The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting Read online

  Even when young, Edwina had been far too much a Hartlebury to be called beautiful, with the family’s heavy build and strong features. Hart said, “There is a difference between a practical marriage and a fortune hunter.”

  “What difference?”

  He opened his mouth and realised that was in fact a very good question. “What the other party has to offer,” he tried.

  “Beauty is a commodity. The Misses Gunning had nothing but beauty, and one married an earl and the other married two dukes.”

  “All right, then: frankness about one’s position.”

  “The Loxleighs have made it clear they have very humble means.”

  “They dress damned well on it.”

  “Don’t swear. I dare say they saved for this opportunity. Why should they not?”

  And why should Loxleigh not gamble to fund it, Hart supposed. “What about the future? Would a man who only wanted her money make a kind husband?”

  Edwina shook her head, almost pityingly. “Do you believe love-matches are safer? I made a business arrangement with Fenwick and I was very happy. Whereas when I married Blaine, I thought I loved him, and I believed he cared for me. You would not have called him a fortune hunter when we married, would you?”

  His sister’s second husband had come from a good family: it had been his only worthwhile feature. “Granted, any man might mistreat a wife.”

  “Or perhaps a poor man might be more appreciative of a rich wife, and try to please her,” Edwina countered. “Or maybe not. Perhaps you’re quite right and Loxleigh is a cruel man who sees easy prey, and perhaps his sister is part of his cruel lie when she takes long walks with Alice and they laugh like children, or go to the theatre together. I don’t know. But I don’t want to tell Alice that a gentleman who respects her and a lady who is her friend are deceiving her if I don’t know it for a fact. Prove it and I’ll listen.”

  Hart shoved both hands through his hair. He’d felt entirely justified in his defence of Alice before, and he was sure—almost sure—he was right about Loxleigh, but as ever, the backwash of losing his temper took ground from under his feet. He had overstepped, and he knew it. “All right. But give me a little more time, and don’t let Alice accept him if things come to that. If he is honest, he’ll understand her family’s caution.”

  “Alice is her own mistress, as you well know. She doesn’t require my consent.”

  “But she listens to you because you are her mother,” Hart said. “Give me time, please. I wouldn’t forgive myself if she was trapped by a cozener, and nor would you.”

  “I will give time if you give tolerance,” Edwina returned. “Which is to say, you will be civil to Loxleigh. If you need to apologise to him—”

  “The devil I will!”

  “—then you must do that, and if you cannot behave you must stay out of the way. I won’t have Alice sitting alone because you prowl around snarling at her friends.”

  “I do not snarl.”

  “Of course you do.” Edwina gathered herself and rose. “I shall go to Alice. Can I assure her that you will not spoil her best acquaintance in London?”

  “Edwina—”

  “Can I, Hart?”

  “I’m damned if I’m apologising.”

  “Don’t swear. Can I assure Alice that you have not ruined her friendships?” Her tone was militant.

  Hart pinched the bridge of his nose. It looked like this round would go to Loxleigh.

  Chapter Five

  Three days later, Hart was elegantly dressed, and in an extremely bad mood.

  The aftermath of that disastrous afternoon rolled on. He had sought a quiet word with Alice, sitting miserably alone in the drawing room after all the shouting, and asked her point-blank if she inclined to Loxleigh. After all, this would be a lot of fuss about nothing if she were simply enjoying a flirtation.

  Unfortunately, Alice had blushed hotly and mumbled that he was very pleasant and his sister was delightful. Hart had to take that as a yes, because Edwina had chased him out of the house at that point.

  He had gritted his teeth and sent Loxleigh a curt note saying that his temper had driven him into unwary expression. He could not bring himself to apologise properly, and he didn’t want to phrase it in any way the man could wave around as proof of vindication. Loxleigh had returned an entire paragraph of waffle in a neat if schoolboyish hand, indicating that he respected Hart’s concern for Miss Fenwick and was prepared to overlook his unwarranted implications as expressed in private. The implication of ‘don’t say it in public’ was very clear. Hart threw the paper on the fire with a curse.

  He spent the next couple of days working on the problem. He had no idea where the Loxleighs were from, and Alice couldn’t remember the name of their village if she’d ever been told, so that line of enquiry would likely take some while to pursue. He started it anyway, asked Evangeline Wintour to keep a very close eye on the man at her tables, and wrote to his lawyer and his brewery manager in Aston Clinton to discover if anyone had been asking questions.

  Maybe he was wrong. It had to be faced. Maybe the Loxleighs were just what they seemed—charming, remarkably attractive people who wanted to make good marriages. If they were of adequate birth, one could hardly hold limited means against them, still less ambition to improve their circumstances.

  That didn’t make him like Loxleigh’s practised smile any better. A clever, ambitious man could do as he pleased with an impressionable girl, and he was determined Loxleigh would not have that chance. And therefore when the fellow invited Alice to make one of a party at Astley’s Amphitheatre, Hart had said he’d escort her.

  Hence his bad mood, and his attention to his dress. He didn’t generally make an effort with his appearance—there was little point—but Loxleigh had made him feel conscious of his carelessly tied cravat and crumpled coat. So he had summoned Spenlow, the man of the house who valeted for him in London, had a close shave, ensured his clothes were freshly pressed and his shirt-points starched, and put more effort into his cravat than he could recall doing in years. He still looked like a scowling brute at the end of it, but at least a smart one.

  The performance began at half past six. He joined Alice and Edwina for a small collation at five o’clock to keep the wolf from the door and took Alice to Westminster Bridge in a carriage.

  She was glowing with excitement, eyes bright. Hart hoped to hell that wasn’t about seeing Loxleigh. “Looking forward to tonight?”

  “Oh, yes.” She beamed at him. “Everyone says it’s a marvellous performance. There are equestrian exercises and a Lapland scene and magical tricks and a harlequinade and a minuet danced by horses!”

  “Good God.”

  “How do you think they teach horses the minuet? Because I find it awfully difficult and I have a dancing master. And only two legs.”

  “It could be worse,” Hart offered. “It could be a Scotch reel.”

  That set Alice off laughing, and they arrived at Astley’s in good spirits and great charity with one another.

  The party was made up of Giles Verney, escorting Miss Jennifer Verney, his niece; Mr. and Miss Loxleigh; the feather-headed Miss Florence Jocelyn; and Miss Jocelyn’s fiancé, a pointless young man named Mowbray. Miss Loxleigh welcomed Alice with great warmth. Hart bowed civilly, including to Loxleigh, who bowed back, face neutral.

  The box held eight, in two rows of four. The four ladies sat together at the front. Hart, who had no interest in dancing horses, sat at the end of the back row with Giles.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, without preamble.

  “Escorting Jenny, of course. I have squired her to several events this Season, as you’d know if you ever took Alice anywhere.”

  “I’m here now,” Hart protested.

  “I’m glad to see it. If you’re looking to come out more often, I will cheerfully give you a list of my movements in the hope of your company. These things are a great deal less trying with someone to talk to.”

  That w
as a lure. Giles, as Hart knew well, had no need of support on these occasions; he was trying to draw Hart out into society, for his own sake as well as Alice’s. If only his gregarious friend would grasp that Hart found social drawing-out only slightly less unpleasant than the same process applied to teeth.

  The equestrian exercises took place to much cheering and applause. They were followed by two musical pieces, which lost Hart’s attention entirely, though Alice and Jennifer seemed delighted by them. The rest of the party shifted around a little. Miss Jocelyn rose to talk to her fiancé, and Giles hastily excused himself and took her place next to Miss Loxleigh. She turned with a smile that painters would have wept to see, and Giles leaned in, speaking to her in a low voice. Miss Jocelyn and Mowbray then disappeared to obtain drinks, or possibly privacy, which left Loxleigh and Hart together in the back row.

  Hart stretched out his legs as best he could and leaned back, unwilling to betray his awkwardness. He didn’t look at Loxleigh and Loxleigh didn’t—so far as he could tell—look at him. They sat for some time in silence as the idiocies in the amphitheatre continued.

  Not speaking to him, not acknowledging him, simply seemed to make Hart more aware of him. He was vividly conscious of Loxleigh’s presence, the compact form, the thighs encased in tight kerseymere cloth which were all he could see out of the corner of his eye, the soft sound of his breathing despite the noise and chatter around him. He became irrationally aware of his own breath, which seemed to be in time with Loxleigh’s, and tried to change the pattern by breathing slower, then felt short of air and had to restrain himself from gasping.

  This was absurd. But he couldn’t stop noticing Loxleigh, and he was sure, absolutely sure, the man knew it.

  The musical interlude ended, and another began, this time a pastoral comedy dance announced as ‘Who Stole the Sheep?’ Hart gave an involuntary grunt of distress.

  Loxleigh leaned over. He didn’t touch, nothing like it, but Hart thought he could feel the heat of his body all the same. “Are you enjoying the performance?”

  “Frankly?”

  “I don’t expect you to sugar-coat your words.”

  “Then, no.”

  “What a shame. I’m sure you’ll love the dancing dogs,” Loxleigh said, and sat back.

  Hart had to look at him then. He was watching the stage with an expression of absorbed innocence, yet Hart could swear the bastard was laughing at him. He leaned over in return. “I suppose you’re enjoying this? The sheep, I mean.”

  Loxleigh’s brows went up. “Why?”

  “You made a point of being a country boy. I’d expect you to be particularly fond of sheep.”

  He intended that vulgarity to provoke offence. Instead, Loxleigh gave an involuntary, explosive choke of laughter, which he attempted to stifle with a cough so noisy that Alice looked round in some alarm. He took a moment to recover his composure. “I fear you have greater knowledge of countryside practises than I, Sir John.”

  “Weak,” Hart said, quietly enough that it could be meant for himself, just loudly enough to be heard. Loxleigh didn’t reply but his lips tightened. He was clearly trying not to smile, and Hart had to bite the inside of his own lip. They were not supposed to be entertaining one another.

  The sheep people went off. The dancing dogs came on. Hart watched the younger girls shrieking and cooing in the front row while Miss Loxleigh and Giles talked quietly, heads together. Loxleigh sat in silence, his presence throbbing in Hart’s awareness.

  The dogs went off. The magician came on. It was possible the evening might last forever. What was he doing here? He’d come to ensure Loxleigh didn’t spend the evening flirting with Alice, but they’d barely exchanged a word, and she was entirely absorbed by the entertainment. That was a relief—a young lady in the throes of calf-love wouldn’t apply all her attention to dancing dogs. Perhaps they’d made a great to-do over this for no reason. Perhaps Loxleigh had made no impact on her at all.

  But he glanced over at Loxleigh—at his generous mouth made for kissing, at his clever, fluent hands and the shifting light in his eyes—and he couldn’t quite see how that was possible.

  Chapter Six

  Days after the trip to Astley’s, Robin was still thinking about it.

  Bloody Hartlebury. As if it wasn’t enough to be mannerless and inconvenient and intimidating, with those ridiculous eyebrows and that magnificent, unapologetic nose, he was so obtrusive. He’d sat in the corner of Robin’s vision the whole endless evening. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he’d put all his attention into his intended prey’s uncle and none into the prey herself until Marianne had asked him, somewhat tartly, which one he was trying to seduce.

  Hence he was walking with Alice in the park now, well wrapped up against the cold. She was a sturdy walker, who probably tramped tireless miles in the countryside for pleasure. Robin had tramped a lot of miles himself out of necessity. It was why he intended to become sufficiently rich to take carriages for the rest of his life.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed Astley’s,” he said.

  “Oh, it was marvellous! Thank you so much. Did Marianne have a good time?”

  “Very much so.”

  “She seems to be good friends with Giles—Mr. Verney. You know he is Uncle Hart’s best friend, and the families are very close, so I have known him all my life.”

  Robin filed that away as a warning for Marianne. He had not failed to notice her black head next to Verney’s fair one, deep in laughing conversation all evening. It was ill-judged when she should be concentrating on a marquess. Verney seemed adequate from the little attention Robin had paid to him, but they had bigger fish to fry.

  “I wondered if you would care to see Grimaldi’s Pantomime,” he offered.

  “Oh, I am to go with Jennifer Verney tonight. I’m sorry. It was very kind of you to invite me. I hope you will go anyway?”

  He smiled down at her, making it a little amused and very tender. “Not without you. The pleasure you take in theatre is better than the piece for me.”

  Alice blushed. “I do enjoy it awfully. I suppose I should be more restrained.”

  “Why? It’s there to be enjoyed. That’s its purpose.”

  “I suppose so. It’s just, most people are used to it here, whereas we have very little chance to see these things at home. There is some theatre, tours and so on, but not the grand spectacles. So I do like being able to see them, and I can’t pretend to be sophisticated and jaded about it.”

  “I’m glad you don’t. Would you prefer to live in London, and have these things to hand?”

  Alice considered that for a couple of steps. “Would it be terribly boring if I said, not really? London is awfully large and very dirty and there are so many people. And I can’t be myself. At home I have my friends and my studies, and people know I’m a bluestocking but they consider it an oddity, rather than a terrible ailment to be concealed.”

  Robin laughed. “Are you that much a bluestocking?”

  “I study mathematics,” she said in a rush, as if admitting to stealing the spoons. “With a tutor, Dr. Trelawney. He has a doctorate from Oxford and went to the university at Heidelberg too.”

  “Good heavens.”

  She searched his face. “Do you think that’s unseemly? My interest, I mean.”

  “Not at all. If you enjoy it, why should you not pursue it?”

  “It’s not what most young ladies do.”

  “But you are not most young ladies,” Robin said, a practised line that he hoped would evoke another blush.

  It got a scowl instead. “Well, nor are any other young ladies, by definition.”

  “I meant, there is nothing wrong with having unusual interests.”

  “Or usual ones, either. I think it must be very nice to be interested in the things one is expected to be interested in, as well as a great deal easier.”

  “Lord, that’s true,” Robin said with deep feeling. He’d have been saved a lot of trouble in life if he were interested in
women, for a start.

  “Of course I don’t think there’s anything wrong with parties, or wanting to be married,” she pressed on, rather giving the impression she was arguing with someone in her head. “I just think there ought to be space for mathematics as well.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. I’m afraid my own studies of the subject were limited by my capacity. Don’t despise me.”

  “I don’t despise anyone but—well, really? Surely you are a mathematician?”

  “Er...no?”

  “But Uncle Hart said you play at the gaming tables.”

  “Occasionally, as do most men,” Robin said, poised for defence or denial.

  “Yes, but isn’t that mathematics in action? Or do you play dice, or roulette?”

  “Cards. I prefer a contest of skill.” More to the point, he couldn’t cheat at the others.

  “Good. Roulette is absurd. Are you familiar with d’Alembert’s system?”

  “Who?”

  “A French mathematician. He has a betting system for roulette which is based on mathematical principles—but I’m sorry, I’m running on.”

  “No, no, I do want to hear it, very much,” Robin assured her. “Does it work?”

  “Well,” Alice said, and was off in explanation. It sounded, as far as he could gather, like a martingale system for betting, in which one increased stakes after losing and decreased them after winning, though with some refinements.

  “I’ve seen people play martingale,” he said. “Most of them swear by it, but quite a few of them lose.”

  “Of course they do! Over the long run it might even out, but to follow his system properly would require infinite funds, which most people do not have—”

  “I certainly don’t.”