The Fortune Hunter Page 4

  He bent his most ingratiating smile upon her. “Tell me something about Lady Olivia Fairfax. I’ve never met her, you know.”

  Was that alarm that flickered in the back of those wide, gray eyes? Or merely surprise? Before he could decipher her expression, she disappeared back into the crate, hiding her face from him. “I can’t imagine what you would want to know,” she announced to the depths of the crate. “Nor why you would want to know it.”

  “Well, she’s something of a mystery,” he said equably. “I’m as curious as the next man. One hears that she’s fabulously wealthy, but she never goes about in society. Rumors always fly about that sort of person. The beau monde is very unforgiving when it feels it’s been slighted.”

  “Slighted? How so?”

  He grinned. “The well-heeled daughter of an earl is expected to spend a Season or two in London and give all the fortune hunters a crack at her. Lady Olivia never did, so the ton has decided she is hopelessly eccentric. Is she?”

  The girl shrugged evasively. “Oh, I don’t know. I hear she has a temper. And, of course, she’s a very managing female. So perhaps it’s just as well she kept herself off the Marriage Mart.”

  George pricked up his ears. This was already more information than he had been able to glean in weeks of carefully pumping Aloysius Beebe. He hid his intense interest behind another bland smile. “She must be something of a hermit. Apart from Beebe, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who claims acquaintance with her.” He paused, then smiled again. “I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  “Oh!” said the lady brightly. “Well, I can tell you that much.” She emerged from the crate, a smudge of dust adorning her jawbone. A tiny, almost secretive, smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Are you acquainted with Lord Badesworth?”

  “Her half brother? A little.”

  “She looks very like him.”

  “In what way?” he asked cautiously. Badesworth was a singularly ugly man with a habitual scowl. It was impossible to imagine a feminine version of those coarse and twisted features.

  She tilted her head and looked at the ceiling for a moment, as if considering. “I think it’s the nose,” she said at last. “She has his nose. And his complexion, of course.”

  George was startled into exclaiming, “The devil you say! I thought the red face was due to drink.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no. It runs in their family.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I daresay by the time she’s his age, she’ll have the bumps as well. She already has a few warts, you know—but they’re barely noticeable. For the most part.”

  “Good God!”

  “One always notices the warts that sprout hairs, but very few of hers do.” She frowned a little. “Except for the one on her chin—the big one. But I think she plucks the hair from time to time, because I’ve seen it with the hair, and I’ve seen it without.”

  “But—devil take it, she’s only twenty-six years old!”

  The girl opened her eyes very wide indeed. “No. You don’t say! I had thought her forty, at the least.” She looked thoughtful. “I suppose it’s the baldness makes her look so old.”

  George’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “You’re doing it much too brown, my girl! Warty, big-nosed, red-faced, and bald? I don’t believe it.”

  A silvery laugh escaped her. “Oh, she’s not completely bald,” the lady assured him. “She has quite a bit of hair left.” She paused again. “Here and there.”

  “On her chin, I suppose you’ll tell me next!”

  “No, no! Only on that one wart. At least, that’s the only hair I’ve noticed on her chin. She has hair on her head.” The lady’s tone indicated a belief that Lady Olivia was to be congratulated for this. “It’s thin, but there are quite a few tufts. She’ll never be a beauty—”

  “I should think not!”

  “—but I always rather liked her. Despite the stories one hears.” She lifted a clay object from the crate and held it up to the light, her expression serene. “Now, what would you call this bit of pottery? It looks very like a pipe rack, but that can’t be right.”

  “I’ve no idea,” he said shortly. “What ‘stories’ have you heard about Lady Olivia?”

  The girl looked prim and shook her head. “I’ll not tell tales out of school,” she said demurely, and reached for her notebook.

  It occurred to George in a flash that she might mean that literally. He had learned, in the course of his investigation, that Lady Olivia Fairfax ran a charity school for orphaned girls. Was this young woman connected with the school? Had she heard unflattering stories about Lady Olivia there?

  While she was busy jotting in her notebook, he studied the clothing she wore. It didn’t tell him much. The frock was old, but seemed to have been made of quality material—the very sort of frock, he thought, that a rich lady might donate to charity once it had become too worn. It was modest and serviceable, high-necked, long-sleeved. This woman might very well have been educated at the charity school. She might have obtained this gown there. In fact, his early impression that she was a governess-type might have been near the mark. She might be a teacher at the charity school! If she were, she would, in fact, be acquainted with the elusive heiress.

  George felt a stab of dismay. Could any of the wild things he had just been told be true? If Lady Olivia were ugly, hot-tempered, and bossy, that would certainly explain how a woman with her lineage and fortune had managed to stay single. And, besides that, why would this odd, intriguing female want to play a Canterbury trick on him? There must be some truth in the portrait she was painting.

  Unless . . . no; he would reserve judgment for now, and take what she was telling him with a grain of salt. A very large grain of salt. She might have any number of reasons for misleading him. Perhaps everyone at the charity school was under strict orders to protect Lady Olivia’s privacy. That was, actually, more probable than not. And he still clung to a glimmer of hope that this young woman might, herself, be . . .

  And whoever she was, what the deuce was she doing here? He frowned and straightened from his pose against the crates. “Let us turn to another subject,” he said. “Why are you cataloguing Beebe’s possessions?”

  “Because it must be done, of course. For the probate of his will.” She rose from her knees and briskly shook out her apron.

  “Yes, but why must you do it? Who are you?”

  She picked up her notebook and pencil. “I think it very ill-bred of you to lounge about, asking impertinent questions, while I do all the work,” she said severely. “Kindly pry open the next box for me.”

  “With a good will, ma’am,” he replied, picking up the crowbar. “As soon as you tell me your name.”

  Her eyes snapped dangerously. “And if I will not?”

  She looked capable of snatching the crowbar out of his hands. George decided to change tactics. He held the crowbar out of her reach and smiled disarmingly at her. “Come, now, it’s not an unreasonable request. What am I to call you? I cannot continue to address you as ‘my good woman’ or ‘dear girl.” ’

  “You may address me as ‘ma’am,’ just as you did a moment ago.”

  He chuckled wickedly. “Oh, that was a slip of the tongue. You can’t expect me to call you ‘ma’am.’ What are you—some sort of chambermaid?”

  Aha. She looked completely flummoxed. She had forgotten she was a servant, begad! Well, before she confessed her identity, he’d better seize the moment. Once she told him who she was, the chance would be gone. He set the crowbar down and swiftly reached for her.

  He heard the startled intake of her breath as his hands closed on her upper arms, pulling her toward him. He had meant to kiss her quickly, roughly, the way an arrogant lord of the manor might handle a lowly chambermaid—that would shock the truth out of her!—but something stopped him.

  What a pleasant surprise. She was beautiful. Why had he not seen it until now? He must not have looked properly at her.

  He paused
for the merest fraction of time, savoring those impossible eyes so close to his. They were wide with astonishment, silver in the half-light. Lovely. His nostrils caught a faint fragrance from her, a whiff of something sweet and nostalgic. Roses and . . . apricots. She smelled of summer, mellow and warm and sunlit. It suited her perfectly.

  In the heartbeat of time while George took all this in, the front door opened upstairs. Some quirk of the house’s construction immediately sucked the storeroom door shut with a whoof. Still he stood, drunkenly staring into the nameless girl’s eyes. It was she who suddenly broke away and, with a cry, rushed over to tug futilely at the closed door.

  “Minding the proprieties? It’s a bit late for that,” remarked George, strolling over to help her. “Allow me.”

  “Oh, do you think you can open it?” she asked eagerly, stepping aside. “Grimsby told me that it locked when it closed.”

  This sounded ominous. He rattled the doorknob, but it refused to turn. He tugged with all his strength, but the door remained securely in its track.

  “What idiot would design a basement door to automatically lock from the wrong side?” he asked, exasperated. She must have known his question was rhetorical, for a sympathetic look was her only reply. “Stand back,” he ordered. She did so.

  He put his shoulder to the door and shoved mightily, grunting with the effort. The thick wedge of English oak did not budge. Panting, he stood back and regarded it for a moment. “Hand me the crowbar.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said faintly. “Do you really think we ought to take the door apart?”

  “I only hope we can take the blasted door apart! It’s more likely to bend the crowbar.”

  He thought he was joking. Five minutes later, however, they were staring incredulously down at a bent and ruined crowbar. George flung it on the floor in disgust. The door was barely scratched—and still securely locked.

  “I wish I knew what Beebe paid for that crowbar,” he said sourly. “What’s it made of? Tissue?”

  “It opened the crates,” the girl offered.

  George snorted, then looked speculatively around the room. “I wonder if there’s a cannon among all this trash.”

  He heard a choke and glanced down in surprise. The lady at his side, despite the dire straits she was in, was stifling a laugh with one hand. “I’m afraid not,” she said apologetically, laughter still quivering in her voice. “This appears to be the Egyptian Room. More or less.”

  A grin tugged at his mouth. “Well, where’s the medieval collection? I’ll settle for a battering ram.”

  They both dissolved into helpless laughter. “Oh, my!” she gasped at last. “Truly, truly, it’s not funny in the least. What will we do?”

  “Give up, I think, and climb into that sarcophagus to begin our final rest.”

  “I am not so poor spirited.” She rose determinedly from the box where she had been seated, and looked purposefully about her. “Perhaps there is another exit.”

  George ambled over to the sarcophagus and sat irreverently upon its lid. He stretched his long legs out before him, crossed his arms, and watched in amusement as his companion prowled through the room, poking into this corner and that. “For myself, I am perfectly content to remain in the basement with you,” he said teasingly.

  Her head popped round the corner of the mummy case to bestow a minatory frown upon him. “Well, I have no intention of remaining in a basement with you,” she scolded him. “Nor anywhere else, for that matter. The idea!”

  She disappeared behind the case again. George grinned. “You had better tell me who you are, you know,” he called after her. “You’re no more a housemaid than I am. Are you one of Mr. Beebe’s relatives?”

  Her voice floated back to him, muffled by the surrounding crates. “If you think I am going to sit in this excessively dusty basement with you and play Twenty Questions, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “You needn’t sit,” he promised. “Although if you were to join me, that would be sporting of you.”

  She appeared from behind a bookcase and glared at him, arms akimbo. He patted the sarcophagus invitingly. Was that laughter he saw in her eyes? He hoped so, but before he had a chance to find out, faint sounds emanated from beyond the locked door. Footsteps. Someone was coming down the stairs in the next room.

  The relief George felt was tempered with disappointment; he wished their rescuer could have delayed for another five minutes. Or ten.

  The girl’s eyes, however, lit with unqualified relief. She made an instant dash for the door—and, on her first step, tripped over the coal scuttle full of crockery. Scuttle, crockery, and lady went flying. George leaped to her aid and both of them went down in the dust with a crash.

  “Ivy?” From somewhere beyond the door, a feminine voice was raised in bewilderment and alarm. Whoever it was, she sounded fairly distant. “Ivy? Is that you? Where are you?”

  “Here!” gasped the girl in his arms. “I’m here, Bessie!” She was choking on dust and breathless from her fall, but struggled to her feet and ran, stumbling and coughing, toward the door.

  The distant voice sounded relieved. “Oh, lord-a-mercy, it’s only a cat! You nearly frightened the life out of me, puss-puss.” The rest of her words were unintelligible as the woman—Bessie, was it?—walked farther away. The faint sound of the door closing at the top of the stairs seemed to seal their doom. The rattle of pails and thump of feet overhead signaled that the charwomen had arrived with Bessie, and had immediately plunged into work. Shouts and poundings in the basement would definitely not be heard now.

  The girl sagged against the door in defeat, bleary-eyed and still coughing a little. “Oh, this is terrible,” she moaned. “Drat the cat! Could our luck be any worse?”

  George rose from the dust, a slow smile spreading across his features. “Speak for yourself, my dear,” he said pleasantly. “My luck just took a turn for the better.”

  She shrank back against the door as she watched him approach, apprehension stealing across her features. “It—it did?” she asked faintly.

  “Yes, indeed,” he told her. He was feeling an enjoyment that was almost exultation. What an exquisite situation! Locked in a basement with a pretty servant girl. If he had planned it, it could not be better. And to add a little spice, this particular girl was acquainted with the prey he had been delicately stalking for weeks. He banished the tug of chagrin he had felt at learning her name. Too bad it wasn’t “Olivia,” but he would not repine. “Ivy” was a plebeian name, resolving the lingering doubts he had had about her class. No gently born maiden would be christened “Ivy.”

  He placed his hands against the door on either side of her, caging her between his arms. “Well, Ivy, shall we take off our masks?” he suggested softly. “Since I now know who you are.”

  4

  For one terrified moment Olivia thought he had somehow guessed her identity. But then he chuckled and said, “I have a confession to make, Ivy. I was half hoping you were Lady Olivia Fairfax.”

  “Gracious!” she squeaked, then cleared her throat, hoping he would think her startled chirp was attributable to dust. “What made you think such a mad thing?”

  His eyes are so dark, she thought, a frisson of mingled fear and delight coursing through her. She was very thankful he did not, in fact, know who she was. She was almost sure that what she was feeling at this moment was improper. It was difficult to keep her equilibrium when he called her by her nickname! No one but her family had ever called her Ivy.

  He smiled, and his smile shot pleasure clear through her. “Well, everyone knows her to be an eccentric,” he said, still smiling that devastating smile. “You must own, a woman of rank and fortune who dressed like a junior housemaid—and worked like one, as well—would have to be very eccentric indeed.”

  “Oh. I see.” She tried to laugh, but failed. Fearing that he would somehow read the truth in her eyes, she ducked out from under his arms. He made no attempt to stop her.

  “Not that I’m disp
leased with my present company. Quite the contrary,” he drawled, laughter lurking in his voice. “But you can’t blame me for indulging a foolish fancy when you wouldn’t tell me your name.”

  Olivia wasn’t sure whether it was dust or alarm that was choking her at this point. She wandered over and pretended to study the narrow windows high on the wall, in an attempt to hide her face from him. Maddeningly, he followed and stood uncomfortably close behind her.

  “Tell me, Ivy,” he murmured teasingly, almost in her ear. “Is Lady Olivia really haggish? She can’t be as bad as you said she was.”

  “Worse,” said Olivia firmly. She gathered her courage and faced him, determined to end this particular discussion once and for all.

  He looked searchingly at her, and seemed to conclude she was in earnest. He raked a hand through his hair, suddenly perplexed. “Damnation! What the deuce did Beebe mean, then, by telling me he thought we’d be well-suited?”

  Olivia’s jaw dropped. “He said that?”

  “He certainly did!”

  “Well!” she exclaimed, shaking her head in amazement. “What an extraordinary idea. One hates to speak ill of the dead, but it’s my belief Mr. Beebe was queer in his attic.”

  Lord Rival grinned. “Having seen his basement, I feel sure you are right.”

  He strolled away from her and began pacing, frowning, plunged in thought. He seemed to be turning a memory over in his mind, trying to make sure his recollection was correct. Olivia watched him a bit wistfully, unable to escape noticing again how handsome he was—even covered with dust. And, wonder of wonders, Mr. Beebe, who had known them both, had believed that she and Lord Rival would be well-suited. One couldn’t help longing to find out if it were true.

  She sternly repressed the traitorous thought. Well-suited, indeed! No respectable woman could be well-suited to rakish Lord Rival! The idea was ludicrous. She realized with dismay that she had better set a guard on her emotions. She was far too attracted to him. This man has ruined many a virtuous lady, she reminded herself. Surely she had too much self-respect to join that sorry lot.