The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting Read online

  Marriage wouldn’t win him those last, or at least not with anyone he wanted to fuck. Everything else was achievable, if he could just get his hands on some real money. Gambling money slid through the fingers like water. You won it and staked it and spent it on the trappings you needed to keep playing with the people who had money for you to win, who could lose five hundred or a thousand pounds in a night but only wanted to lose it to men like themselves, because it would be degrading for their money to go to someone poor.

  “I want the privilege of not worrying more than I have to,” he said. “I’m sure you worry about Alice. Do you worry about anything else, ever? Do you fear for your sister’s future, or wonder if you will be cold-shouldered from society for an ill-judged remark, Sir John?”

  There was quite a long pause.

  “Not really,” Hartlebury said at last, quietly, even reflectively. “Not any more. The brewery does well. I don’t concern myself with society’s judgements. I wish that Alice and my sister will be happy and, as you say, secure. I had not worried about that recently. Until your arrival.”

  I will make her happy. I will take care of her. Those were the obvious things to say, with Hartlebury in this oddly gentle mood. Robin wasn’t sure he could make them sound convincing.

  “Perhaps Alice should decide what makes her happy,” he said instead.

  Like everything else this evening, that was a mistake. He could feel Hartlebury stiffen. “And your sister? Tell me, does Tachbrook make her happy? Is it his witty conversation, his kindly nature, or his modesty that she finds most appealing?”

  “As I understand it, the marquess has considered marriage several times. Would you ask the same questions of those other ladies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Well, you shouldn’t.”

  “Why not? Tachbrook is selfish, consequential, and a bore. The fact that he comes with wealth and a title should hardly be a consideration for a decent woman.”

  “You were born with wealth and a title,” Robin said. “You’re condemning other people for wanting things you were handed when you came out squalling from your mother’s belly, because you had the double fortune of the right parents and the right parts. Who are you to judge someone else for wanting what you never had to earn?”

  “If I didn’t have a title, I wouldn’t stoop to acquire one.”

  “Aren’t you grand. It must be wonderful to stand apart and judge the rest of us from the superior height of your moral high ground. I fear those of us not born to the peerage cannot aspire to your nobility in claiming not to want what you’ve already got.”

  “Careful, Loxleigh.” It was a rumble. “Your envy is showing.”

  “Envy,” Robin said. “I heard a sermon about that once. The poor shouldn’t envy the rich, it said. They should accept their lot in life and not want to possess just a fraction of what others have. I wonder who paid the first priest to declare that from the pulpit.”

  Hartlebury started to speak, then stopped himself. Robin shifted in the silence, aware he’d been indiscreet. Well, what the hell. Hartlebury already suspected him. He could win Alice’s hand and fortune with or without the man.

  “You’re very frank in the darkness,” Hartlebury said at last. “I prefer your night-time persona, you know. What it lacks in charm, it more than makes up in interest.”

  Interest. Hartlebury found him interesting. That was probably bad. The tingles down Robin’s skin were probably the first signs of frostbite. “If we can’t be honest in the dark, where can we?”

  He heard Hartlebury’s sharp intake of breath, and his own chest constricted. His words hadn’t had an explicit meaning, they could have gone past without notice, but Hartlebury had read something into them, and now the icy air between them was alive.

  “We find—show—our true selves in the dark?” Hartlebury’s deep voice was almost a rumble. “Is that what you mean?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Silence again. Robin’s pulse was thumping.

  When Hartlebury spoke again, though, there was nothing of that deep note in his voice. He sounded crisp, almost contemptuous. “That suggests you have something to hide.”

  Hell’s teeth. “There is a difference between hiding and not putting one’s entire self on display to the world at all times,” Robin said with equal crispness. “I doubt you do that either. And on that note, I’m going in. This has been delightful, but I think I’m freezing to death.”

  He rose as he spoke, buttocks painfully cold from the stone. Hartlebury didn’t speak, but as Robin moved stiffly past, he caught his arm.

  Robin stopped dead. Hartlebury had a big hand, a strong grip. He stood very close, his cigar-scented breath curling in plumes in the frosty air, and Robin had the sudden thought that Hartlebury would jerk him even closer, that he would feel a mouth, a hand, a hard body pressed against his own, that Hartlebury would pull him into the bushes—

  Not in this weather.

  “Sir John?” Robin managed, in a voice that wasn’t quite outraged enough.

  Hartlebury didn’t say anything at all for a second longer, just breathed. Finally he rasped, “Don’t try to marry my niece,” and let him go. It was almost a push.

  Chapter Eight

  “Great heavens, man, will you cheer up?”

  Hart shot an unpleasant look at his best friend. He and Giles had been sparring at the Fives Court, under the genial supervision of Bill Richmond, an elder statesman of the pugilistic art who many considered the best boxing instructor in England. He was still a handsome fellow in his fifties, trim and lithe, his dark skin betraying enviably little sign of advancing age. Hart had twice had the privilege of watching Richmond beat men two decades his junior in the ring, and thought him a superior fighter to Jackson and Cribb, not to mention far better company.

  Richmond’s speech had traces of both America, where he had been born a slave, and York, where he had lived for years. It made Hart wonder again why Loxleigh didn’t sound like he came from a Nottinghamshire village.

  And there he went again, thinking of Loxleigh. He had not wanted to do that here. He’d wanted to work up a sweat, to give his body so much to do that his mind couldn’t keep bringing up that bloody evening by the fishpond. He’d had only limited success.

  “You’ve been like a bear with a sore head for two days,” Giles added, throwing a towel at him and mopping his own face. “Is something wrong?”

  On almost any other subject Hart would have shared his concerns without further thought. But he’d seen the way his friend looked at Marianne Loxleigh, and there was nothing at all he could say about that encounter in the garden. Giles was his friend, but there were some truths that he could never dare disclose.

  He said things. Just things. I held his arm and I can still feel the touch of it in my hand.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Giles leaned in. “It is to do with Alice?”

  Hart jerked his head and they strolled over to the empty far corner of the saloon, where a window was open, as if to cool down. “Meaning what?”

  “Don’t be an oaf, Hart. Loxleigh’s pursuit is clear enough, as is your attitude to him.”

  “Would you want him marrying your sister?” Hart retorted without thought.

  Giles paused for a moment. When he spoke, it was carefully. “I find him perfectly pleasant.”

  “I don’t. I find him false.”

  “You find most people false. It isn’t dishonesty to choose one’s words carefully. It’s society.”

  “That’s what Loxleigh said.”

  “Well, he’s right. I know you’d rather have plain truth plainly presented, but you aren’t in the majority.”

  “Leaving that aside, they’ve appeared from nowhere. All their friends have been made since arriving in London.”

  “It’s not an offence to come from the provinces, or to lack fashionable acquaintance.”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s one thing if they’re gentlefolk of limited means
and no particular birth. Goodness knows Miss Loxleigh’s beauty is enough to earn her a place in the first rank by itself—”

  “Yes, it is,” Giles interrupted. “She is lovely, and she is intelligent. She asks me to tell her of the European political situation—”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Giles stiffened. “She listens, and understands, and I know she does because she makes observations of remarkable acuity. Or do you believe a woman can’t grasp these matters?”

  “On the contrary. I’ll take your word for it that she’s born to be a political hostess.”

  “She is. She’s beautiful, clever, quick, and charming. Exceptional.”

  “I grant all that.”

  “Then what’s your problem?” Giles sounded positively hostile.

  Hart wondered how he could possibly be tactful. “A man might choose to elevate Miss Loxleigh to his station, and consider it a well-struck bargain. My concern is the brother. He has made stringent efforts to hide his background; he has come to London without a name or a family and set himself to court a girl barely out of the schoolroom for the sake of her portion—”

  “I didn’t think you’d told anyone about Alice’s wealth.”

  “We didn’t. I’m trying to find out how he knew. I am sure he knew. He’s a clever man, a sharp one, under the platitudes. A schemer.”

  “I can’t agree,” Giles said. “If he is a schemer, so must she be, and I would stake my life she is not.”

  This was beginning to sound worrying. “Nonsense,” Hart said, rather than get into a fight over Miss Loxleigh’s character. “Good women have had unworthy brothers since the beginning of time. Half the novels Edwina reads feature good women with unworthy brothers. Some people might take that personally.”

  Giles gave a reluctant smile. “True, I suppose. But are you sure the brother means ill?”

  “I cannot be: that is the devil of it. But we can’t take the risk. Alice is too young. If she makes a mistake now it will affect her whole life. I picture her used, left, her portion spent, and—no.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “To Edwina. I don’t want to make Alice feel I’m against her.”

  “Not to offend you, but Alice isn’t a Hartlebury. Does it truly matter if a suitor is of no great distinction, if he treats her well?”

  “It wouldn’t if I were sure he would, and if she made an informed choice. I don’t believe deceit is a good start.”

  Giles made a face. “No. Curse it. I do see your worry, Hart, but... You know Marianne—Miss Loxleigh—is devoted to him.”

  First names. Hart had an increasingly bad feeling about this. “All those good women with unworthy brothers probably love them too.”

  “Who are you, and where is my friend Hart?” Giles demanded. “You know very well you are itching to call her a fortune-hunter and rain disapproval on her head.”

  “I don’t give a curse for her. Or, to put it better—”

  “If you would.”

  “Miss Loxleigh is not my concern. That’s up to her future husband. My only care is for Alice.”

  “I suppose that’s fair. Have you found out anything to support your suspicions?”

  “Not yet. I’ve written to the family lawyer in Aylesbury and my solicitor in Aston Clinton to see if there have been any enquiries about Alice’s circumstances. And I’ve hired a man to track down the Loxleighs in Nottinghamshire. I will catch the little swine if he has put a single foot wrong.”

  “You seem to be taking this very personally, Hart.” Giles hesitated. “I had not meant to press you on this, but, well, you aren’t terribly good at speaking of these matters and I think it has to be said. Is it—do you care for Alice yourself?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Giles made an irritated noise. “Not like that. I meant, you have never been greatly interested in women, other women, and you aren’t related to Alice, and now she’s grown to womanhood—”

  “Good Lord, stop!” said Hart, appalled. “She’s my niece in every way but blood. I have no interest in marrying her, stealing her fortune by keeping her unmarried, or anything else. All I want is not to watch a rascal ruin her life.”

  “I can’t argue with that.” Giles sighed. “Never mind, it was only an idea. Though I think you would do well with a woman to look after.”

  The last thing Hart needed now was a discussion of his unmarried state. “I have quite enough to look after, thank you.”

  “You thrive on taking care of others. Perhaps a woman in need of protection, of shelter—”

  Hart cut him off with a grimace. “That’s the most revolting sentiment I have ever heard. Ought you not to consider your own marital prospects before advising me on mine?”

  He wouldn’t have said that last if he’d thought, but the words slipped out. Giles twitched as if stung. “I wish I could. Alas, I have little to offer but my name and person.”

  Which weren’t enough for Miss Loxleigh, Hart inferred. “Don’t do yourself down. Your name and person are perfectly adequate. I’m sure any woman of reasonable standards would agree.”

  “Thank you, dear friend,” Giles said, much moved. “Come on, let’s dress unless you feel the urge to hit anything else. Have you plans for the evening?”

  “Nothing. You?”

  “The Tauntons are holding a salon.”

  Lord Taunton was a crony of Tachbrook so Miss Loxleigh would doubtless be attending. Hart wished to hell he could offer some useful advice, but he could think of nothing Giles would want to hear. His friend would soon see behind her lovely face to the heartless, grasping soul Hart suspected lurked there, based mostly on his dislike of her brother. And if he didn’t, her marriage to Tachbrook should give him the hint.

  He went home feeling far better in body for the exercise, and a little calmer in mind. It had been a relief to express his suspicions to someone who listened, whose vision wasn’t obscured by hope that Loxleigh might after all be the man he pretended.

  Not that Hart’s vision was much clearer after that moment by the fishpond. He’d barely been able to control his voice as his smouldering awareness of Loxleigh had flared into scorching life. Christ, he could not have the man marry Alice. To have him so close, part of the family, within reach, smiling—

  He’d lain awake a whole night interrogating himself, his motives, whether his desires had clouded his judgement. He’d sworn to himself that if Loxleigh turned out to be a decent man after all, he would accept the marriage, choke his own urges back down to the secret place they belonged, and pray that nobody ever saw.

  He didn’t think it likely. The little bastard was as crooked as they came.

  Good God, he wanted to go home. Back to Aston Clinton, where life was filled with useful work and his garden would need attention, and there were no smiling, charming, dishonest men in his way. He would leave this damned city as soon as he was no longer needed.

  When he returned to his rooms, there was a letter waiting for him, with an unmistakable legal hand. He broke the seal, wondering if any of his investigations had borne fruit.

  They had.

  Chapter Nine

  Hart marched up and down his sister’s drawing room. Edwina sat with her head in one hand and the letter in the other.

  “It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Of course it does!” Hart said for the third time. “A man made enquiries about Fenwick’s will in September and learned that Alice has twenty thousand coming to her on her marriage. A young, handsome, fair-haired man. What more do you need?”

  “Mr. Loxleigh isn’t precisely fair. He has golden-brown—”

  “Lawyers don’t care.”

  “I care, and so will Alice if you are going to accuse her suitor of being a fortune hunter. Think, Hart. If you’re right he will use any loophole. If you’re wrong—”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “You’re prejudiced against him. You have been from the start.”

  “It’s not prejudice if
I’m right. He looked into her affairs, he knew about her fortune before he set foot in London, and he deliberately set out to entrap her!”

  “To engage her interest. He hasn’t compromised her.”

  She paused on that, eyes widening. Hart almost shouted, “What?”

  “She was glowing after that walk in the park with him the other day. I have never seen her look so well. Contented. As if she had a secret.”

  “I’ll break his bloody neck!”

  “Don’t swear, and you will do no such thing, and don’t be absurd. She is not in that line yet. I dare say he kissed her.”

  Hart fumed. Edwina sighed pointedly. “She is a girl with a handsome suitor. Do be reasonable. My poor Alice, she won’t want to hear this.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “And you won’t tell her.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I will tell her. She’s my daughter. This will hurt her, and you will kindly keep your loud voice and great trampling feet away from her sensitivities.”

  His own sensitivities must have shown themselves on his face at that because she went on, a little less harshly, “I know I asked you to do this but you can hardly expect me to be happy with an outcome that will make her sad. She considers them friends.”

  “Any hurt to her is Loxleigh’s fault, not mine.”

  “I doubt Alice will see it that way, and her feelings are the ones that matter. She has a party tonight. I’ll tell her tomorrow, rather than spoil her evening.”

  “What if she doesn’t believe you?”

  “Then it will be a very unpleasant conversation, and she will be all the more determined to have her way,” Edwina said wearily. “Please heaven she doesn’t feel driven to elope.”