Fortune's fools Read online

  One

  "And this time, you must find yourselves wives! You cannot forever live off your brother's bounty!"

  "Really, Papa, Max and Tristram are always welcome here at Darwood Hall," said Montgomery, heir to the dissolute Viscount Tavistoke.

  "I'll wager your bride does not agree with that," snapped his father.

  The bride in question entered the drawing room and went to her new husband's side, slipping her arm around his waist. "What would I not agree with, Papa Tavistoke?"

  Her husband's twin, Maxwell, said, "Papa says you don't want us about anymore, me or Tris."

  "I hate to disagree with you, Papa Tavistoke, but you must know that I enjoy having all of you living here at Darwood Hall. My goodness, just because I have wed your son, that does not mean I wish to change the family. This is their home, too," said Clarissa, earning an approving grin from her husband and her two brothers-in-law.

  The youngest Darby brother, who was more attuned to the feelings of others, said quickly, "You are wonderful, Clarissa, but it is not right for Max and me to hang about the estate now that you are here. When you and Monty have been wed a year or more, you

  will be looking for any opportunity to be rid of us." As he spoke, he smiled slightly, his pale blue eyes twinkling.

  "I would never do that, Tris," she replied, shaking her head.

  Maxwell Darby rose and smiled at her, saying, "Yes, you will, and while I might like staying here, especially now that you are here to make certain the meals are decent and the house is clean, it is not fair to saddle you with all of us at once."

  "But, Max, this is your home, too," said his brother.

  "Yes, it will always be home, but Tris and I have our own places."

  Their new sister-in-law exclaimed in horror, "Oh, Max, you cannot possibly mean to move there. The roofs have caved in and there is ... "

  "No, no, but we don't have the means to fix them. That is why we are going to do as our reprobate father has suggested and return to London for the Little Season to secure our own brides."

  "Heiresses," corrected his father, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Isn't it lucky that I haven't put my hands on the funds to repay the marquess?"

  His entire family gaped at his outrageous interpretation of their financial state. Ignoring their shock, the viscount continued, "Otherwise, he might not have agreed to foot the bill for yet another visit to London, and you boys might not have the chance to win your heiresses."

  "Heiresses, Papa? Tris and I can only endeavor to find wives who are capable of helping out, shall we say, when it comes to repairing those houses and putting our small estates in order," said Max.

  "Do not forget paying off the marquess so he doesn't have me thrown into gaol," said their sire.

  Tristram, who was looking decidedly stubborn, declared, "I might endeavor, but I'll be dashed if I will saddle myself with some antidote just because she has money. Only look at Monty and how happy he is with our Clarissa. How can you think of settling for anything less, Max?"

  "How sweet of you," said his brother's bride, crossing over to Tristram, standing on tiptoe, and kissing his smooth cheek.

  He blushed and stammered, "I. . . you're welcome, Clarissa."

  "Tristram's right, Papa. We'll go to London, and we will do our best. That's all we can do," said Max, his dark blue eyes challenging his father to dispute his words.

  "Bah! Your best just might not... wait a minute." His eyes narrowing slightly, the viscount snapped his fingers and smiled at each of his listeners. "We leave first thing in the morning."

  "We!" exclaimed all three of his sons.

  "Yes. If I am there, I can make certain you meet the right type of girl before falling for the wrong type of girl! There's no reason the girl you settle on should not be worth a fortune, is there?" With this, the old man toddled out of the room, happily rubbing his hands again.

  "I do not envy you this visit," said Montgomery, grinning at his brothers. "You will probably be unable to find any sort of wife because you will be forced to look after Papa from dusk to dawn, keeping him out of the gambling hells and worse."

  "An impossible task," muttered Max. "He'll not be content until we are, all of us, in debtor's gaol."

  "Barton, you old dog, it is good to see you," said Max, offering his hand to their former servant as he stepped across the threshold of the modest house their benefactor had lent them for the Little Season.

  Barton ignored the hand and began removing Max's coat instead. "It is gratifying to see you in good health, Master Max," said the manservant. "You, too, Master Tristram."

  "Thank you, Barton," said the youngest Darby brother. "I hope the marquess did not make you too miserable while we were gone."

  "Oh, no, sir. His lordship was quite generous. I was allowed to keep his house in London running smoothly while he went to the country for the summer."

  "Spent the summer in London?" said Max. "Whew, I would not call that generous."

  "No, no, as I said he was quite generous. As an alternative, he offered to, uh, release me from my obligation altogether."

  "He was going to let you go after all these years? The bastard."

  "Now, now, Master Max. Please remember, I am under an obligation to his lordship," said the servant, handing each of them a glass of port.

  Max gave an impatient snort. "Yes, yes, you slept with his mistress, but how long is he going to hold that against you? I mean, how many has he had since that one? She could not have mattered all that much!"

  "I... well, never mind that. Summer is past, and you are back in London for me to look after—and this time in a proper house, too. Later, perhaps, if one of you should succeed in wedding an heiress .. . but tell me, how have your clothes fared without me to look after them?"

  "We're sorry, Barton, but..."

  The servant paled and put his hand to his mouth. Just then, their driver kicked open the door and shoved a trunk through the opening.

  "Be careful with that!" exclaimed Barton, rushing to supervise the disposition of their trunks. When Max and Tristram were alone, they grinned at each other.

  "We should not provoke him so," said Tristram. "He nearly had an apoplexy over our wardrobes."

  "I was only having a bit of a go at him. He'll find out soon enough that we haven't touched our London attire since we went home last June. Still, Tris, we must do something for old Barton."

  "Do something? The best thing we can do is to wed our heiresses and give him a new position, away from the dirty marquess," said Tristram, flopping onto the sofa and putting his booted feet on one end before folding his arms behind his head to cradle it.

  "All the more reason for us to redouble our efforts," said Max, dropping into a chair by the fire and leaning forward to warm his hands. "We must succeed where Monty failed."

  "Failed to wed a harridan, you mean. I am delighted he chose Clarissa over her cousin."

  "Of course, we are all delighted, but again, that is all the more reason to secure our fortunes. We'll be able to share with Monty and Clarissa, too. They are going to fill their nursery with children before they know it, and they will not have a penny to put bread in their mouths."

  "You are exaggerating now," said Tristram. "Monty has invested some of the money the marquess gave them as a wedding present. They'll not starve."

  "No, but there is not enough to perform all the repairs

  and improvements Darwood Hall so desperately needs," came Max's gloomy reply.

  "True, true. Still, Max, I shall sell some more drawings, and I've... but there, I mustn't count on too much from ... well, from my work."

  "Fixing up those run-down properties that Papa calls our inheritance is going to take more than your little drawings, Tristram. And what a
bout Papa?"

  "Yes, there are always Papa's vowels, which the marquess still holds—the real reason we have been dragged down to this. I know Craven well was not quite as dastardly as we thought, but I cannot forget his threat to have Papa thrown into debtor's prison—and him Papa's oldest friend, too."

  "What a coil the old man has brought us to," muttered Max. "I will never gamble with money I don't have."

  "Oh? What about last spring?"

  "That was different. It was not money. It was Thun-derlight, and, as I told Monty and Clarissa when they found out, there was no chance that Thunderlight would lose those races. Therefore, it was not really gambling."

  "No chance?" teased Tristram.

  "No, I always made certain ..."

  "Master Max, Master Tristram! Thank you! Thank you!" said Barton, hurrying in from the bedrooms. "Everything is just as I sent it home with you! You haven't worn any of them since you left me! Bless you."

  Grinning, Max rose and said, "Only what we have on our backs. Speaking of which, I would dearly love a bath after two days on the road. And then I want my riding gear. I've a mind to put Thunderlight through his paces." Barton's face crumpled, and Max grabbed the servant by the lapels and demanded, "What is it, man? Has something happened to Thunderlight?"

  It was Max's turn to pale as the servant looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

  "The marquess ... after you left, he continued to race Thunderlight. He had his groom, Needham, ride him. I'm afraid... he lost him to some Irish horse breeder. I ... I am sorry, Master Max."

  "When did it happen?"

  "Not more than three weeks ago."

  "Then he might still be in London. Perhaps I can buy . . ." Max looked from the servant to his brother and dropped his head in despair. "Money. It is always a matter of money." With this, he grabbed his hat and slammed out of the room.

  "I had better go after him," said Tristram, unfolding his long legs and rising.

  "Tell him I am sorry, sir."

  "I'll tell him, but it will not cheer him. When Max gets blue deviled, there is no jostling him free of it. And this, after all, is about a horse. There is nothing as important to Max as his horses."

  Tristram settled his hat on his unfashionably long blond hair and headed after his impetuous brother. At four and twenty, Tristram Darby was maturing into a fine figure of a man. His lanky frame had filled out during the summer in the country as he enjoyed his new sister-in-law's menus. Long rambles through the woods, looking for inspiration for his writing, had left him fit and muscular. The combination of his blue eyes and broad shoulders now rendered him a handsome man, where the previous Season he had been only a youth.

  Following his equally handsome brother with no difficulty, Tristram traversed the street and soon found himself nearing the park. Still, Max's strides did not falter. Into the park and across the green grass he marched until he came

  to an ornamental pond. Here, Max stopped, kicked up a pebble at his feet, stooped down to retrieve it, and skipped it across the glassy surface. Pebble after pebble followed.

  After watching for several minutes, Tristram asked, "Does that help?"

  Max turned and scowled at him before shaking his head. "All summer, all I thought about was Thunderlight and how I might somehow buy him. When Papa mentioned returning to London, I came because Thunderlight was here, not because I wanted to find a wife."

  "I know," said Tristram. His tone offered sympathy, but he did not bother to spout platitudes. Both of them knew that the horse was out of Max's reach—probably forever. It was a devastating blow. Max loved horses better than life itself, and Thunderlight above all. If the marquess had not lost the stallion, at least Max would have been able to ride him.

  Tristram clapped his brother on the back. "Come on, Max. You'll feel better after you've cleaned up. We'll go to Manton's and ..." His words were cut short by the thundering sound of hooves breaking the stillness of the morning.

  "What the devil?" exclaimed Max, whirling around to watch as Thunderlight—his Thunderlight—broke free of the trees, the mighty horse's hooves churning up the turf as he raced toward the park gates. Max started forward, only to have his steps falter.

  "It's a... girl! Devil take me! It's a blasted girl!"

  They watched as the stallion came to a plunging halt, and the black-clad figure clinging to his neck sat up, straightened her mannish shako hat, and rode calmly out of the park gates.

  Max sprang into action, and Tristram called after him, "Where the deuce are you going?"

  "I've got to catch her up!" he called over his shoulder as his legs began to fly, carrying him swiftly toward the gates. He was so caught up in the pursuit, he narrowly missed being run down by a small carriage. Dodging its wheels, Max continued on, leaving Tristram to grin after him.

  Tristram's amusement faded as he focused on the carriage and its occupant, a large, round female in purple and black. Frowning, Tristram saw the flutter of a yellow sleeve. Odd, he thought. His eyes widened as the yellow sleeve's owner leaned forward, her golden hair shining in the sunlight, her delicate features etching themselves in his mind as the carriage plodded past.

  When they were gone, Tristram expelled a pent-up breath. That was undoubtedly the most beautiful little face he had ever seen. Taking out his notebook, he wandered along the path, following the carriage as he penned an ode in tribute to the unknown girl's exquisite beauty. When he found a secluded spot, he flung himself on the ground and began to sketch her face, his pencil flying as he captured the unknown girl's beauty with his skilled hand.

  Tilting his head to one side, Tristram Darby smiled. He would need his paints to do her beauty justice. Setting aside his drawing, he flipped to a fresh page and began writing.

  The morning turned into afternoon, and still he wrote. Noise finally broke his concentration, and Tristram looked up at the sun, frowning in surprise to find it sitting on top of the trees. Where had the time gone? The park was no longer the quiet haven it had been in the morning.

  Clambering to his feet, Tristram put away his pencil and paper and strolled toward the entrance, pleased with

  his work for the day. After a quick walk back to their house, he opened the small secretary and picked up his pen, repairing the point before copying his hastily written notes onto larger paper, adding each page to a larger stack. An hour later, with a flourish, he wrote "The End" and sat back, a wide grin on his face.

  "Oh, Master Tristram. I did not realize you had returned. Could I bring you something to eat or drink?" asked Barton.

  "No, thank you, Barton. I must go out again," he replied, rising and picking up the stack of papers. He straightened it and tied it with a string. "I will probably not be back for supper, either."

  "Very good, sir."

  Tristram tucked the money purse into his coat pocket and said good-bye before leaving the large, messy office.

  "Mr. Darby, a moment, please," said the man behind the desk, patting the stack of papers in front of him. "What name do you wish to use?"

  "The title is there. Sir Milton s Triumph."

  "No, I meant as the author, you may wish to use a different name from your own. Most of the gentry don't want anyone knowing they write novels and such. Some just put down 'A Lady of Quality' or simply 'A Gentleman.'"

  "I really hadn't considered." Tristram hesitated only a moment.

  Recalling how much trouble his drawings had caused when they were published last Season, he certainly did not wish to have another such scandal attached to the Darby name.

  "Yes, I think you are right, Mr. Rider. Very well, I shall use the name Richard Poorman. How is that?"

  The publisher scratched his head, but he nodded and wrote the name on the first page of Tristram's manuscript. Then he rose and offered his hand to the young gentleman, who took it and shook it once firmly.

  "I think Mr. Poorman is going to prove very popular and very profitable for us both, young man."

  "I only hope you are right, Mr. Rid
er. Good day."

  "Good day, sir"

  Whistling, Tristram left the office and made his way to the door. Drawing all those broadsides the spring before had been profitable, but hardly enough to repair the family fortunes. This book, however, if it did as well as Mr. Rider thought it would, should make it possible for him and his brothers to live a little more comfortably. It wouldn't pay off his father's debts to the Marquess of Cravenwell, but it would be a start.

  And perhaps, if this one was popular, he could write another one, and another...

  Tristram grinned, tipping his hat to a passing matron. His step jaunty, he proceeded to the coffee house across the street to celebrate the sale of his first novel. He would not tell Max, not yet. He would wait until the book was printed and see how it sold. Perhaps ... careful, he cautioned himself. He did not want to live on daydreams the way his father always had. The next turn of the card was always going to be the big winner for his father. No, Tristram had no desire to be like him. He would keep his feet firmly planted on the ground.

  "Mary Katherine O'Connor! Come here this instant! And don't think ye kin be hidin' from me, me fine girl!"

  The still handsome Kieran O'Connor bounded up the stairs like a man of twenty and threw open his daughter's door.

  Feigning surprise, Kate O'Connor exclaimed, "Papa! You should knock before entering a lady's chamber!"

  "None of your fine airs wi' me, Mary Kate," he said.

  Kate smiled. Things were not so bad if her father was already calling her Mary Kate. Soon, it would be only Kate again, and his temper would be cooled completely.

  "Papa, what has happened? It is not Mama, is it?"

  "Not... o' course not. Your dear mother is fine, like I told you she would be. A mere case of the sniffles. She'll be right as rain in no time and ready to take you to all the balls and such you can handle."

  He scowled at the glimmer of amusement in her green eyes and wagged a finger at her, scolding, "None o' your tricks, do you hear? I came up here to tell you what's what. I know you've been out on that stallion, tearing through the streets, making a spectacle o' yourself. You'll send your sainted mother back to her sickbed, you will, if you don't leave behind your hoydenish ways."