Page 42 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous (Matchmaking Mischief Makers #2)

T he oak-paneled walls of Brooks’s muted the murmured conversations of London’s gentlemen seeking refuge from home and business. Henry, who had retreated there for a short respite after Caroline’s visit, sat back in a wingback chair, ostensibly reading The Times .

But he was distracted and worried.

He hadn’t realized how much his conversation with Caroline had rallied his hopes. Despite his skepticism at the time, he now had reason to believe all was not lost. Caroline had a wonderful ability to make him feel anything was possible.

But now, with the balloon ride fast approaching, and so much invested in the almost maniacal maneuvering required to somehow get Mr. Rothbury and Venetia into the basket alone—well, one minute it all seemed like reaching for the stars…

The next, anything felt possible.

Normally, a whisky and reading the newspaper calmed him, but right now, his nerves were on edge. He’d chosen a leather armchair away from the bow window where the greatest gossips gathered, in constant fear of being tapped on the shoulder and politely asked to leave.

The whispers of financial wrongdoing had not gone away, even though there was absolutely no proof.

Just as he was trying to force the worry from his mind, he spied the very man responsible for his tenuous grip on acceptance.

His very own future brother-in-law.

Henry lowered his newspaper slightly, careful to remain unobtrusive as he watched Barnaby enter and look around before his gaze settled on a solitary figure by the window—Edward Rothbury.

For a moment, Henry studied the man. Serious-featured, handsome in a traditional way, with dark hair and a coat from the best tailor. Could this man be Henry’s salvation? Could Venetia suddenly form a tendre for him in less than twenty-four hours when she barely knew him?

With a sigh, he took a sip of whisky. Was Caroline’s infectious enthusiasm nothing more than a pipe dream?

“Rothbury, isn’t it?” Barnaby’s voice carried just enough to reach Henry’s ears. What business could Barnaby have with Rothbury?

Henry raised his newspaper to conceal his watching.

“James Barnaby. Forgive the intrusion and my ill manners for introducing myself.”

Rothbury looked up, his face betraying mild surprise before settling into polite acknowledgment. “Mr. Barnaby. I know you by reputation, of course.”

“Only good, I hope.” Barnaby laughed, though there was a strained quality to it.

“My father was acquainted with yours, I believe,” Rothbury replied neutrally.

Henry shifted slightly, angling himself to better observe. There was something calculated in Barnaby’s approach that set his instincts on alert. And a frostiness in Rothbury’s tone that Henry wouldn’t have expected.

“Might I join you? There’s a matter with which I believe you can assist me.”

Without waiting for a response, Barnaby settled into the chair opposite. “I understand your father was steward to the Playford family for some years.”

Rothbury’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a curious stillness that conveyed his reluctance for this company.

“He was.”

The reserve, which bordered on hostility, did not escape Henry.

“For decades, in fact!” Barnaby spoke with forced bonhomie. “What a remarkable friendship must have been built up between your father and that of my intended’s dear friend.” He paused to accept a whisky from a footman.

When Rothbury didn’t reply, Barnaby continued, “I am to be married to Miss Charlotte Ashworth, if you did not know.” After a slight pause, during which congratulations were clearly expected but not forthcoming, he went on, “And that is the reason I have accosted you like this.”

Rothbury looked as if he were patiently waiting for Barnaby to get to the point.

“You see, my dear Charlotte is concerned for her friend, Miss Playford, and asked me if I could reassure her as to Miss Playford’s…

” he hesitated, clearly for effect, “future safety. I am sure your late father would have been just as concerned to be reassured that Miss Playford’s future was not being… manipulated… by the wrong parties.”

Rothbury toyed with his empty glass, the crystal catching the light. “Please speak plainly, Mr. Barnaby. I have no idea what you are insinuating.”

Barnaby did not take this well but retained his easy manner.

“My apologies. I merely wished not to cast public aspersions since we are in a public place. But if you are happy for me to speak plainly, then there are two reasons for Charlotte—and consequently myself—to have grave fears for Miss Playford’s future. ”

Rothbury did not prompt him, clearly making this as awkward a conversation as possible.

“Mr. Henry Ashworth.”

Henry nearly dropped his glass to hear his name spoken so clearly. Barnaby had done a poor job scanning for prying ears. He brought his newspaper up higher and hunched lower in his chair.

“A worthy bridegroom,” Rothbury said, betraying nothing.

“A man mired in scandal,” Barnaby countered to Henry’s disgust. “Charlotte is distraught that her friend is too frightened to break off the engagement for fear of reprisals from Mr. Ashworth.”

Henry tried not to let his anger draw attention to himself.

“I think your betrothed must be of a somewhat nervous nature.” Rothbury’s tone dripped scorn.

“It is not the womanizing I refer to. Rather, it is the financial irregularities. Charlotte fears this will all come to light too late as the marriage is planned for five days’ time.”

“I do not think the fears harbored by your betrothed have any grounds in reality.”

Barnaby leaned forward, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur that nonetheless carried to Henry.

“Perhaps you’ve not heard of the wager in White’s betting book?

A rather substantial sum placed against young Ashworth’s financial ruin before the month is out.

The names in that book would astonish you—men who don’t make such bets lightly. ”

Rothbury’s posture stiffened visibly. “Such wagers are the province of idle men with too much money and too little sense.”

“Yet one whisper becomes truth when enough important men believe it so.” Barnaby waited for a response.

“It is well known that Miss Playford has no dowry. This is her third season out, and as she does not wish to reside permanently as some lowly companion to her Aunt Pike, she’s prepared to marry against her natural inclinations. ”

Rothbury shifted uncomfortably. “I think we should not speak of Miss Playford’s personal matters in public.”

But Barnaby was just getting into his stride. “If Miss Playford were to find herself irrevocably tied to a husband she does not love, only to then discover she’s the recipient of an enormous inheritance, would that not be a travesty of justice?”

What?

Henry nearly dropped his paper. What was Barnaby alluding to? Venetia had no relatives other than her Aunt Pike.

He waited for Rothbury to knock down Barnaby’s argument with contempt and was surprised when instead he said, “I cannot respond to such speculations, Mr. Barnaby, and I am surprised you would think I would.”

Henry carefully lowered the paper to view their expressions. Barnaby looked almost smug and expectant. Rothbury, for all his containment, looked wary, almost cornered. He made moves to rise, but Barnaby hurried on.

“You do know what I’m talking about, then, Rothbury. You are saying nothing.”

“It is not my place to offer any thoughts on Miss Playford or her future prospects.”

“But you know more than you’re saying.” Barnaby tried to detain him. Almost desperately, he continued, “My dear Charlotte is sick with worry that Miss Playford will become an heiress and free to do as she pleases… but only when it is too late.”

“Then why does your betrothed not communicate her fears directly to Miss Playford?” Rothbury asked reasonably. “I have no idea why you think I can throw any light on the matter.”

“Because you know the truth and you are doing Miss Playford a disservice by not revealing it—”

“I do not deal in speculation, Mr. Barnaby.” There was a glint of something dangerous in Rothbury’s eye. “Though perhaps I will, in view of what you’ve told me.”

“No! No, you must not do so!” Barnaby responded with the first hint of real urgency. “I merely wished to understand where Miss Playford’s future was placed. I asked out of concern, but I realize now that her hopes or fears should not be aroused.”

Henry’s heart thundered as Rothbury curtly excused himself and left the club while Barnaby followed at a distance, his intentions clearly foiled.

Dropping The Times , his whisky forgotten, a cold realization settled over him.

This was no mere social maneuvering. Whatever inheritance Barnaby had alluded to was clearly real enough to cause genuine panic—not just in Barnaby, who wanted his suspicions confirmed, but in Rothbury too, who clearly knew the truth of it.