friend.”
“A year ago August?” asked Mr. Fanshawe wistfully. “I wish I’d known. I saw my sister only once since she left the papers detailing the trust into my care.” He sighed heavily. “I had every intention of contacting her as soon as I got to shore.”
“And why would you contact her now?” demanded his wife.
“A report reached my ears that concerns her…I thought I’d give the papers back now, as they’d be safe in her hands.”
“The papers? You have them still? With the terms of the fortune?” asked his wife eagerly. Catherine’s eyes were also fastened upon him.
He nodded.
Her eyes gleamed with hope. “If we hold the papers, we hold the fortune, Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, smiling now. In a quick gush she added, “That fortune belongs to our girl, yet!”
He shook his head, frowning. “No, m’dear. I have only held the papers in trust.” He winked at Catherine. “Iʼve held the trust in trust,” he murmured, smiling.
She smiled back. “ʼTwas good of you, Papa.”
But his wife, scowling, cried, “You kept it all these years. I daresay you must be entitled to something for your trouble at the very least!”
He shook his head, his lips pursed. “Dear heart, there is nothing in it for us. You must reconcile yourself to that.” As the coach left the vicinity of London, rumbling past an empty turnpike gate on the rutted road, Mrs. Fanshawe began to cry. Soon she was outright sobbing. Between sobs, she wailed, “You ha—have ruined your daughter, Mr. Fanshawe! Ruined! All the fat is in the fire, now! Catherine shan’t be married to His Lordship! She is all done up!” She turned and pummeled his chest with one fist while the other held a handkerchief to her nose. He grasped her hand and kissed it. “We are no worse off than we’ve ever been, my dear.” She stopped hitting him but continued crying brokenly, and then fell against him. He patted her back, his eyes meeting Catherine’s . His daughter’s countenance assured him that she was not nearly as cast down at the prospect of her losing her betrothal as her mother.
Catherine nodded. “It’s alright, Papa.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Frannie tried not to lose heart despite the Fanshawesʼ hasty and mysterious departure from town. It might have been a coincidence, beginning with Mr. Fanshawe’s leaving the ship without being seen. He might have hurried home for any number of reasons. The family could have been called away on account of a sick relation on Mrs. Fanshawe’s side. She simply could not countenance thinking the worst of the family, when Miss Fanshawe, her cousin, was all amiability and sweetness.
She’d told Sebastian everything she’d learned from Catherine’s call. He was sorry, he’d said, to have missed her for he would have liked to question her himself. He’d said, “Perhaps with Catherine’s help we’ll unravel this tangle yet. Her father, it seems, may not be depended upon.” Looking at her thoughtfully he added, “I should have preferred to have it settled before we leave for Bartlett Hall—it would be to your advantage for Sir Hugo and any other of his guests, to know you at once for an heiress. Though it is not in fact an inheritance at stake, it is a respectable fortune by anyone’s standard.”
Frannie silenced the protest that flew to her lips. She did not wish Sir Hugo to know her for an heiress, nor for being the owner of a fortune. She did not wish to find favour with the man at all! And now her heart ached, for was not Sebastian implying that he too, like his mama, thought she would answer the baronet’s search for a wife? Despite all he had sensibly pointed out about his chances of being disinherited if Sir Hugo got himself a young bride? As she mulled over this lowering idea, Mrs. Arundell breezed into the library with the information that the modiste had arrived with Frannie’s new gown.
“And with five days yet before we leave for Gloucestershire!” she purred. “Come, Frannie dear, for the fitting.” She glanced at Sebastian. “You may come also, Beau. You’ll be first to admire Frannie’s new gown.”
He lowered the book in his hand and surveyed her above his glasses. He looked so fetching, Frannie thought, when he stood thus, with his dark hair in short waves, and neat, manly attire. His brows looked particularly thick, his eyes green-brown but clear and piercing as usual.
“And subject Miss Fanshawe to further scrutiny than your own?” he said. “I am certain she