Flirting With Fortune

Chapter Twenty-three

The word reverberated in her head like a cannon shot, echoing over and over as she stared at him with her mouth wide open. “Bankrupt?” Her voice was a ragged whisper, unfamiliar to her own ears. “Sir Colin Tate is bankrupt?”

Saying the words together was almost as absurd as saying Sir Colin Tate is purple, or Sir Colin Tate is Chinese. Her brain couldn’t seem to reconcile them.

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

The whole situation was made all the more odd by Monsieur Allard’s use of his native language. He was just as unnerved as she was, especially as it became obvious she had no idea what on earth he was talking about.

“That can’t be right. Monsieur, you must be mistaken.”

“Perhaps,” he said, rubbing a hand over the raspy afternoon stubble on his cheek. “But I do not think so. Please, my lady, sit down.” He gestured to the ancient stool at the end of the counter.

She shook her head. No, this was all some mistake. She wasn’t going to sit down and have a fit of vapors because it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. “Explain yourself, please. Why do you think this?”

He sighed and pulled his work stool over, the legs screeching as they dragged over the old floor. Settling onto it, he leaned an elbow on the counter and studied her. “I know my business, my lady. A year ago, old Georges received an offer to work in a new engraving company in Edinburgh, headed by the great Frederick Tate himself. He wished for me to be his master engraver and to help train new recruits in the art.

“I did not wish to leave the shop, so I turned him down. My competitor, John Gotter, was hired instead. It was a decision that Gotter bitterly regrets, since not only did the business fold before it ever even really began, but the journal he worked for had already replaced him.”

Beatrice held a hand over her stomach, but it did nothing to stop the turmoil. “How could this be? Why wouldn’t anyone know about it?”

“Because of so much mishandling, it never actually opened. Tate’s business partner ran off with much of the money from investors, venders refused to refund the cost of equipment that was never used, and voilà, there wasn’t even a farthing to pay Gotter for his trouble. The word never got out because no announcements were made. It could be called a silent catastrophe.”

A silent catastrophe. The perfect description for the agony of discovering the man she had pledged her life to had in fact been the exact thing she’d thought to avoid. Her blood turned to ice in her veins, making her shake in a way she could not seem to stop.

A scurrilous, duplicitous, deceitful fortune hunter.

“I’m so sorry, my lady. I see that I have brought you much pain.”

She looked up to him, her gaze meeting his. Compassion and empathy reflected from within. Or was it pity? She swallowed and nodded, using every bit of willpower she possessed in the world to hold back the tears that stung the backs of her eyes, demanding to be freed. “Merci, monsieur,” she said, her voice choked with the force of her emotions.

“Please, can I—”

“No.” The word was wrenched from deep within her, from the place unwilling to hear even another word from anyone until she had a moment to think. She swallowed, lifting her chin with the effort to maintain her crumbling composure. “But thank you. I’ll just see myself out.”

It was all she could do to turn and walk from the store, leaving behind all of the hopes and dreams on which she had floated in. They lay like shattered china on the floor where she had stood, forever marking the loss of her innocence.

Beatrice had devised a thousand different ideas for how best to respond to Monsieur Allard’s shocking news. She could burst into Colin’s home—or rather, his aunt’s home—demanding to know the truth. But whether it proved to be true or not, such a tactic was unlikely to result in anything good. Besides, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was simply no way for her to approach him with any amount of rationality right now.

She could go to her brother and insist he tell her every last detail of what transpired during the meeting he had with her betrothed. However, she was loath to bring such a thing to her brother’s attention if it were false. If it were true and he knew about it, she might have to kill him, and she really didn’t want to deal with the mess.

Of all the ideas that had come and gone during her walk home, only one seemed to make any sense.

“Ah, Benedict, there you are.”

Beatrice’s brother-in-law glanced up from the ledger book he was studying, one dark brow raised in a wary greeting. “Here I am. Is there something I can do for you?” No doubt he had already noted her puffy eyes and reddened nose.

Glancing behind her, she ducked into the study and eased the door closed. By some small miracle, her mother and sisters had stepped out to do some shopping while she was gone, which enabled her to come this far without being noticed by anyone other than Finnington and a handful of servants. She wasn’t taking any chances with her family stumbling upon the conversation she was about to have.

“You may very well regret asking that,” she said, plopping down onto the chair in front of the desk. She had made it this far without faltering by sheer will alone. “I have a very big, very important favor to ask of you.”

“Name it.”

That was it. Two words, so simple but perfectly sincere. She took a shuddering breath, thankful beyond reason for Evie’s choice of husband. “Don’t you think you should ask what it is first? I may want for you to steal the crown jewels.”

He shrugged, his expression relaxed even as his dark gaze missed nothing. “If you have want of them, then I am quite certain you have a good reason for it. You are rarely given to fancy. And all that aside, without your interference, things might have gone very differently between your sister and me. Therefore, no favor could be too large.”

He was so kind. A good man. Wasn’t that what she had wanted in her own husband? She thought that was exactly what she had found, but apparently Beatrice in Love was tantamount to Beatrice the Overtrusting Nitwit. “I know you gave up your old career years ago, but I need for you to dust off your skills, if you please.”

Both brows rose at this. “I see. In what capacity, do you think?”

“In whatever capacity it takes to find out if I am marrying a lying, heartless villain or not.”

“Very well,” he said, not missing a beat. “Is there something in particular you would like to know, or shall I simply prepare a general report on him?”

“Before I tell you, will you promise to keep this conversation between us?” It was asking a lot, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to drag the rest of her family into it if by some miracle Monsieur Allard was mistaken.

“You must know I won’t lie to your sister. However, I see no reason to bring up the subject unless she should inquire specifically.”

Much the same promise she had once made him. “Thank you, Benedict. You are the very best brother-in-law anyone could ever hope for.”

“Be sure you remember that when your sisters marry my competitors someday,” he said, offering her a quick wink. “Now, I think perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

By the time she was back in her chambers later that evening, she was feeling marginally better. Benedict would find out exactly what the truth was. There could easily be some sort of mistake, some miscommunication. Monsieur Allard was old, after all. It’s possible he had confused the facts. Wouldn’t she have known of the business venture otherwise? She was one of Sir Frederick’s most ardent admirers.

Still, as she picked at the tray of food her mother had sent up when she had pleaded a headache, Beatrice couldn’t deny the hollowness lurking inside of her. She would have sworn before God and man that Colin felt as strongly about her as she did him. And yet . . . how could she know? Until she heard back from Benedict and his mysterious sources, she could do little more than wait.