The Fortune Hunter Read online

  Olivia’s lips twitched, but she managed to look stern. “Grimsby is still among the living, sir.”

  “Good. Then he can tell you I play cribbage with Beebe every Thursday at this hour.”

  “Played,” she reminded him. She looked him over skeptically. “You don’t look like a cribbage player.”

  Some of his exasperation returned. “Well, you don’t look like a Bedlamite, which you certainly must be! Let me speak to whoever is in charge here.”

  Olivia lifted her chin at him. “No one is in charge here, sir. Unless I am.”

  It was Lord Rival’s turn to look suspicious. He leaned on his walking stick, studying her face. Olivia tried to remain impassive beneath his scrutiny. “Tell me,” he said at last, “if Mr. Beebe has gone to his reward, why is the knocker not tied up with crape? Why is there no wreath on the door?”

  She glanced in surprise at the door. He was right, of course; none of the advertisements of mourning were present. “The curtains are drawn,” she offered.

  “The curtains of this house are always drawn.”

  “Oh.” Olivia did not know what else to say.

  “You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “You just told me you were in charge here.”

  “So I did. So I am!”

  “I don’t believe it. You’re new. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  She tossed her head. “You’re very sure of that, of course!” she scoffed. “Do you remember every female who crosses your path?”

  His teeth gleamed in a swift, jeering smile that seemed to acknowledge his own notoriety. The arch of his eyebrow mocked her for knowing his reputation—and himself for earning it. “Not every female,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “But I would remember you.”

  Olivia felt a blush rising to her cheeks and tried in vain to suppress it. She knew it was foolish to feel so flattered. She knew Lord Rival did not suspect her rank, and believed himself to be flirting harmlessly with a housemaid. She knew he meant nothing, nothing whatsoever by his light words. But they came so close to describing what she was feeling, she could not prevent her reaction.

  She could prevent him from perceiving it, however. She drew herself upright and glowered at him. “You are hoist with your own petard, sir,” she said tartly. “For you don’t remember me.”

  A speculative gleam lit his eyes. “Shakespeare,” he observed. His gaze flicked over her, reassessing her. “Why, here’s a mystery. An educated woman—and a damned fine-looking one—apparently employed as a maid of all work. And I haven’t seen you before, whatever you may say. I repeat my earlier question: Who are you?”

  Olivia nearly gasped aloud at his effrontery. She had never been spoken to so in her life. Rememberyour role! she reminded herself desperately. But she was so taken aback, all she could do for a moment was splutter helplessly. Finally she managed to snap, “Who I am, sir, is none of your affair!” It occurred to her that she had sounded more like an outraged spinster than a saucebox, so she added, more archly, “I cannot give my name away to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

  “But I’m George,” he told her, smiling in a way that only increased her confusion. “And I think you should let me in.”

  He had somehow invested his words with a double meaning. Olivia was so rattled by what he seemed to mean that she merely stared at him, slack-jawed. Lord Rival took shameless advantage of her loosened grip on the door and pushed smoothly past her and into the house. He stood very much at his ease, stripping off his gloves and looking about. Olivia realized she looked silly, holding the door open behind a man who had already entered, so she closed it, fuming.

  “I’ll try to find Grimsby for you,” she said stiffly. “Pray wait in the—” she waved her hand vaguely. There was a sort of parlor-cum-library near the hall, but she had no idea what the household called it.

  “The bookroom?” he supplied helpfully.

  “Yes. The bookroom.”

  “I think I had better go with you.”

  Olivia stared. “Go with me?”

  “Yes. To find Grimsby.”

  “Why, I . . . I never heard of such a thing! Why not wait in the bookroom, like a civilized man?”

  The laughter lit his eyes again. “I’m not a civilized man. And I feel quite sure that if I let you out of my sight, you will leave me to kick my heels in the bookroom for at least the next quarter of an hour.”

  He was right, of course. In the first place, she had no idea where Grimsby might be. And in the second, she had already decided it would teach Lord Rival a lesson to be kept waiting. Now, how had he guessed that?

  Olivia pursed her lips and tried to stare him down. She failed. The amusement in his eyes, and his falsely meek expression, were irresistible. She felt her lips begin to twitch despite herself, and had to look away to keep from laughing.

  “You’re an impudent devil,” she told him severely. “I don’t know what you deserve.”

  “Ah, but seldom on this earth do the wicked receive what they deserve,” he observed piously.

  “Very true. In the next life, my lord, you will spend many hours kicking your heels in a bookroom. I feel sure of it.”

  “Then you need not inflict it on me today. In fact, you need not inflict Grimsby on me today.”

  “I thought you wanted to see him?”

  “I have changed my mind. I would rather see you.”

  Olivia’s foolish heart skipped another beat, but she was becoming used to that after spending several whole minutes in Lord Rival’s company. This time she neither blushed nor stammered. She gave him the look her old governess used to give her when she misbehaved. She must have done a good job of it, too, for Lord Rival burst out laughing.

  His laughter was infectious, but Olivia resisted it, although she felt her eyes twinkle. “I have a great deal of work to do this morning,” she scolded him. “I can’t be bothered with a harum-scarum boy trotting at my heels.”

  He placed one hand against his heart as if pained. “A boy? Madam, you wound me! I haven’t been a boy these twenty years.”

  “You, sir, are a boy to this day, and likely to remain one,” she informed him loftily. “I’ll thank you to go about your business and leave off plaguing me.”

  “That’s better,” he said, his voice warm with congratulation. “You sounded very like a housemaid that time.”

  Olivia gave a tiny gasp, then rallied. “Perhaps you could tell me, my lord, what it was that you wanted to ask Grimsby. If I can answer your questions, I will do so—and then you may go.”

  “Certainly. I have two questions. First, I want to know what became of poor old Beebe, since he seemed hale and hearty the last time I saw him. And second, I want the identity of the charming girl who just answered the door.”

  Olivia lifted her chin at him. “I am no more a girl, my lord, than you are a boy.”

  “Ah, that rankled, did it?” he asked sympathetically.

  Olivia gave up. “Very well,” she said, resigned. “Mr. Beebe died peacefully in his sleep four nights ago. It was entirely unexpected, as you so sapiently observed. A private service was held yesterday.” Her voice softened. “And if you were truly a friend of his, my lord, it was a sad oversight that you were not invited to the service, and I’m sorry for it.”

  Lord Rival inclined his head in acknowledgment and frowned at the tip of his walking stick. “I’ve been acquainted with Beebe for years, but our friendship is of fairly recent date,” he said shortly. “I’m sorry to hear of his passing, and would have paid my respects had I known. But I’ll not mourn him, precisely.”

  Olivia nodded sadly. “No one seems to be mourning him, precisely. The few people who knew him held him in affection and esteem, but apparently he had no intimate friends. It seems a great pity.”

  Lord Rival’s brow quirked, and he glanced keenly at Olivia. She suddenly realized that she had slipped into conversation with him as if they were social equals. Her last remarks we
re completely unlike those a servant ought to make, particularly about her employer. She bit her lip, chagrined, and braced herself for another round of questions about her identity. However, Lord Rival made no comment. He walked thoughtfully to the hall table and deposited his hat, his gloves, and his walking stick upon its surface. Without turning to look at her, he asked, “Can you tell me if Lady Olivia Fairfax has been apprised of Mr. Beebe’s death?”

  His voice sounded perfectly neutral, but Olivia felt her heart leap into her throat. She swallowed painfully, and tried to match the neutrality of his tone. “Oh, yes, my lord. Certainly she has.”

  He turned to look at her, but the moment he had given her while his back was turned had been sufficient time for her to paste an innocent look upon her face. And a good thing, too, for his gaze was searching. “Are you acquainted with Lady Olivia?”

  “Yes, my lord. Quite well.” Which is more than you are, she thought indignantly. But, to her surprise, he did not claim acquaintance with Lady Olivia. Instead, his gaze sharpened with interest.

  “How do you know her?”

  “How?” She blinked, stalling for time. How would a servant in Aloysius Beebe’s house know Lady Olivia Fairfax? The answer was, she wouldn’t. Olivia had never been here prior to this morning. Lord Rival would not know that, however. She plucked up her courage and answered confidently. “Mr. Beebe was a great friend of Lady Olivia’s mother, once upon a time. The late Countess of Badesworth, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” He looked amused. “So you met Lady Olivia during the course of her visits to Mr. Beebe.”

  Olivia felt herself to be on dangerous ground. “Yes, my lord,” she said woodenly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my work.”

  “Well, you know, I don’t think I will excuse you,” he said apologetically. “In fact, I think I had better accompany you.”

  Her jaw dropped again. “Certainly not! Why would you?”

  “There’s something dashed havey-cavey about you, that’s why. If you’ll forgive my saying so, of course.”

  “Forgive you? I don’t even know what you mean.”

  “What, by havey-cavey? I mean smoky. Brummish. Fishy.” When she still stared uncomprehendingly at him, he chuckled. “Suspicious, questionable, and downright suspect, my good girl.”

  Olivia’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “If that is what you mean, then no, I do not forgive your saying it! How dare you question my motives—or my presence in this house? What business is it of yours, I should like to know?”

  “It is the business of every good citizen to foil thievery.”

  Olivia stamped her foot and pointed furiously at the door. “Out!” she cried. “Get out of this house! Leave this instant, you—you—”

  But the impossible man was laughing now, moving toward her, actually touching her, to take her arm back down to her side. “Why, here’s a heat! I beg your pardon. Pray do not summon the Watch; I’ll try to behave myself in future. I don’t promise to succeed, mind you—but I shall try.”

  Saints in heaven, she was actually in Rake Rival’s arms. Or very nearly. It was difficult to stay angry in the midst of the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. The most dangerous man in London was lightly gripping her shoulders, and his bold eyes were laughing down at her.

  Confused and shaken, Olivia pulled out of his hold and tried to remember what had just transpired. Oh, yes. He had been joking—or at least half-joking—and she had responded by raising her voice and shouting at him like a fishwife. Her cheeks burned with shame, both for her display of temper and her ridiculous reaction to his nearness. She scarcely recognized herself this morning; what was the matter with her?

  “I have as much right to feel suspicious of you as you have to feel suspicious of me,” she informed him icily, willing her voice to not shake. “More right, actually.”

  “Really? Then you would do well to keep me under your nose.”

  She regarded him for a moment, arms crossed while she regained her poise. He was right. She could hardly go back to work and leave him here unsupervised. She had no clear idea where Grimsby was. She could obviously not force Lord Rival to leave. It was really an impossible situation; she was at a loss as to what she should do.

  “Your point is well taken, sir. Follow me,” she said crisply, and headed for the basement stairs. Ten minutes in Mr. Beebe’s dusty basement, she thought, should cure Lord Rival of his odd determination to accompany her.

  3

  He grinned at her departing form, ramrod-straight with outraged sensibility, and willingly trailed in her wake. He no longer believed that this intriguing young woman was a housemaid, so he was surprised when she pulled open a door at the back of the hall and descended unhesitatingly to the basement. He followed, feeling more curious every moment.

  The area at the bottom of the stairs was dark and cramped. It seemed to be a sort of wine cellar, but Grimsby had evidently wasted no time in depleting his deceased master’s stock. The wine racks were mostly empty now. The woman, without a word or a backward glance, opened a door at the opposite end of the wine cellar and walked through it. He followed her into a large, and obviously long-neglected, lumber room. Windows near the low ceiling let in daylight, filtered through dusty panes of glass. The place looked like a madman’s notion of a museum.

  Items too large to fit into crates were scattered throughout the room, as if they had been carted in and dumped anyhow. Some of these objects were obviously of value. Many, however, were simply household castoffs and other discarded junk, tossed in with the valuables willy-nilly. There were several pieces of Egyptian origin. A large mummy case dominated the room, its impassive face turned to view a tangle of broken furniture. A dented coal scuttle held pieces of broken crockery, saved for what purpose he could not imagine. A magnificent cabinet clock stood, aptly enough, upon a stack of tombstones.

  In addition to the assortment of freestanding articles, the room was stacked, floor to ceiling, with an intimidating jumble of boxes and crates. Several of these had been pried open with a crowbar. Sawdust and screwed-up papers, presumably unearthed within the opened boxes, littered the floor. The crowbar was resting atop the crate that must be next in line for exploration, together with a pencil and a notebook. Lines of neat and numbered text were visible on the top page of the notebook, and various oddities, smaller than the pieces that stood unboxed, had been set in orderly fashion to one side. George had apparently interrupted the young woman while she was making an inventory.

  “Good God,” he murmured, appalled. “Are you cataloguing all this rubbish? The labors of Hercules pale in comparison.”

  She actually chuckled. It was a charming chuckle, low-pitched and throaty. “Now you understand my dismay when I opened the door to you. I was hoping to find a team of charwomen on the step.”

  “A crushing disappointment! I forgive you all your incivility.”

  She bit her lip. “I was uncivil, wasn’t I? I beg your pardon.”

  “Not at all. Perfectly understandable.” He looked round the room with distaste. “My advice to you is to go back upstairs and wait for the charwomen to arrive.”

  “Oh, pooh.” She plopped cheerfully down beside the open box, heedless of the dirty floor. “I had as lief be useful while I wait. The main difficulty is that no order has been imposed; everything has been packed higgledy-piggledy.”

  She was on her knees now, burying herself headfirst in the open crate. He lifted the notebook and quirked an eyebrow at her. “You seem to believe you can rectify the situation.”

  “Certainly I can.” She glanced up at him from the depths of the crate, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m quite good at bringing order out of chaos, actually.”

  I’ll bet you are, he thought, amused. “One person cannot possibly catalogue this jumble.”

  The mischief in her eyes increased. “Two persons.”

  George immediately dropped the notebook and flung up his hands in mock horror. “My dear girl, you ca
n’t expect me to crawl about on the floor and dig through sawdust!”

  He read condemnation in her eyes, but then she noticed his clothing and seemed to relent. “I suppose not. You are dressed for—what was it?” Her lips twitched. “Cribbage.”

  “Quite right,” he said firmly. “Cribbage. And even if I weren’t dressed for cribbage, anyone can see that I’m a foppish fellow, wholly unsuited to manual labor.”

  The low chuckle shook her again, and he saw her gaze travel lightly down his body—with some appreciation, it seemed to him. Vigorous pursuit of various sports had had its inevitable effect upon a frame already predisposed to powerful muscles. He looked, in fact, like a man who would have a positive talent for manual labor. He watched in wicked amusement as she opened her mouth to comment on this—and then thought better of the impulse. Her pretty mouth closed with an almost audible snap and she dove back into the crate, pink-cheeked.

  This lady, whoever she was, had all the earmarks of a sheltered virgin. She was too young to be a housekeeper, had too much authority for a maid, and had, besides, an unmistakable air of gentility that disqualified her for either position. He would have taken her for a governess—but what would a governess be doing in Beebe’s childless household? Who the devil was she?

  He knew who he hoped she was. It seemed just barely possible . . . improbable, but possible. He leaned against a stack of crates and watched her for a moment, studying the graceful way she moved and the unconscious assurance that pervaded everything she did. It was an attractive quality. She wore her poise like an invisible mantle of confidence. One felt instinctively that she was capable of dashed well anything, the very person to have at one’s side in a crisis. Or at the helm, for that matter.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  She tensed, almost imperceptibly, and looked up warily from her work. “What sort of question?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing personal,” he assured her. “It’s not about you.”

  Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Very well. What is it?”