Flirting With Fortune

equal, as though he actually had something of true worth to offer her, then he wouldn’t apologize for whatever small amount of time he could spend with her. There was literally no one else in London, or on the planet, for that matter, who could offer her what he could, and he planned to enjoy that.

Tonight at the Westmoreland ball, he would dance every set, with any young lady who took his fancy. He had only two goals for the evening: to further charm prospective brides and to dance a proper dance with Lady Beatrice.

* * *

Beatrice had been expecting the knock for so long, it was a relief when it finally came. “Enter,” she said, setting down her paintbrush and turning to greet her sisters.

Just as she expected, Jocelyn and Carolyn let themselves in, their blue eyes bright with the anticipation of sharing their discovery. Beatrice had known they would come and had painted with half an ear to the stairway since the time she heard the knock on the servants’ door exactly two floors below her studio almost an hour earlier.

It was Tuesday, after all: delivery day.

“Oh my word, Bea, you will never believe what they printed in A Proper Young Lady’s Fashion Companion this week.” Carolyn was ahead of her sister by half a foot, holding out the periodical in question. They hadn’t even taken the time to properly dress, each wearing wrappers over their night rails with their hair simply braided.

Good. Beatrice liked to think that girls all over the city were just as excited.

Schooling her features into an expression of pure innocence, she wiped her hands on the bottom of her apron and regarded them with false curiosity. “What is it? Something new from France?”

Jocelyn plopped onto the studio’s only piece of furniture, a slightly worse-for-the-wear chintz sofa, and shook her head. “Much more scandalous than that. Oh, it’s brilliant. Wait until you see.”

Carolyn handed over the magazine before joining her twin on the sofa. If either of them noticed that Beatrice’s fingers trembled or that her breath wasn’t quite even, they didn’t let on in the least.

Drawing a quiet breath, she turned under the pretense of holding it to the meager light from the cloudy day and looked down at the printed page. Her heart gave a little leap. There it was, in black and white. Her words, her art, her labor of love for her fellow females, published in a legitimate magazine for all to see. The surge of pride was so powerful, so consuming, she actually felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes.

“Can you believe it?” Carolyn asked, nudging the bottom of Beatrice’s skirts with her foot when she didn’t say anything. “It says the author is a former debutant.” The implied scandal of such a thing hung heavy in her breathless tone.

“How utterly remarkable,” Beatrice murmured, infusing a healthy dose of incredulity into her response. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the etching, the product of her own hands. Almost, anyway. Monsieur Allard had done a superb job of transcribing her drawing into an etching. She ran a finger over the crosshatched shading of the imposing columns in the background. It had turned out perfectly, and all she wanted to do was hug it to her chest and proclaim to the world that it was her handiwork.

But of course she could not.

If anyone knew that she had written the letter and submitted the drawing, her reputation would be utterly ruined. No one would ever see the good in what she did, only the breaking of unspoken rules.

“I wonder who wrote it,” Jocelyn mused, pulling her legs in to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “Do you think it is true that it was written by a debutant? Who’s to say it wasn’t some dried-up old journalist trying to ruffle feathers or create a story where there is none?”

Carolyn’s eyes rounded. “Do you think someone would do such a thing?”

Beatrice bit her lip against the need to defend herself and the validity of her work. Instead, she gave a casual shake of her head. “No, I don’t think it could be a journalist.” She came to sit between her sisters on the sofa and pointed to the engraving. “See the background? That’s Lady Churly’s ballroom. See the fluted columns?” she said, sliding her finger across the drawing.

Jocelyn snatched the paper back and pored over it with renewed fervor. “How very, very bold. If the setting is real, then . . .” She paused, tilting her head as she regarded the image through squinted eyes. “Oh my goodness gracious, I think that’s Mr. Godfrey!”

“No!” Carolyn exclaimed, leaning over the page for a closer look.

“Of course not,” Beatrice said, rolling her eyes as she pulled the magazine out of her sister’s hands. “None of these people is real. They are just figments of the author’s imagination.”

She looked down at the etching, shaking her head at the absurdity of the claim. But . . . A trickle of dread slid down her spine as she stared at the picture. Oh heavens. She bit the inside of her lip hard as she took in the man’s clothes, his smug expression, his Corinthian hair.

“I think Jocelyn’s right,” Carolyn said, craning her neck as she inspected the image. “It looks quite a bit like Mr. Godfrey. How utterly scandalous!”

“And mean,” added Jocelyn

Beatrice couldn’t seem to draw a proper breath. She hadn’t intended to portray him, despite the fact she knew full well he was a fortune hunter. She swallowed, trying to loosen the tightness holding her throat closed.

“I don’t know,” she said, the flippant tone she strove for falling just short of her reach. “Any number of gentlemen would resemble such a characterized drawing.”

Pulling the magazine back into her lap, Carolyn shook her head. “I don’t know. I spent only a few minutes with the man, but I have to say, something about this drawing just seems to capture his personality.”

“You mean like the arrogant expression?” Jocelyn said, raising a collusive brow. “Yes, I’d say that was rather spot-on.”

“Exactly,” her twin replied, giving a guilty little grin.

It was nothing compared to the guilt wrapping itself around Beatrice’s heart. “Come spring, you two will see exactly how common such an expression is among men of the ton. Perhaps you were right, Jocelyn. Perhaps it was just a journalist’s rendition.”

“Not if what you say about this being Lady Churly’s ballroom is true. There is no way they would have allowed a journalist inside. No, if this is an accurate drawing of the ball, then it stands to reason that this really is Mr. Godfrey.”

“Poor man,” Carolyn said, shaking her head. “Truly, Mr. Godfrey was not my idea of a perfect gentleman, but I have to admit this makes me feel a bit sorry for the man. What if he’s not really a fortune hunter?”

Beatrice put an icy hand to her chest. She might have been guilty of inadvertently calling the man out, but at least she was beyond certain that he was indeed a fortune hunter.

Perhaps this would be a good thing if she managed to save some poor girl from his clutches. “He is,” she said with authority, nodding her head for good measure. “Believe me. I have seen him in action enough to know the truth of it.”

“In action?” Jocelyn raised a pale brow. “What, does he go around with a ledger, tallying each lady’s worth?”

“Practically, yes. He does exactly what the author said he does: dancing only with those whose dowry heft is well known.”

“Hardly enough to convict a man.”

Beatrice scowled at Jocelyn. She already felt bad enough—she didn’t need her sister doubting her judgment. “Trust me, the man has eyes only for money. The author did the right thing by pointing out how a lady may recognize a fortune hunter like him. The better armed a lady is, the better able to protect herself.”

Carolyn tucked her feet beneath the voluminous white fabric of her night rail and shrugged. “If you say so. What do you think will happen to him? Do you think he’ll read it?”

Heavens, she hoped he never would. “I should think not,” Beatrice said, flipping the magazine closed and gesturing to the title. “It’s a ladies’ fashion magazine, after all. I sincerely hope that gentlemen are not reading this sort of thing.”

“Well, not normally, of course,” Jocelyn said. “But this is positively scandalous. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of the ton has read it by the end of the week.”

Butterflies took flight within Beatrice’s belly at this pronouncement. The thought of thousands of eyes