Miss Fanshawe's Fortune - Linore Rose Burkard Page 0,4

that fool pup, was an endless pest. The additional information, that said woman’s portmanteau had been placed into a guest bedchamber—chosen by Sykes himself, in order not to wake the mistress during one of her attacks—only deepened the scowl.

He’d just opened his book to the page where he’d left off and taken one sip of coffee when Edward entered. “Beau, eat quickly! I’ve got a horrid scramble for you to untangle.”

Sebastian eyed his brother dispassionately above a pair of narrow-rimmed spectacles, took a bite of toast, and chewing, returned to his book. “You will have a horrid scramble when I turn you out on the street for a thief.”

“Oh, come, Beau! My entire object was to ensure that I never have to borrow your gig again!”

“Don’t call me Beau,” was the sole answer.

“It’s what Mama calls you, and I own it puts you in a better mood!”

Sebastian lowered his book. “Nothing you say can alter my mood for the better. Stop blathering and explain to me why you stole my carriage, exhausted my horses, and brought home with you a street wench!”

“I don’t associate with street wenches,” Edward replied haughtily, with his nose in the air. “And Miss Fanshawe’s genteel. She’s an heiress!”

Sebastian’s look lost some of its fierceness, though his eyes betrayed stark doubt. “Do go on,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Let us know the reason, for there must be some extraordinary circumstance, why this heiress is to be our guest?” He returned his eyes to the book.

“She’s in a tangle, that’s all.”

Sebastian looked up with narrowed eyes. “How do you know her?”

“Let me tell you the trouble, then we’ll get to that.”

“What sort of tangle?”

Edward stared at his brother. “On second thought, I’ll let her tell you.”

Now hardness gleamed in his eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ve no idea how you stumble upon odd, low characters in your jaunts about town, rag-tag creatures from your gaming dens, no doubt—”

“Not at all!” interjected Edward hotly. “I’ve not been gaming, upon my word!”

But a gasp and a sob was heard in the corridor. Edward’s eyes widened. Had he forgot to ask Miss Fanshawe to remain in the parlour?

Sebastian glared at his brother. “Is that her?”

Edward nodded guiltily. “Must be.”

“You brought her? Without informing me!” He threw down his napkin, stood, and with a grim look on his face, still glaring at Edward, said, “I will make quick work of your heiress!” He intended upon doing it too, turning her out before she could say Jack Robinson. But only seconds after he’d left the room, he was back, preceded by Miss Fanshawe, who held a handkerchief to one eye and was sniffling. Edward gave her a weak smile, hoping it was bracing.

Sebastian had taken one look at her, instantly recognized a genteel looking creature, stifled the rebuke upon his lips, and, after a nodding short bow, said, “Please,” and motioned for her to enter. Having expected to see a doxy (whom he would have unhesitatingly sent from the house) he instead was treated to the sight of a respectable, handsome, well dressed young woman. And when his eyes clasped her ridiculously large, intelligent but tear-rimmed orbs, a jolt of surprise ran through him. Without a word, she’d disarmed him. One sight of her was all it took. Was he a gudgeon? He’d almost offered his arm, by Jove, but checked himself.

“I beg your pardon,” he said in the morning room, as he held out a chair, which she accepted. “I’m afraid I spoke rashly.”

Edward breathed a sigh of relief. Sebastian was deuced particular, but never lacked manners in company, especially with the muslin set. It drove society belles near mad, as he never followed up his exquisite manners and courtesies with an offer. Edward wondered if his brother was waiting to come into the title before he’d wed. That would be Sebastian in a nutshell—doing everything strictly proper and in its time.

Sebastian cleared his throat as he resumed his seat. “Have you had breakfast, Miss—er—?”

“Miss Fanshawe,” put in Edward, who hurriedly went on to complete the introductions.

“I have, thank you,” she replied, watching Sebastian tragically. “I am very sorry to interrupt yours, sir.”

To her sweet, expressive countenance of sheer misery, Sebastian visibly softened. The hard lines of his jaw relaxed, and his eyes, behind the round spectacles, looked almost large as he surveyed her with something approaching kindness. He had not quite decided whether to trust this young woman’s account, whatever it might be, but he