, she certainly didn’t look like one. She stared into the mirror, trying to see the woman reflected there the way others would see her.

  Her confidence grew as she studied the glass. I dare you, Lord Rival. I dare you to keep your distance.

  A wicked smile began to play with the edges of her lips, and the sight of that tiny smile, gleaming back at her from the looking glass, banished the last of her doubts. She took a deep breath, then turned to smile at her audience.

  “Thank you, Jenny,” she said. “It’s perfect. Annie? My diamonds, please.”

  10

  George pocketed the seve
nty pounds he had won from Nellie Beauchamp two nights ago and deftly straightened his cravat. The stakes tonight were far higher than those offered by little Nellie. If he played his hand well in this game, he might never have to rely on the turn of a card again.

  Come to think of it, he had nearly lost the last hand when playing Nellie. George frowned. Was he growing careless? Or merely bored? Bored, probably. It had been so difficult to concentrate in Nellie’s company of late that she was beginning to pout and accuse him of inattentiveness.

  She was right, of course. His mind was occupied with constant thoughts of Olivia Fairfax and that blasted school of hers—both of which had taken strong possession of his imagination. He chuckled as he studied the smooth-shaven, precisely groomed, expensively dressed rascal in the mirror. Who would have believed that George Carstairs would find his calling while poring over a charity’s ledgers? But the columns of numbers and the ups and downs of the financial world they represented interested him. Fascinated him, truth be told. And fired him with ideas—ideas that Olivia seemed to agree were better than any that either she or Culpepper had thought of.

  “I’m just a cit in nobleman’s clothing,” he murmured to his reflection.

  The solid thump of a triangular head butting affectionately against his calf made him swear out loud. “Confound it, beast! I wasn’t addressing you.” He inspected the back of his formerly spotless stocking and grimly removed a bit of black fluff. “Look at this,” he admonished Tom, holding it up for the cat’s inspection. “What in blue blazes did Beebe see in you? You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Tom winked. He always winked when George spoke sharply to him. It was an annoying trait. Doubtless the gesture meant nothing to a cat, but receiving a wink still made a chap feel that he was not taken seriously. The fat, furry nuisance seemed to believe that George was secretly growing fond of him. Which was nonsense, of course.

  He heard the clattering of footsteps on the stairs outside his flat, followed by a tattoo of raps on his door. “Damn,” said George unemotionally. Since he had recognized the knock, he did not stir from his place before the glass but continued to meditatively make infinitesimal adjustments to his appearance. The door opened regardless, as he had known it would.

  “Hallo, Sid,” he said dryly. “What do you want now?”

  “Hallo, George. I say, that’s no way to greet a fellow! Why should I want anything in particular?” Sidney Cheyne sauntered into the room with the familiarity of long acquaintance and dropped, yawning, into a wing chair. “It’s cold in here.”

  “If you don’t like it—”

  “I know! I can leave.” Sid grinned. “My mistake, old man! Your flat is warm as toast.” He peered intently at George’s cravat. “I say, that’s a demmed fine mathematical you’ve tied there. Very nice indeed. Is that my stickpin?”

  “Thank you. And no, it is not.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Sid without rancor. “Lost it last February or so, didn’t I? I must’ve been bosky to play piquet with you. That sapphire is paste, by the way.”

  “Yes, I know. I hope you haven’t come here to cry off. Have you?”

  Sid opened his eyes at this. “You mean Vauxhall? Good God, no. I haven’t put on my togs yet, but I’ll be there all right and tight. I’m in your debt, dear chap. In fact, I’m much obliged to you for the chance.”

  George regarded his young friend cynically. “It isn’t much of a chance. By the by, the odds are running against you in the clubs these days. The knowing ’uns say that if the Sowerberry hasn’t accepted you by now, she never will.”

  A shadow crossed Sid’s features, stealing the rollicking good humor from his cherubic good looks. For a fleeting moment, he looked like the ugly customer he really was. “She’ll have me yet,” he said shortly. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  “Dear me! How sinister. I shall refrain from begging you for an explanation of that cryptic observation, and merely point out that there is little scientific evidence to support it.”

  Sid’s laugh sounded a trifle forced. He indicated George’s splendid evening attire. “If that’s what you will be wearing, the Sowerberry won’t look twice at me tonight. Do me a favor, old man, and make yourself scarce once we get there.”

  “Hm.” George seated himself in the chair opposite Sid’s. “Is that what you came here for? To request that I keep my distance? You must be feeling even less sure of her than I supposed. But let me put your mind at rest! I have every intention of abandoning my party as soon as I conveniently can—the ideal host, am I not?—which will leave you a clear field, dear boy. You may pursue Miss Sowerberry to your heart’s content tonight. I wish you good hunting, in fact.”

  Sid’s relief was as transparent as his hostility. Both warred in his expression as he attempted a careless grin. “Very good of you,” he said lightly, and rose to his feet. “I’d place a bet at White’s, if I were you, before the odds change. I’m going to win her, George.”

  George inclined his head in acknowledgment. “In that case, I can only wish you happy,” he said, the faintest hint of sarcasm marring his politeness. “What! Are you leaving so soon? Well, well, I shall try to bear up under the loss, and look forward to seeing you later. Briefly, of course.”

  Sid, already at the door, laughed breezily. “The briefer the better! Although, I must say, I’ve a great curiosity to see Lady Olivia Fairfax. I was beginning to think her a figment of the ton’s imagination.”

  “Ah. Tried to look her up yourself, did you?” said George, with mock sympathy. “Couldn’t get near her, I suppose.”

  Sid stiffened, an angry flush staining his neck. “More sport in stealing her from under your arrogant nose,” he said with false jollity. “Take care I don’t cut you out, old man!”

  George smiled. “You won’t,” he promised Sid gently. His tone was pleasant, but Sid’s flush deepened.

  Sid gave another unconvincing laugh. “Oh, I shan’t try. I imagine I’ll have my hands full tonight, at any rate, trying to bring Miss Sowerberry round my thumb. Good-bye, then!”

  He left as abruptly as he had arrived. George smiled a rather unpleasant smile and regarded the door that Sid had closed behind him. “Quite right,” he said softly. “Whatever else you are, Sid Cheyne, you are not stupid.”

  Tom, who had vanished at Sid’s entrance, emerged from behind the fender and made a sort of peeping sound. George, correctly interpreting this utterance, pointed a finger at his bewhiskered admirer. “No,” he said sternly. Tom advanced, clearly intending to spring into George’s lap. “No!” repeated George, exasperated. Tom winked at George and then paused, coiling his body in preparation for the jump. George rose, cursing. The only way to thwart the wretched feline was to remove the lap. It seemed to him that in a battle of wills between a man and a pet, the pet ought not to win. Far too often, however, the best George could achieve was a draw.

  “Out you go,” announced George. He opened a window.

  Tom sat on his haunches, looking with mild interest at the gap leading to the rooftops of Mayfair. He did not seem to think that George’s invitation was directed to him. Disgusted, George picked up the animal and shoved it bodily through the window and onto the outside ledge. “You want exercise, my pudgy friend,” George informed him. “You’re getting fatter every day.”

  Tom sat on the ledge and looked reproachfully over his shoulder at George. “Move your tail,” advised George. Tom winked. George, growling, shoved the black-and-white plume out of the way and closed the window. He then removed several hairs that Tom had deposited on his waistcoat while being transported across the room, picked up his gloves, hat, and cloak, and departed for Chelsea.

  He paused outside the entrance of his building and looked up. The night was fine and almost warm, far balmier than a September night should be. Stars twinkled in a cloudless sky, and a bright moon bathed London in an ethereal glow. Perfect. He had spent more than a week setting this evening up, lulling Olivia—he hop
ed—into thinking him harmless. Indifferent to her charms. She had shown signs of pique, and he had carefully ignored them. She had even cast out blatant lures, much to his delight, and he had ignored those as well. By the time he invited her to Vauxhall she was thoroughly miffed, which was just what he wanted.

  Tonight, things would be different. She was primed to fall at the tiniest push. His practiced show of apathy had made her unhappy. Tonight, she would tumble eagerly into his arms, ready to be made happy again.

  He had played this game a hundred times.

  He sauntered off in the direction of Hyde Park Corner, feeling a pleasant tingle of anticipation. There was just enough danger in the air to make the game interesting. One never knew, of course, what a woman’s reaction would be, and the uncertain outcome always added a pinch of excitement to evenings like this. But this time the game had an entirely different feel to it. Win or lose, for once he had much more riding on the outcome than mere pleasure.

  A hackney took him to Olivia’s town house. She had suggested that her own coachman drive them to Vauxhall in a landau. George had not demurred at this arrangement since, although it was designed to give Olivia a measure of supposed safety, it also spared him the necessity of adding Bessie Fairfax to his party—not to mention the expense of providing the evening’s transportation. Upon the stroke of the appointed hour he alighted from the hackney, paid off the driver, trod gracefully up the shallow stone steps, and rapped smartly on Olivia’s door. He was in complete control, and his mask of faint boredom was firmly in place. His quarry must not guess that beneath the mask he was stretched taut with suspense, as focused as a bloodhound straining at the leash.

  Olivia’s footman admitted him and he stood at his ease in the hall, shaking back the folds of his cloak. He wondered how long he would need to wait. It seemed unlikely that a woman who had shunned the beaumonde for so many years could quickly ready herself for an evening at Vauxhall Gardens. He hadn’t given her much lead time, for fear she would back out if she had time to reconsider. He hoped she had not been forced to unearth garments left over from her long-ago presentation. Although she generally dressed well, he supposed he should brace himself for the sight of her in an inappropriately youthful, outmoded evening gown.