The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting

Book 1: The Gentlemen of Uncertain Fortune

by KJ Charles

Genres: Regency Romance

Synopsis

Robin Loxleigh and his sister Marianne are the hit of the Season, so attractive and delightful that nobody looks behind their pretty faces.

Until Robin sets his sights on Sir John Hartlebury's heiress niece. The notoriously graceless baronet isn't impressed by good looks or fooled by false charm. He's sure Robin is a liar, a fortune hunter, and a heartless, greedy fraud - and he'll protect his niece, whatever it takes.

Then, just when Hart thinks he has Robin at his mercy, things take a sharp left turn. And as the grumpy baronet and the glib fortune hunter start to understand each other, they also find themselves starting to care - more than either of them thought possible.

But Robin's cheated and lied and let people down for money. Can a professional rogue earn an honest happy ever after?

Release date: January 25, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 320

Sample

Sir John Hartlebury surveyed the ballroom with a jaundiced eye and wondered how soon he could leave.

‘There,’ Mrs Edwina Blaine said through a fixed smile. ‘There he is with Alice now. By the negus. Look, Hart.’

He looked. Despite their vantage point at the top of the steps, which was severely incommoding the flow of people in and out, it took him several seconds to locate his sister’s stepdaughter. After all, she wasn’t very notable.

Miss Alice Fenwick had not been blessed with Nature’s charms. She was short, undistinguished in build, and plain in looks, with a mass of freckles and mousy brown hair, and there was nothing in her birth to make up for it. Her father, a provincial brewer, had lost his first wife in childbirth and persuaded Edwina Hartlebury, just twenty-three but firmly on the shelf, to replace her. The marriage had not borne fruit, but they had been surprisingly happy for five years, until the brewer’s untimely death.

Edwina had loved Alice from the start and regarded her as her own daughter. Unfortunately the world didn’t share that view. The Hartleburys could trace their lineage back to the fourteenth century but plain Alice Fenwick had no claim on that distinguished heritage.

The joint lack of birth and beauty was enough to disqualify her from the notice of high society, which confirmed Hart’s view that high society was witless. Alice was a delight, a studious and strikingly intelligent girl, shy in company but amusing in private, sharp-witted but never unkind. She was a loving companion to Edwina, and she was also, thanks to her father’s will, a substantial heiress, with twenty thousand pounds to come to her on her marriage under no restrictions at all.

Society might change its mind about her if that fact was widely known, but the family had agreed to keep quiet about Alice’s wealth for her first Season. Granted the portion was her best chance for a good match, it was also all too likely to bring her a bad one. That kind of money without strings was bound to attract fortune hunters, and both Hart and Edwina were all too aware of the dangers of being swept off one’s feet by a handsome face.

The siblings had agreed that Alice needed a little town-bronze, which was to say a little knowledge of humanity’s infinite capacity to disappoint, before it became common talk that the plain girl came with a very attractive dowry. And here was their chance to learn if their strategy had been right, because Alice was being squired by a handsome man.

Hart folded his arms and watched.

The suitor was very handsome, if not in a classical way. He was of no more than medium stature, and boasted neither an athletic Corinthian build, nor a graceful and willowy form. Rather, he was solid and compact in a way that brought the word ‘yeoman’ to mind. He was in his early twenties, with honey-brown hair, an open, honest face, and a well-shaped mouth, full-lipped and promising pleasures. He looked like the kind of country youth they wrote ballads about, whether proclaiming his steadfastness as a faithful lover, or his enjoyment of a roll in the hay. Alice might count herself fortunate in such a suitor if his character and finances were as appealing as his exterior. Hart put a lot of mental emphasis on that ‘if’.

‘Who is he?’

‘A Loxleigh, of Nottinghamshire,’ Edwina said. ‘Do you know the name?’

‘It seems familiar, but I can’t place it.’

‘That’s what everyone says. They aren’t anyone in particular, they’re quite clear about that. No presumption at all, pleasantly modest, and pretty-mannered. I find them both delightful.’

They. Yes. Hart looked away from the pretty-mannered pretty man with Alice. ‘Where’s the sister?’

‘Dancing, I expect. Look, there she is with Giles Verney.’

Hart scanned the ballroom floor, found his best friend, noted his partner, and was forced to say, ‘Good God.’

‘Isn’t she?’

Mr Loxleigh was handsome, but Miss Loxleigh was extraordinary. Hart had a fair aesthetic appreciation of female beauty and she was easily in the top five he’d seen in his life. Dark hair, dark eyes, perhaps an overly sun-kissed complexion when milk-white skin was held up as a virtue, but that was countrywomen for you, and by God it suited her. Her gown wasn’t immodest by any standards, but still made the watcher aware of the lush curves it covered. She didn’t wear lavish jewels or plumes; she didn’t need them. She was quite simply lovely.

Giles Verney spun her round on the dancefloor. She said something to him, they both laughed, and Hart revised his opinion to top three. Maybe two.

‘Good God,’ he said. ‘Spanish blood?’

‘Their grandmother, I think.’

Hart looked back at Alice and her squire. ‘They’re an exceedingly handsome pair.’

‘Miss Loxleigh is the belle of the Season, even if they are nobody. I hear Tachbrook is taken with her.’

‘How unfortunate.’

‘He’s a marquess,’ Edwina pointed out unnecessarily.

‘He is a self-regarding, vindictive, pompous fool, and if she is encouraging him, I think worse of her. Do we know anything at all about these people?’

‘They’ve been in London since autumn, I think. Several months. Invited everywhere. Florence Jocelyn and Miss Loxleigh have become great friends, I believe, and Mr Loxleigh seems to be on terms with everyone.’

‘Almack’s?’

Edwina had not attempted to claim those dizzy social heights for Alice. ‘I really don’t know. If Tachbrook is interested, one must assume they’re acceptable.’

‘That doesn’t follow. He’s a fool.’

Hart contemplated the lovely Miss Loxleigh in his friend’s arms, then the not-quite-as-lovely but still damned appealing brother bowing over Alice’s hand. Alice had gone a murky red: she didn’t have the gift of charming blushes, and she’d never had a desirable piece of man-flesh casting lures before.

Loxleigh was too handsome for her. That wasn’t a flattering thought to have of his niece, or one he’d ever express in his sister’s hearing, but it was the way of things. Beauty was a valuable commodity, a fact that Hart, an ugly man, knew all too well; beautiful people made use of their advantages just as much as the wealthy or the titled.

Perhaps Loxleigh was wiser than that. Perhaps his pretty face hid a noble nature that prized character above appearance. Hart wouldn’t have put money on it.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Don’t rush into this, will you?’

Edwina tutted. ‘I’m not going to. That’s why I wanted you to see for yourself.’

‘Let me ask around. Don’t encourage him too much yet. And I want to talk to Alice.’

He headed down to the floor as the waltz came to an end, walking up to Giles and his stunning partner.

‘Giles. I insist you introduce me, or I shall call you out.’

Giles gave him an affectionate grin. ‘Miss Loxleigh, this is Sir John Hartlebury. Hart, Miss Marianne Loxleigh, of Nottinghamshire. Hart and I come from the same part of the world, and have been friends all our lives.’

She greeted him with charm, and he kissed her hand, as the only possible tribute. He did it awkwardly enough, not being a man made for flourishes, but Miss Loxleigh gave him a melting smile and assured him she was delighted.

‘Sir John Hartlebury? Am I right in thinking you’re Miss Fenwick’s …?’ She hesitated.

‘Uncle by marriage. My sister is Miss Fenwick’s stepmother.’

‘You’re Mrs Blaine’s brother. Of course. I’ve had the honour of visiting Mrs Blaine at her home. She is wonderfully kind, and so welcoming – I feel I have known her for years.’ Miss Loxleigh’s smile illuminated the room better than the crystal chandeliers above. ‘And Alice is delightful. You are very fortunate in your family.’

It sounded so sincere that he couldn’t help but warm to her. He could see why she was making such a hit. ‘You’re new to London, I think?’

‘Yes, this is our first visit. I am here with my brother.’

‘Making your come-out?’

‘Making new friends, I hope. We were told London would be unwelcoming, but we’ve been blessed with nothing but kindness.’

The back of a head presented itself to Hart’s face as a man shouldered his way into their little group. ‘Miss Loxleigh?’ The pompous voice belonged to Lord Tachbrook. ‘You are to dance with me, I think.’ He gave Giles a look down his nose, cut Hart entirely, and extended his arm. Miss Loxleigh bade Hart and Giles a smiling farewell, and went off with her aristocratic suitor.

Giles stared after the disappearing pair. Hart snorted. ‘His manners don’t improve. Probably doesn’t want her to talk to other men in case she realises what a prating fool he is. Walk with me?’

It was too cold to go outside, despite the heat in here, so they snagged a couple of glasses of champagne and headed for the library. This had been plentifully set up with card tables, since their hostess, Lady Beaumont, was a notorious gambler. Lord Tachbrook must be keen: Hart doubted he would normally have attended one of her events. It was crowded, and sufficiently noisy that they could lean against the mantelpiece and chat in low voices.

‘Have you met the lady before?’ Hart asked.

‘Miss Loxleigh? A few times over the last weeks.’

‘Know anything of her?’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Background. Parents. Brother’s antecedents. Means of support.’

‘Ah,’ Giles said. ‘Are you thinking about Alice?’

Hart grimaced. ‘Is young Loxleigh’s pursuit common talk?’

‘Hardly that. Alice isn’t particularly interesting – to the gossips, I mean – and Loxleigh isn’t notable except for his sister. He seems to be paying her a great deal of attention, though. Is there something in the offing?’

‘My sister believes so.’

‘And you’re here to be the watchful uncle?’ Giles’s eyes brimmed with mirth. ‘Marvellous. Will we see you acting the heavy moralist? I cannot wait.’

Hart glared. Giles smirked. Hart returned a quelling scowl, and Giles pulled a grotesque face in reply, the sort of expression one might find on a schoolboy rather than a sensible Foreign Office man. A passing dowager looked at him with shocked hauteur. Giles said, ‘I do beg your pardon,’ with a deep bow, and they both hid shamefaced grins behind their champagne as she moved on.

Face-pulling aside, Giles was quite right that Hart would look absurd playing the moralist. He wasn’t a rakehell, or anything like, but his lack of social graces, some loud complaints of mortal offence from a few people of rank, and a single, highly notorious affair had added up to a rather blemished reputation.

It was, for the most part, undeserved. He spent the majority of his time blamelessly at home in Aston Clinton, managing his lands and running the brewery Fenwick had left to Edwina. But his second life as a provincial brewer did nothing to improve his standing in London society, and on the rare occasions he attended social events, he didn’t help himself by his refusal to dance or flirt with young ladies. Society mothers found his misanthropic nature offensive, since he had a baronetcy and a reasonable income; the young ladies themselves seemed generally relieved by his lack of interest.

Hart didn’t care. His friends were mostly businessmen and Cits who knew the value of money and did something to earn it. He preferred gaming hells to social clubs; he had no interest in putting himself up on the Marriage Mart, no need to beget an heir since the baronetcy could descend to his sister’s son, and no family who took it upon themselves to interfere. In fact, at the age of thirty-two, Hart was very satisfied by his industrious country life, and increasingly uninterested in the goings-on of the Upper Ten Thousand.

But Edwina had demanded he assess the young man who was interested in Alice, and that cast him in the role of guardian, for which he had little inclination and no actual authority.

‘Who are these people?’ he demanded.

‘The Loxleighs? Just people, Hart. Not encroaching or offensive. Modest, and very pretty-mannered.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me. What do they have other than manners?’

‘Charm,’ Giles said. ‘Something you could do with cultivating. Loxleigh’s a decent fellow from what I can see. Plays, but not too high. Never quarrels, knows how to hold his drink.’

‘That sounds like faint praise.’

‘Does it? Perhaps. I couldn’t claim to know him.’

‘You don’t like him.’ Hart spoke with the certainty of a lifetime’s friendship.

Giles gave him a look. ‘You’re too severe, Hart. I don’t dislike him. I just … Well, if you will have it, there’s something a little … I don’t know. “Calculating” is too harsh. As if he’s watching the room rather than being in it.’

‘Acting a part?’

‘You say that with such disapproval. Most of us act a part in society, you know, for everyone’s benefit. It’s polite to make the effort.’

Hart snorted. Giles went on, ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t even go that far. He’s probably self-conscious, and one can’t blame the fellow. They’re provincials who came on holiday to London and now Miss Loxleigh is being courted by a marquess. I’d watch my words too, in his position. In fact, considering all that, I’d say he’s remarkably unaffected.’

‘You have talked yourself round to the very opposite of your first statement.’

‘It’s amazing how a little empathy can change one’s mind about someone,’ Giles retorted. ‘Again, you should try it. The only conclusion I can offer is that I don’t know him. But I have met Miss Loxleigh several times and she’s wonderfully open. Delightful. Unaffected. She has such a frank enjoyment of everything, so unlike the tedious cynicism of all the world-weary folk in this room.’

‘Am I to take that remark personally?’ Hart enquired.

‘Yes. Whereas unlike you, Miss Loxleigh is full of joy. Thoughtful, amusing but not frivolous. She lifts one’s heart.’

Hart lifted his brow instead. Giles gave him an embarrassed smile. ‘Am I raving?’

‘You are, yes.’

‘She has that effect. I could only secure one dance with her tonight. There’s a host of admirers, Tachbrook at their head.’

‘Are you in the running?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

Giles was a third son – admittedly of an archbishop, of excellent family and holding a good post at the Foreign Office, but still a mere salaried man. Miss Loxleigh might be a wonder among women, but Hart would still wager ten pounds that she’d plump for wealth and title, given the choice. She wasn’t fresh from the schoolroom and could clearly have her pick of men; she had doubtless come to London to secure a prize. Good luck to her. Hart just hoped Giles’s enthusiasm wasn’t too serious.

‘Has she a portion?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Do they have any estate back in Nottinghamshire?’

‘I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask the brother?’ Giles nodded to the door. Hart turned and saw that young Loxleigh had come into the gaming room.

He took a moment to assess the man closer up. He might be perhaps twenty-five, a little older than he’d looked from a distance, a year or two his sister’s senior. There was no fault to be found with his tailoring, or his cravat, or his demeanour as he accepted a seat at the whist table, waved there by a man named Kinnard, who was hail-fellow-well-met with anyone who’d play with him.

Loxleigh’s eyes were hazel. Hart had rather expected them to be blue, like his own, and found himself oddly put out by that.

He leaned back against the wall to watch. Loxleigh smiled and chatted to the people around him, and his expression remained relaxed and pleasant as he took up his cards, but Hart thought his eyes sharpened slightly.

They played a few hands. Hart watched, ignoring Giles’s efforts to make conversation until his friend muttered a rude remark and went off to find someone more entertaining. He watched the young man’s face, and the casual set of his shoulders. He watched the ebb and flow of the game. He watched Loxleigh’s hands – well-used ones, not as smooth and pale as a gentleman’s hands were supposed to be, a little older-looking than his face – and then he pushed himself upright and sloped out of the room. He wanted to think.

When he returned to the ballroom, Alice was sitting by the wall. He went to sit with her. ‘Enjoying the evening?’

‘Not really.’

‘Nor am I,’ he assured her. ‘I loathe this sort of thing.’

‘I can’t decide if everyone is noticing me and I hate it, or nobody is noticing me and I hate it.’

Hart threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’ve my entire sympathy.’

‘Well, thank you.’ She made a face. ‘It’s not terrible. I have danced twice.’

‘I hope the gentleman was suitably appreciative.’

‘He was very pleasant.’ Hart couldn’t tell if Alice was blushing; her colour was high anyway, given the oppressive heat of the crowded room. ‘A gentleman up from the country. I’ve made friends with his sister—’

‘The beautiful Miss Loxleigh? I met her.’

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘Outstanding.’

‘And she’s lovely, too,’ Alice said earnestly. ‘In character, I mean. We met in the park, and started chatting – they hardly knew anyone in London either – and we get on delightfully. So many people aren’t interested unless one is pretty or wealthy or well born, and many of the belles are simply too busy to be kind. Marianne is always kind, and the best-looking woman of the Season, which just goes to show.’

Hart nodded. There was quite a lot underpinning that speech, none of which made him happy. ‘And the brother is a gentleman?’

‘Oh yes. He has escorted us – Marianne and me – several times now. I know she is older than me but she doesn’t assume I’m a silly girl because of it. And Mr Loxleigh is very respectful and pleasant.’

‘That is flattering attention.’

Alice scuffed her shoe on the floor, the little movement making her seem terribly young. ‘I know he’s just being polite, but he does seem interested in what I say. It’s quite unusual to have someone interested in what I say.’

Hart felt a stab of guilt. ‘I’m interested.’

‘Well, you aren’t really,’ Alice pointed out without reproach. ‘We have different concerns in life. And I wasn’t complaining. It’s just – well, do you know when someone is truly listening to you, properly, not just exchanging remarks? And it feels like you’re talking to a friend, even if you haven’t known the person long at all?’

‘That’s good.’

‘It is,’ Alice said. ‘Because to be quite honest, Uncle Hart, I didn’t in the slightest want a Season, and I haven’t liked it very much, and it’s costing Mama a great deal of money to do this for me. Making friends means I can honestly say I’m enjoying myself so she doesn’t feel she’s done the wrong thing. You aren’t to tell her that, of course.’

Hart turned to look at her. ‘I hope Edwina realises how lucky she is in you.’

‘I’m very lucky in her, but I do wish she’d stop fretting about me. Look, it’s Giles.’

Giles Verney was indeed approaching. He exchanged a few mild insults with Hart, and gave Alice his hand with the ease of long acquaintance. ‘Can I beg the next dance?’

‘If you like. I’m not in great demand. But I’m a terrible dancer.’

‘So am I,’ Giles assured her. ‘To say I have two left feet is to understate things considerably. I have as many left feet as a centipede.’

That was arrant nonsense since he was a superb dancer, but it made Alice giggle and she stood with a smile. Hart left them to it. Giles would give Alice a couple of dances, bring her an ice, and enliven her evening. It was the sort of thing he was very good at, having a bevy of sisters, cousins and nieces, and he’d always extended that kindness to Alice as well. Hart, hopelessly lacking in grace, had long given up trying to imitate Giles’s charming manners. The effort had made him feel, and probably look, like a dancing bear.

So he didn’t attempt to uproot any wallflowers, but merely strolled around the ballroom for a little while, chatting to acquaintances. He watched young Loxleigh return to the ballroom in company with a couple of other men, and saw him drift casually over towards Alice, then he returned to the card room.

Kinnard was still there, the seat next to him empty. Hart took it. ‘Evening. How are the cards running?’

‘Shocking,’ Kinnard assured him. He had the look of a man caught in gambling fever, eyes bright but hollow. ‘I’ve just lost sixty pounds to a sprig from the country with the best luck I’ve ever seen. Want to let me make it up at your expense?’

‘No, but I’ll happily make things worse,’ Hart assured him, and settled down to play, thinking hard.

As an unmarried man who preferred the country, Hart didn’t trouble to maintain an establishment in London. He kept a set of rooms in Cursitor Street instead, unfashionably far east and thus both larger and more economical than gentlemen’s lodgings within a stone’s throw of St James’s. He had his own entrance and three good-sized rooms; the married couple who lived upstairs cooked, cleaned and valeted as required. What he lacked in convenience by not having a servant at shouting distance, he gained in privacy, and as a deeply private man he found that very much worthwhile.

He spent the day on his own business, sending his sister a brief note to tell her he would report back in due course, ate a simple meal at home, and set out that evening to visit as many gaming hells as he could.

The third he tried was Lady Wintour’s house in Rupert Street, a place which teetered on the far edge of acceptability. Sir George Wintour had married a hostess from a faro den – some said while drunk, but that state had covered most of his adult life – and when his passing left his widow in dire straits, she had returned to her old profession. It was a very reputable place, in that the rooms were better lit and aired than those of the average hell, and the drinks less likely to leave you with a painful head. There was still a big man with a cudgel who watched out for the law and made sure you paid up, but at Lady Wintour’s he wore livery.

Hart nodded to the big man in question as he was admitted. ‘Evening, Ned.’

‘Evening, Sir John. Herself is upstairs, she’ll be glad to see you.’

Herself, or Lady Wintour, appeared at that moment. ‘Hey there, Ned— Why, John Hartlebury, as I live and breathe! Hello, Hart!’

She came down the stairs in a rush and flung herself at him in a cloud of perfume, powder and skirts. Hart caught her and lifted her off her feet, feeling corsets creak in his grip. She was his notorious affair – three months of self-delusion that she’d ended with some stinging home truths – but they’d parted on good terms for all that, and proved far better friends than lovers.

‘Evangeline.’ Hart kissed her rouged cheek. She squeezed his arse, which she had always and loudly admired. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘I’m a haggar. . .