Fortune's fools (13 page)

"Oh, and Mr. Darby."

"Yes, sir?"

"Make no mistake about it. My wife may be as vulgar as everyone says, but she loves her daughter and will settle for nothing but the best for her. If you wish to marry Philippa, you must be the best. Good day."

"Good day, sir," said Max, frowning as he made his way back to the front hall. When he arrived there, he asked the starchy butler, "Is Miss Beauchamp at home?"

"I shall ascertain, sir."

Max stood there, slapping his leather gloves against his thigh. Suddenly, he heard a familiar laugh, and he shrank against the wall. The last person he wanted to see at that moment was Miss Beauchamp's ill-mannered mother.

"I'm telling you, my girl, that this is just the sort of man ... oh, Mr. Darby, how good of you to call," said Mrs. Beauchamp, dragging her daughter along and thrusting her forward. The scarlet-faced girl ducked her head.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beauchamp and Miss Beauchamp. I had called to see if I might take Miss Beauchamp for a drive in the park. The day is a little chilly, but it is still dry."

"Of course Philippa would like to go for a drive with you, my dear young man!" She added coyly, "I know you would like for me to go with you, too, but I am afraid my husband has requested my help in a family matter."

"That is too bad," said Max, trying not to smile too brightly at this bit of news. "Another time."

"Oh yes, another time. Now, you two run along. And, Philippa, remember what I was saying."

The girl by his side emitted an incoherent sound, which he took for assent. Max offered his arm, leading her outside to the waiting carriage.

Max had chosen the marquess's phaeton. It was a sleek carriage pulled by a pair of matched bays with gaits as smooth as glass. They were a joy to drive, and Max knew how to drive to an inch. They leaped forward, causing the girl by his side to emit another little squeak.

"If you do not mind, Miss Beauchamp, I will keep my mind on my cattle until we arrive in the park." After this, Max was silent as he expertly guided his horses through the heavy afternoon traffic. As he passed a wagon carrying produce from the country, he found himself facing down a heavy traveling carriage. With a gentle tug, he had the phaeton out of harm's way, but not before the girl squeaked once more.

"Really, Miss Beauchamp, I am accounted a very competent whip. You need not fear that I will upset us," he reassured. When her grip on the side of the seat did not abate, he added testily, "Perhaps you would prefer to drive."

She lifted her head and fixed him with a wide-eyed stare of horror. Immediately, he felt contrite.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Beauchamp ... Philippa. I did not mean to frighten you." She resumed her previous position, looking at her lap.

Max shook his head. Well, he supposed he should have guessed that it would take some work before his intended learned to trust him. She was very shy, and he would have to give her time.

All at once, Max recalled riding in the carriage with Philippa and her mother. Tristram and Philippa had practically had their heads together, chatting easily with each other. It was difficult to reconcile this image with the silent girl by his side. Yes, he definitely had his work cut out for him.

He turned the phaeton into the park, which was teeming with people, some in carriages and some on horseback, as well as the occasional pedestrians. It was as if everyone knew the days of fair weather were numbered and wanted to take advantage of this ritual opportunity to see and be seen.

"It is very crowded today," he said.

"Yes," said Miss Beauchamp.

"It is very pleasant, however, to know that I am escorting the prettiest girl here." Instead of the expected smile, his comment earned him only a quick glance, followed by her tucking her chin against her chest so that he could not even see her profile. With a grimace, Max redoubled his efforts.

"That is the most fetching bonnet you are wearing, Miss Beauchamp."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Of course, it cannot compare to your face."

No response.

"A face I would dearly love to see," said Max dryly.

She seemed to consider his words and lifted her face briefly before turning away.

Max frowned. He would very much have liked to ask her what game she was playing. Surely that was not fear he had read in her eyes. Or aversion, for that matter. The girl hardly knew him, except through what Tristram had told her about him. And he refused to believe Tristram would have betrayed him.

Just then, he heard his father calling his name, and he pulled up beside a passing landaulet which contained the gregarious Lady Anne and his father.

"Well met," said the viscount, detaching Lady Anne's arm from his. "Allow me to present you to Lady Anne Graves. This is my son Maxwell."

"How do you do, my lady? Are you acquainted with Miss Beauchamp?"

The introductions were followed by general pronouncements on the fine weather they were enjoying, and Max was ready to move along. His father, however, appeared loath to part.

"So, my boy, is this the young lady you cannot say enough about?"

"Really, Papa, you must not..."

"Oh, I'm sure Miss Beauchamp does not mind. Do you, my dear?"

The young lady at his side murmured something unintelligible, and Lady Anne responded, "It don't pay to be so missish, child. Otherwise, you'll end up like me, and money ain't everything."

"We really should move along. We are blocking too many people," said Max hastily. "A pleasure meeting you, Lady Anne." With a flick of his whip, he sent his team ahead.

After another fifteen minutes of silence, Max said, "Miss Beauchamp, have I done something to offend you?"

She shook her head.

'Then why have you taken me in dislike? I must tell you, I find your attitude very unsettling."

"I do . . . not. . . dislike you, Mr. Darby. I do not know you."

Max relaxed. Bashfulness was indeed a terrible thing, but he was confident that he would be able to win her over. She just needed a chance to get to know him better.

"I am very glad to hear it, Miss Beauchamp, because I must tell you that I have spoken to your father."

This time, her eyes fairly flew to his face, and he clearly read dismay. Controlling his impatience, he gave her one of his winning smiles—a smile that had won the heart of many a maid.

"But I told you that I do not know you, sir."

He chuckled and said, "But you will get to know me, my dear. That is what this is all about, is it not? You will get to know me, and then... but we have time, my dear Miss Beauchamp. We have plenty of time."

At this, she sagged against him, insensible to any more of his winning smiles or words.

"Blast!" said Max, transferring the ribbons to one hand and propping her up against him with the other. As he turned the carriage, the thought passed through his mind that she would have been very impressed with his driving had she only been conscious.

Six

"She did what?"

"She fainted," said Max.

"What the devil did you say to her?" demanded Tristram, leaping to his feet and striding the length of the room to stand in front of his brother, glaring ferociously.

"All I said was that I had spoken to her father."

"You must have said or done something else to alarm her, to frighten her!" exclaimed Tristram, marching back the way he had just come.

"I assure you, I said nothing upsetting. Oh, I complimented her bonnet and made some absurd comment about being with the prettiest girl in the park." While his brother continued his pacing, Max sat on the sofa with his arms crossed, a thoughtful frown on his face. "I tell you, Tris, it is enough to make me doubt my abilities with the ladies."

Tristram stopped and said softly, "Perhaps you should—at least with this particular young lady."

Ignoring this, Max suddenly snapped his fingers. "No, I will view it as a challenge. I already know that the mother would not mind having me around, and the father did not turn me down completely. No, I must simply press my suit with Miss Beauchamp. I shall start by sending her flowers. Lilacs, I think."

"Not lilacs. It should be daisies," muttered Tris.

"Daisies? Very well. Barton!" roared Max, bringing the servant scurrying into the room.

"I want to send Miss Beauchamp some daisies. How does a fellow go about doing that?"

"I can take care of that for you, Master Max. If you will write a card, I will take it along with me."

"A card?" said Max, grimacing at the thought. "I am not the poet. You'll do it for me, won't you, Tris? Something sweet, but not too flowery, or Miss Beauchamp will never believe it was written by me."

Tristram looked mulish, but he sat down at the small desk and dipped his pen in the inkwell.

After a moment, Max asked impatiently, "Well, can't you think of anything?"

"Do not rush me, Max." With a bold stroke, he began. After five minutes, he sanded the paper and handed it to Max.

"Humph, a little flowery, but not too bad. Listen to this, Barton."

Your hair, those eyes, that smile and nose, Nothing can compare to the beauty each of these

possess. And yet the whole wins any contest In my heart.

"Yes, that should do. Thank you, Tris. Now, I'll just sign it, and Barton can be on his way." Taking the pen, Max frowned. Then, with a nod, he added: Your obedient servant, Max Darby

"That should do the trick."

"Very good, Master Max. Now, I shall just take this along with me."

"Don't forget, Barton. It has to be daisies," called Max.

Rubbing his hands together, Max turned to speak to his brother, but Tristram had disappeared. With a shrug, he moved to the tray of decanters and filled a large glass.

Moving Tristram's sketchbook, he sat down on the sofa. As he sipped the golden liquid, he flipped through the pages, struck once again by the scope of his younger brother's artistic talent. These were no mere scribbles. They were worthy of publication.

M[ax's smile widened as he came across Tristram's interpretation of him, dressed as a knight of old. Tristram had labeled it Sir Milton. He turned another page and found the drawing of a lady in a cone-shaped hat and flowing gown. With the label of Iseult, he gazed at the woman's face for a moment before realizing it was not Kate, whom Tristram had nicknamed Iseult, but Philippa Beauchamp. Odd, thought Max, turning another page.

"May I have that back?" asked Tristram, standing over Max and holding out his hand.

"Certainly," he said, closing the book and handing it to his brother. "I hope you do not think I was prying. I picked it up to move it, and I opened it. I had forgotten how talented you are, Tris."

"Thank you," said Tristram stiffly. He turned and walked away.

Max was about to call him back, but his stomach growled, and he went in search of food instead. The cook, who came in during the day, was busily preparing their dinner. She greeted Max with a curtsy when he entered the kitchen.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Owens."

"Good afternoon, sir."

"I am sorry to invade your kitchen, but I sent Barton

out on an errand and now find that I am feeling quite ravenous. You wouldn't have a little something that could tide me over until tonight, would you?" He smiled at her, and she was putty in his hands.

"Oh, yes, sir," she said, heading toward the larder. "Just give me a moment to fix you a tray. Shall I bring it to the drawing room?"

"Yes, please. Thank you," said Max, strolling back the way he had come.

"My pleasure, Mr. Darby," called the cook.

"You will marry the man, Philippa, whether you love him or not. Whoever has been planting these strange notions in your head? Marriage is not about love," said Mrs. Beauchamp, sparing a look of derision for her husband.

"Papa!" cried Philippa.

"Child, I know that you are not well acquainted with Mr. Darby, but he is the first to offer for you since ... since that incident last spring. I think we would be foolish to turn down the chance to see you settled. I mean, he is presentable enough, is he not?" asked Mr. Beauchamp.

"He is handsome in the extreme!" said his wife.

"And he is young and fit."

"Very fit," added his wife.

"He seems very kind, too," said her father.

"The essence of kindness, Philippa. Pray stop that caterwauling," said Mrs. Beauchamp, glaring at her daughter. Philippa's sobs subsided, but she continued to sniffle.

"Oh, I have done with her, Mr. Beauchamp!" said her mother before she flounced out of the room.

"Philippa, you do wish to wed, do you not?" said her father, handing her his handkerchief to replace the scrap of lace she was using.

"Yes, Papa."

"Then I think we must face the fact that after that fiasco last spring, we are out of options. Mr. Darby is the only man to come up to scratch since your mother ... no, I cannot bear to repeat the story, but I know what it has cost you, losing your vouchers to Almack's. And the invitations are fewer this fall. I am afraid your status in Society has changed irrevocably."

"I wonder why," said Philippa with unaccustomed sarcasm. "Throwing herself at the husband of one of Almack's hostesses, and in the middle of Almack's, no less. Oh, Papa, how can you put up with it?"

"I know," said the diminutive man, sitting down next to her on the sofa. "You must think me the perfect fool."

"Oh, no, Papa! Never that!" she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.

"You should, because I am a fool," he said, looking her in the eye. "But my reason, despite all your mother says and does, all she has ever said or done, is love. I have always loved her, and I always will."

"Papa, why don't you .. ." Philippa sighed. It would do no good to lecture her father on his meekness. He was a clever businessman, but he was nothing more than a mouse around her overbearing mother.

"So will you accept Mr. Darby? You need not live near your mother, you know. I will settle a handsome sum on you. You and he may have an estate wherever you wish. Only say the word, my dear."

Philippa looked at her father's hopeful face, closed her eyes, and nodded.