Fortune's fools Read online

  "Is he a good student?" she asked with a giggle.

  "Very good. I like his questions and his quick wits. I think he will make a splendid businessman."

  "How wonderful," she said, her blue eyes shining. "So should I tell the footman to bring a tray?"

  "I should not take up anymore of your time, sir."

  "Nonsense. I have enjoyed myself. Why don't we join Philippa in the drawing room? You two should get better acquainted anyway, since you will soon be related." He did not catch their startled glances as he continued, "How is your brother doing, by the by?"

  "He is improving daily. I suspect he will be out and about in a day or two," said Tristram, following his host out of the study and down the long, wide corridor. Peering over the undersized Beauchamp, he studied Philippa's swishing skirts farther ahead of them, and his heart beat a little faster.

  "Good I do not approving of dueling, but I understand that he conducted himself honorably."

  "Very much so," said Tristram.

  "The cause ..."

  "Is a private matter, I believe," said Tristram.

  "Something about your distant cousin, I think," said Beauchamp, probing a little deeper.

  "So I understand," said Tristram.

  "Good. I would hate to think it was over something my daughter said. When I saw that ridiculous drawing in that papers, I worried that Philippa's good name might become embroiled in a scandal."

  "Not at all, sir. Philippa's good name is quite intact," said Tristram. "Besides, the picture did not take away from her. I thought it enhanced her image of innocence."

  "Having one's picture drawn and placed in a newspaper of any sort is hardly likely to enhance one's reputation. But let us not speak of it in front of Philippa," said the proud father. "I kept it away from her."

  "Very considerate of you, sir," said Tristram, entering the drawing room and breathing a sigh of relief when he realized Mrs. Beauchamp was not there.

  As if reading his mind, Philippa's father said, "My wife has gone to the country for a week or two to visit her, uh, sister."

  "Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Darby?" asked Philippa.

  "Yes, thank you. Sugar only."

  "And, Papa, I know how you want yours."

  The beauty poured the tea without spilling a drop, the sure sign of a well-trained young lady. The three of them made polite conversation for the next thirty minutes. Finally. Tristram announced that he should be going.

  Mr. Beauchamp rose and shook his hand while Tristram thanked him for his help. Philippa shot him a longing look, and smiled when he bowed over her hand.

  The butler entered and said, "Pardon me, Mr. Beau-champ, but you wanted to be told when the post arrived. I have placed it in your study."

  "Oh, yes. Thank you, Everman. I must go. Mr. Darby. My daughter will see you out," he added, hurrying out of the drawing room.

  When he was gone, Philippa let out a squeak of delight and threw herself into Tristram s arms.

  Nine

  "Two days of innocent pleasure, whiling away the hours in the company of the one you love, is more than many people have," said Kate, holding Max's hand as the tears ran down her cheeks.

  "Kate, please, do not cry. I cannot bear it."

  "I'm sorry," she said with a sniffle.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, she willed the tears away. They had promised each other that there would be no regrets, and she was spoiling these last precious moments. Max was well enough to return to Society and to the beautiful Philippa Beauchamp. Their time together was over.

  She opened the garden gate. Slipping through it would be the end. She gazed into those deep blue eyes one last time and offered her lips for a final kiss.

  "I will always love you, Kate."

  "And I will love you, too. I hope you will find a measure of happiness, of peace."

  "You, too, my love. Good-bye."

  He took her in his arms and kissed her until she thought her heart would burst. Tearing herself away, Kate slipped through the garden gate and straight into her mother's arms.

  "Come into the house, my dear," said Mrs. O'Connor,

  placing a bracing arm around her daughter's shaking shoulders.

  In the privacy of her mother's small sitting room, Kate spilled the tale of the past two days, leaving out many of the intimate details. Her mother listened without questioning her.

  When Kate's tears were spent, her mother said, "Do we need to worry about a child?"

  Kate's eyes flew to her mother's face and she said, "No! There was nothing like that, Mama! I promise you, Max was a perfect gentleman."

  "Perfect?" said Mrs. O'Connor with a knowing smile that made Kate giggle. "Your father was a perfect gentleman, too, but that did not prevent him from kissing me in a manner that... well, you know."

  Heaving a sigh, Kate said, "Yes, I know, but you married Papa."

  She slipped to the floor and placed her head in her mother's lap, as she had done as a little girl. While her mother stroked her hair, she cried more tears for what might have been.

  "The date has been set—six weeks from this Saturday morning. I asked her father to arrange with the bishop for a special license, but he said he didn't want to rush his little girl," said Max, plopping down on the sofa and putting his feet on the table in front of him.

  Tristram swiveled in his chair to stare at his brother. "Personally, I think six weeks is hasty enough, especially since I thought you were trying to get to know Miss Beauchamp better."

  "What is the point? With my fiancee, time is ir-

  relevant. She cannot manage to say more than a word or two to me at a time. That was why I wanted to get it over with. We can become acquainted on our wedding night," said Max, his voice devoid of anticipation.

  "On your ... the devil you say! I think you've got windmills in the head, Max."

  "What makes you so heated?" demanded Max.

  "What. . . you, that's what! You are marrying this girl without knowing anything about her. What are her likes, her dislikes? And does she have anything to say in the matter?"

  "How should I know? I left it to her father to inform her," said Max. "What do you care, Tris? You're going into the publishing business. A good thing, too, since Mr. Beauchamp has assured me that the marriage settlements will not be paid until after the nuptials. After that, you can take your share and buy all the ink and paper your presses can hold. Then Papa can pay the marquess all that he owes him, and Monty and Clarissa can fix up the Hall."

  "And you?"

  "Me? The devil may take me and all of Beauchamp's money, too!"

  "Damn the money, Max! I'm thinking about you. You and Miss O'Connor. What happens to Kate when you have wed Miss Beauchamp?"

  "Keep Kate out of this," snarled Max, his indifference replaced by anger.

  "Why? Doesn't the woman you love have any say in the matter of your wedding? And don't deny that she hasn't been here almost every minute since you were wounded in that silly duel."

  "I'm not asking for your blessing, Tris. I'm doing this

  for you and Papa and Monty, so shut up and say thank you!"

  "Thank you for ruining your life? You selfish ... deceitful ... bah!" Tristram slammed out of the room.

  "Of all the ungrateful prigs," said Max, throwing a small vase against the wall. With a grunt of satisfaction, he, too, left the house.

  Max walked to his club with the intention of drowning his sorrow. He did not usually resort to such a cowardly exploit, but he was beyond caring. All he wanted was to dull the pain and quell the panic in his breast every time he thought of wedding the quiet Miss Beauchamp instead of his beloved Kate.

  No matter how many times he told himself it was not just the money, he could not find peace. It was also a matter of honor. He had pledged himself to Miss Beauchamp, and Miss Beauchamp he would wed. It was the right thing, the honorable thing.

  "Bring a large port," he told the footman. "Make it two."

  "Nursing more than that fl
esh wound, Darby?" asked Osgood, sitting down across the table from him and shuffling a deck of cards.

  "None of your business," said Max. The footman produced the two glasses. After downing one, Max sipped the other more slowly.

  "Women, eh? What chance do we stand with them?"

  "Better than without them, I suppose," said Max.

  Osgood laid out a game of patience and played at it with lackluster interest.

  "The red ten on the black knave," said Max. "There," he added, pointing to the spot.

  "My sister is forever after me to marry," said Osgood. "I have decided it just isn't worth it. I mean, look at you

  and Palmer. Until those two females got in the way, you didn't have anything against each other."

  "Actually, we did. I did not approve of his horsemanship. The man's a ham-fisted clunch when it comes to horses. It goes against all my sensibilities," quipped Max.

  Osgood collected his cards and began shuffling again. "A game of piquet?" he asked.

  "Why not? What stakes?"

  "A shilling a point?"

  "You're on," said Max, his mind on Kate and the kisses they had shared as stakes. He finished the second glass and ordered two more.

  Two hours later, Max rose from the table. He handed Osgood his scribbled vowel. With unsteady steps, he made his way home, cursing himself as he walked.

  Max had always prided himself on his unwavering good sense. Though he had wagered on horse races when he himself was riding, that had been different. He had always been certain of the outcome. He had never gambled with money he did not possess.

  As he staggered into the house, he was hit by the realization that he was no better than his father. Going into his bedroom, Max became violently ill.

  When he had finished being sick, he threw himself onto the bed and promptly passed out.

  "I have something here that will make you feel better, Master Max," said Barton, helping Max rise up on one elbow.

  "What is it?" came the gravely voice.

  "Just something to help settle your stomach, sir. It's a secret, and if I told you what it contained, it might make

  you sick all over again. There, that's good," said the servant.

  "What time is it?"

  "It is one o'clock in the afternoon, sir. A letter arrived for you, if you would care to read it now."

  "Yes, hand it over," said Max, sitting up on the side of the bed and waiting for his head to stop throbbing.

  He looked at the feminine handwriting and tore it open eagerly. His face crumbled as he read Kate's words.

  My Dearest Max,

  I must write to tell you that my father has agreed to take me home. We will be closing up the house and leaving at the beginning of the week. I could not leave without telling you how much I have enjoyed our time together. I will always remember you with fondness and with gratitude, too, for saving Early Girl for me. Know that I will always stand. ..

  Your friend, Kate

  "Hell and blast!" muttered Max, tossing the letter toward the fire. Immediately repentant, he jumped up to retrieve it, putting out the smoldering corner with his fingers.

  His head still throbbing, he put the note away before staggering into the drawing room and calling, "Barton! Draw me a bath!"

  An hour later, bathed, combed, and dressed, Max waited for his brother to return. He hated the thought of asking Tristram for some of his hard-earned money, but he had no choice. A debt of honor had to be repaid in-

  stantly. He knew that Philippa's father would probably advance him the sum against the settlements, but he was loath to ask such a favor.

  Finally, Tristram entered the house, whistling like he had not a care in the world.

  "Good morning, Max," he said.

  "Good morning, Tris. I need to speak to you."

  "Oh? Well, let me get out of this greatcoat first. Thank you, Barton," he said to the servant as he removed the heavy coat. "Now, what is it?"

  "I... I will not try to sugarcoat it, and I give you leave to ring a peal over me, but I need to borrow ninety-eight guineas to pay a debt."

  "Surely a tradesman can wait another few weeks until the marriage settlements have been paid," said Tristram.

  "It is not a tradesman. It is a gambling debt." Max faced his brother squarely, although he wished he might melt through the floor.

  "Gambling? You? I cannot believe it!" exclaimed Tristram. "Not you, Max. You never gamble—except with your horses, but that is not the same."

  "Precisely, but I'm afraid, after our argument, I went out last night to drown my sorrows, and I met Osgood. Before I knew it, an hour or so of piquet had passed, and I was ninety-eight guineas short. I really do hate to ask, Tris ...."

  "I don't mind your asking, Max, but I simply don't have it. I told you I was going to invest that money, and so I have. I kept only forty guineas. I'm sorry."

  "Ah well, never mind, then. It is my problem. I shall have to ask Mr. Beauchamp to advance me the money."

  "Do you think you should? What if he wants to cancel the betrothal?" asked Tristram, his eyes glowing strangely.

  Max took this as a sign of his brother's concern and patted him on the shoulder as he passed by.

  "Then he will cancel it. I have nowhere else to turn. I'll be diddled if I'll go to the marquess. One of us in his debt is enough."

  "You sound like you would not mind having the betrothal canceled," said Tristram.

  "Perhaps I wouldn't," murmured Max.

  "Max, if you dislike the idea of marrying Philippa so much, why don't you just break the demmed engagement?"

  "You know a gentleman cannot do that. It would have to come from her or her father. Besides, we both know I have to go through with it because of the money. And that brings us back full circle. Where am I to get so much money?"

  "I have an idea, Max. There is another possibility, a way of getting your hands on the marriage settlements a little faster."

  "I'm listening," said Max.

  "We will take Miss Beauchamp on a little picnic in the country tomorrow, only we will not return. We'll continue north until we reach Gretna Green, where you can marry over the anvil."

  "Impossible! She will never agree to the scheme."

  "I think she will, once she gets used to the idea."

  Max frowned and shook his head, until Tristram demanded, "Do you have a better idea? No? Then we do it my way." He rose and fetched paper and pen. "Here, write her a note inviting her on the picnic."

  Max grumbled as he wrote, and Tristram said, "Only think, in a couple of days, you'll be a married man."

  "Shaddup," said Max, sealing the envelope.

  "Good, now I will deliver it personally. You stay here and try to behave."

  "Do not order me about. I can still wrestle you to the ground, halfling."

  "If you can catch me," laughed Tristram, hurrying out the door.

  Max spent the remainder of the afternoon nursing his sore head. Though he was tempted to go next door and pay the O'Connors a visit, he controlled this impulse. He had already done enough damage, trifling with Kate's affection. Not that he had not trifled with his own, for he had. He was positively blue deviled without her.

  Taking out some dice, he played against himself to divert his thoughts. He was less than successful with this gambit. With every roll of the dice, he became more and more down pin. Finally, he threw the dice across the table and left them there. Rising, he began to pace like one of the tigers at the Exchange.

  He was not like Tristram, he told himself. It did not take much to make him happy. Tristram, on the other hand, had always had the soul of a poet. He felt things deeply. For Max, as long as he could be free to ride a horse, he had been content.

  Suddenly, this was not enough. Given a choice between Thunderlight and Kate, he would chose Kate—amazing as this was to him. Kate. His heart ached to see her and hold her, to make her his own, but he could see no way out of marrying Miss Beauchamp.

  When he thought of Philip
pa Beauchamp, Max wondered what had attracted him to her in the first place. She was beautiful, in a very ordinary way. Mostly, he had to admit, it had been her father's money that had caught his attention.

  But now it simply wasn't enough.

  Max paused in his pacing. It was like a great light had been lit. Without pausing to think what he would say, he rushed through the door and outside, striding purposefully down the pavement to the O'Connors' front door and rapping a lively tattoo.

  "I want to see Miss O'Connor. It is urgent!"

  "One moment, sir, I will see ... sir, please ..."

  In two great steps, Max was at the drawing room door, pushing it open and entering while the butler bobbed along on his heels, protesting volubly.

  The wind was knocked quite out of his chest when he realized the room was in Holland covers. Stopping so suddenly, the butler ran into him and then backed away.

  Whirling around, Max grabbed the servant by the collar and demanded, "Where are they? Do not tell me they have already gone!"

  "No, sir, they are still packing. Allow me to see if Miss O'Connor will receive you."

  "Very well, but tell her who has called, and that it is urgent."

  "I shall, sir."

  The butler hurried away, and Max tore the cover off the sofa, but he didn't sit down. Instead, he resumed his pacing.

  A moment later, he stopped, tears filling his eyes when he spied Kate smiling at him from the doorway. Without a word, he hurried to her side, took her into his arms, and kissed her—again and again, with a hunger that reached his very soul.

  Taking his lips from hers, he kissed her eyes, her forehead, burying his face in her hair, murmuring her name over and over.

  Finally, a foolish smile on his face, he closed the

  door and led her to the sofa, pulling her onto his lap, and taking her face in his hands.

  "Kate, my dearest Kate. I could not stay away any longer. I love you as I have never loved anything or anyone. I cannot bear the thought of living if you will not consent to be my wife. Please, Kate, say you will marry me.