Miss Fanshawe's Fortune - Linore Rose Burkard Page 0,2

had summoned his valet. Good thing his elder brother wouldn’t countenance appearing at breakfast unshaved. But he turned to Frannie and said warningly, “Sebastian can be devilish unfriendly in the morning; he grows less formidable as the day wears on.”

After a moment Frannie asked curiously and a little troubled, “Why would that be? If a gentleman is good-natured and amiable, he ought to be so always unless there has been provocation. He ought to be steady in his character, day or night.”

“He don’t sleep well,” Edward explained matter of factly. He gave her a serious look. “Don’t get in the vapours if he ain’t amiable right off.”

Frannie frowned. “I assure you, I am not in the habit of getting in the vapours.”

“But you swooned earlier,” pointed out Edward, “though you weren’t injured by me.”

Frannie sniffed again. “That’s only because…because I haven’t eaten for a whole day. And the fright of that close call—.” She turned to him, her eyes dawning with recognition. “Injured by you? Was that you? Thunder! It was this carriage that almost killed me?”

Edward’s heart lurched. “Dash it, Miss Fanshawe, I meant no harm! Only I was—I am—in the deepest pickle; couldn’t afford to lighten the pace! I daresay an apology will hardly answer, but I am sorry.”

Frannie regarded him silently for a moment. “And you did return to rescue me.” In another moment her eyes brightened. “You are forgiven, Mr. Arundell. I maintain, it would have been worse for me had any other carriage nearly blown me down. Not many gentlemen would see their way to helping a stranger! That must compensate for one small moment of terror.”

Edward swallowed, and hoped sincerely that his brother would indeed be able to untangle whatever ravel she was in. He owed her that.

He pulled up to the house. It was ungentlemanly not to assist her down, but he needed to get the curricle stowed and out of sight. Frowning, he explained that he had only to get the horses in the mews himself—didn’t wish to disturb a servant!—and would be right back with her valise, but was silenced by the arrival of a dour-faced Sykes, Sebastian’s man. Glancing disapprovingly at Edward, Sykes assisted the lady from the carriage. After ordering a footman to lift down the young woman’s portmanteau, he looked back upon Edward with his peculiarly frigid gaze.

“Look here, Sykes, you needn’t tell him—”

“He knows, sir,” said Sykes, in the deep, gloomy voice that always reminded Edward of a mausoleum.

“Dash it all!” Edward took a deep breath. “So be it.”

Sykes took the ribbons and handed them to a groom who had emerged from the servants’ entrance, while Frannie looked nervously and questioningly at Edward. Edward climbed down and went around to the pavement where he offered her his arm. They walked, Sykes following with his singularly disapproving mien, to the door. Edward said bracingly, “Sebastian’s a crusty fellow, but he won’t dare comb me over in your presence.” The words were more for his own assurance, it seemed, than Miss Fanshawe’s. Escorting her inside, he hoped it was true.

CHAPTER TWO

“It must seem irregular to you,” Frannie said apologetically, allowing him to usher her in ahead, “to accept such kindness, to come into your home on so short an acquaintance!”

A small, squat, but dignified little man hurried toward them and took Edward’s things, and then Frannie’s. He was not the usual butler to be found in an upper-class establishment, or most anywhere for that matter. In place of the long legs and fine calves that butlers and footmen were sometimes chosen for—because they showed off the breeches of livery to a turn—this man was thick set and muscular; not what you would call elegant by any standard. But he performed his office and was thanked by Edward as he bowed shortly to Frannie before Edward turned them toward the stairs.

Sykes, holding the valise, said, “Is your guest staying, sir?” His sepulchral monotone echoed in the hall. Edward could not understand for the life of him, how Sebastian could stand such a dull plate for a servant. Why, if he, Edward, had a gentleman’s gentleman, it’d be a man with spirit, with conversation and suggestions. An energetic being, not a walking tomb like Sykes. Flustered at the unexpected question, however, he replied, “Yes, yes. Tell my mother. She’ll direct you to which bedchamber she wants for Miss Fanshawe.”

With both servants gone, Edward looked timorously at the young woman. “Are you stopping elsewhere? I suppose I should have asked you first,