The Heiress Objective (Spy Matchmaker Book 3) Read online

  — The Heiress Objective –

  By Regina Scott

  Spy Matchmaker Series Book 3

  © 1999 Regina Lundgren

  Originally published in 1999 by Zebra as The Bluestocking on His Knee

  Belgrave House eBook 2008

  Edwards and Williams 2017

  License Note

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people unless it is part of a lending program. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for lending, please delete it from your device and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work and livelihood.

  To my father Richard P. Brown and my husband Larry,

  who know the value of intelligent women;

  to Kate McMurry, an incorrigible bluestocking in her own right, for sharing her boxing research; and to the Lord, for the family and friends He’s put in my life

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dear Reader

  Sneak Peek: An Uncommon Christmas

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  After hours of pouring over the figures of his much-diminished finances, Kevin Whattling pushed back one of the last three of his mahogany dining chairs, rose, and stretched. Giles Sloane and Sir Nigel Dillingham, his friends since childhood, stared up at him, dazed.

  Nigel shook his close-cropped sandy-blond head. “Don’t see how you can be so relaxed, old man,” he murmured with a frown. Since Nigel’s eyebrows were remarkably bushy and his nose singularly imposing, his frowns were known to curdle milk.

  Kevin merely shrugged.

  “I agree, Kevin,” Giles chimed in. “I’ve known you to face calamity with a laugh, but this, this is something else entirely.” With his round face under a thatch of red hair and equally round frame, Giles was more likely to be found consuming milk than curdling it. Nonetheless, his chubby cheeks, pale and quivering, had more effect on his friend than Nigel’s heavy frowns.

  Kevin clapped him on the shoulder. “Buck up, my lad. Things may look a trifle difficult…”

  “A trifle!” Nigel rumbled. “Penury he calls a trifle!”

  Giles snatched the crosshatched piece of paper off the table and bent over it again, pudgy fingers running down the columns. “Perhaps we subtracted incorrectly. Is that it, Kev? Tell me you have other assets. Perhaps a rich uncle you never told us about?”

  Kevin smiled ruefully. “Sorry, Giles. Everything I have is written on that sheet. And as you can see, I am completely penniless. The very furniture on which you sit will be auctioned off tomorrow. And that doesn’t count the two thousand still owed to George Safton, not that I begrudge making him sing for it.”

  Nigel stared at him. Giles shuddered. “If only we could help you. But my inheritance barely covers expenses.”

  Nigel eyed his friend’s considerable bulk. “We all know where your funds go. As I don’t eat mine, I have a bit more to spare. I can spot you enough to keep up the rent on your rooms for a month or so, Whattling. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough to pay off Safton, worse luck.”

  Kevin shrugged again. “You needn’t bother, Nigel.” Now that he knew the worst of it, he found it difficult to be morose. A strange sort of freedom came with not having to keep up appearances. Of course, he still could not divulge all his activities for the last few years. Lord Hastings had been firm on that score.

  He reached to the center of the small table and poured three goblets of port from the decanter. Passing them to his friends, he raised his own in a toast.

  “As Napoleon was defeated so recently on the Peninsula, so shall we defeat this specter of poverty. To success!”

  “Hear, hear!” Giles agreed. He dashed back the port, obviously carried away by Kevin’s show of enthusiasm.

  Nigel humphed and sipped his instead. “You’re mighty cheerful for a man so deep in dun territory.”

  “That, my dear Nigel, is because I have a plan.”

  Giles poured himself another glass with glee. “I knew it! Trust Kevin to think his way out of any scrape.”

  He had no idea of the scrapes Kevin had escaped while serving under Lord Hastings, England’s spymaster. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Only a few knew that Kevin gathered information to pass on to the War Office. Amazing how many secrets the ton bandied about.

  Nigel eyed Kevin dubiously, grey eyes shrewd. “A plan, have you? What, pray tell, could you possibly plan that could raise the necessary blunt? I thought you’d sworn off gambling. Or did you give in to Safton’s lures?”

  He shook off the blow and made himself do nothing more than raise a brow. “Do you think so little of me, Nigel?”

  Nigel had the good sense to study his port while answering. “It isn’t a matter of what I think. George Safton is a manipulative, conniving wretch. There’s a good reason the ton calls him The Snake. But you paid little heed to the warnings Giles and I tried to give you, until…” He shifted in his seat, twirling the cut-glass stem of the goblet between long fingers. “Sorry. Unsportsmanlike of me. Never mind.”

  “You needn’t fear to say it,” Kevin replied, fingering the black armband and making sure neither of his friends saw the effort his nonchalance cost him. “If I had listened to either of you, Robbie might still be alive.”

  “Oh, Kevin, never say so!” Giles’ blue eyes were wide. “You did what you could. You know I thought quite highly of your brother, but he simply couldn’t turn down a wager. And Safton can’t turn down an easy mark. They were the worst possible combination. But you mustn’t see it as your fault that your brother was led astray.”

  “Only that I did part of the leading,” Kevin reminded him. “I paid his debts again and again with no more than a brotherly scold. I even went along with most of their ridiculous schemes.”

  “So did half of the ton,” Nigel put in. “You have to give them this: They were an entertaining pair.”

  “Until the very end,” Giles agreed, but he shuddered again.

  “You don’t have to wrap it up in clean linen, gentlemen,” Kevin insisted. “I have nothing to say in my own defense. I’ve been an idiot and a dastard. I’ve lost my only brother, nearly ruined our family name, and have run up a tidy sum in debt. In short, I’ve made a mess of my life, and now I have the ignominious pleasure of trying to rectify matters.”

  “Which you’ll do with style and wit,” Giles assured him.

  Kevin spread his hands. “Is there any other way?”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Nigel grumbled. “You said you had a plan. Will you tell us about it, or not?”

  Giles suddenly looked worried. “You didn’t apply to those advertisements in The Times, did you, Kevin? I shouldn’t think a gentleman could find suitable work that way.”

  “You’d be surprised what one can find in The Times,” Kevin told him. “Unfortunately, all the responses I received indic
ated that there was nothing for which a failed Corinthian is suitable. You would hardly hire me for a companion, and I’m far past the appropriate age for an apprentice in any trade.”

  “And your friend Lord Hastings?” Nigel put in with more delicacy then he was usually capable.

  So Nigel knew that much. Kevin shook his head. “His lordship understands my need to leave his service. He’s encouraged me to find a bride, not realizing the extent of my indebtedness. And it isn’t as if there would be much more for me to do what with Napoleon being exiled to Elba.” He shook his head. “Of course, I can always work below stairs. I’d make a strapping footman, don’t you think?”

  This time both Nigel and Giles shuddered.

  “Fear not, gentlemen,” Kevin told them in consolation. “I have decided on a less onerous approach.” He felt sure enough of himself to grin at both his friends, pausing dramatically until he was certain he had their full attention.

  “I plan to sell the last asset I own—myself. I will marry an heiress.”

  Giles choked on his port. Nigel gaped, but was the first to recover.

  “Nonsense,” he said with a snort.

  “Oh, I say, a poor joke, Kev,” Giles seconded, mopping wine from the broad front of his shirt with a handkerchief. He stopped his ablutions long enough to peer up at his friend. “Are you foxed?”

  Kevin’s grin widened. “I’m not drunk, Giles. I know exactly what I’m about.”

  “Can’t be done,” Nigel proclaimed. “Too much against you.”

  “Such as?” Kevin challenged.

  Nigel ticked his reasons off on his fingers. “One—you’ve no title, which the papas of most heiresses hang out for. Two—you’ve no fortune or estates, although I admit you had a respected family name, if they do not count this recent business. Three—it’s becoming increasing well known you’ve been living beyond your blunt, not to mention your fondness for gaming, boxing, and racing. Four—”

  “That’s quite enough,” Kevin said with a laugh, holding up his hands in surrender. “Your logic is flawless. I have only two small credits to counter your long list of debits. I understand the ladies consider me to be reasonably kind on the eyes, and I have been told I possess a certain amount of charm.”

  Nigel snorted again. Giles cocked his head thoughtfully. Kevin held his smile as they both looked at him with appraising eyes.

  He knew the image he presented. At six feet, two inches tall, he towered over both of them, as well as most of the other men in his class. Unlike the thoroughly round Giles or the endlessly angular Nigel, his shoulders were broad enough, his waist narrow enough, and his legs powerful enough to carry off the latest fashion of cutaway coats and skin-tight breeches with polished style. His practices at Jackson’s, although less frequent of late, guaranteed his muscular build. He had heard the rumor that his shock of honey-gold hair, which curled in natural artistic disarray, had once caused Lord Byron to sack his valet when that poor fellow failed to match it.

  His eyes were a deep, warm shade of blue that seemed to invite the ladies to look closer and offer confidences. He thought his high cheekbones, long nose, and slightly pointed chin lent his face character when he was solemn, and they certainly seemed to encourage others to grin along with him when he was pleased. Good looks aside, he had a ready wit. Until the incident with his brother, most of his friends would have called him easygoing by nature, which had made him the first person on many a hostess’ guest list. Of course, it was that easygoing nature that had landed him in the fix he was in, but he steadfastly pushed that thought aside.

  “He has you there,” Giles was saying with a nod to Nigel. “Devilishly attractive, that’s our Kevin. Seen many a gel swoon at his feet.”

  Kevin flicked a speck of lint off the lapel of his black evening coat, trying not to show his relief that his friends’ assessments matched his own. “Well, perhaps not swoon,” he demurred with just the right amount of humility.

  “I still say it takes more than good looks and a ready wit to sway an heiress,” Nigel insisted.

  Giles had clearly been won over. “Have you picked the gel yet, Kev?”

  Kevin rose, wandered to the mirror near the door of his small suite of rooms, and made himself busy adjusting his cravat. He hadn’t expected them to be won over quite this quickly. Perhaps his plan wasn’t as lack-witted as he had feared. Or his time serving secretly for Lord Hastings had made him a better actor than he had thought.

  The true test, however, would be their assessment of the woman he had chosen to pursue. He knew he’d have to face them sooner or later and decided the time might as well be now. “Yes, I’ve identified my objective, though I doubt either of you will approve.”

  “Fanny Brighton is tolerable,” Giles offered.

  “If you don’t mind a laugh like a horse,” Nigel complained. “Besides, she wouldn’t have you. I have it on good authority that no less than a duke may be offering for her quite soon.”

  “Evalina Turnpeth, then,” Giles suggested.

  “Rusticating in the country until the summer,” Nigel replied.

  “What about that cit Sir John nearly wed?”

  “A cit!” Nigel exploded. “Are you mad?” He threw back the last of his port.

  Giles sank lower in his chair.

  “No, not a cit, Nigel, never fear.” Kevin said, turning to his friends. “The lady I have in mind is a blueblood through and through. She also happens to be a bit of a bluestocking. I thought I’d try my luck with Eugennia Welch.”

  “Eugennia Welch!” his friends chorused, their faces awash in horror.

  So much for their support. Kevin faced them with determination, refusing to be swayed so easily. “You see, I told you that you wouldn’t approve.”

  Again, Nigel recovered first. “I can see the attraction. She’s known to be quite odd, so you won’t have to put up with a lot of nonsense about dresses and balls and the like. But who could stand her insane activities?”

  “I don’t see them as insane,” Kevin protested. “What has she done? Invited the Egyptian expedition to conduct a practice dig in her rear yard? That seems far more practical than trying to accompany them all the way to Egypt.”

  “That was nothing compared to the time she descended on Weston to learn how a man’s coat was cut,” Nigel declared. “I can still see Lord Bellington’s face as he stood there in his short sleeves with Weston pointing out the various tucks needed. Poor Bell hasn’t been the same since.”

  “He was never all that bright to begin with,” Kevin replied with a shrug. “Not much of a loss if you ask me.”

  “And don’t forget,” Giles put in, “she was the one who convinced the printers to go out on the ice last year when the Thames froze. She claimed the crowds should have something to memorialize their visit to the Frost Fair, as if any of them could read or would know what to do with the paper in the first place.”

  “I notice you had your leaflet framed, Giles,” Kevin pointed out.

  “All that aside, Whattling,” Nigel insisted, “it is well known she despises everything you stand for—gaming, pugilistic displays, horse racing.”

  “I’d like to think I stand for a little more than that, Nigel,” Kevin chided.

  “What else is there?” Nigel demanded.

  “Not to mention that she’s past her last prayers,” Giles added.

  “She can’t be over six-and-twenty,” Kevin responded. “Lord Jeffers threw her a quarter century birthday party. Remember how the ladies gasped that anyone would be willing to admit her age in public? It was the same month Robbie arrived in town and that was nearly two years ago.” The thought unnerved him for a moment, as any thought of Robbie was wont to do even three months after his brother’s death, but he plunged ahead.

  “I’ve thought this through carefully, gentlemen. Eugennia Welch has an income of forty thousand pounds per annum, a princely fortune even I would be hard-pressed to squander. She purportedly has withstood offers from an earl and a marques
s, so she cannot be hanging out for a title. Her father died six years ago, and she has no other male relatives, so I shall not have to fight a dubious family. She seems to prefer the town life, so my lack of a country seat should not dismay her.”

  He felt his grin reappear as he remembered the last time he had seen her. “Besides, I stood up with her at a country dance last Season, and I rather enjoyed the experience. Despite all your protests, she is a lady through and through. So, unless you have further suggestions, I plan to call on her tomorrow and begin my trip toward the altar.”

  Giles solemnly poured the last of the port into the three goblets. Kevin slipped the armband off.

  “To success?” Giles offered hesitantly, handing the goblets around.

  “No,” Kevin corrected, accepting his and raising it high. “To Miss Eugennia Welch. May she soon fall under my heiress objective.”

  “To Miss Welch,” Nigel and Giles chorused, and this time all three goblets were enthusiastically drained.

  Chapter Two

  Miss Eugennia Welch made a face at herself in the Pier glass mirror on her rosewood dressing table.

  “Stop that at once,” her companion and abigail, Miss Martha Tindale, demanded with a sniff in disapproval. She gave Eugennia’s long hair an extra tug with the silver-backed brush she had been pulling through it. “Have you never heard that the good Lord could freeze your face and you’d be stuck that way forever?”

  “What a tarradiddle,” Eugennia scoffed. “I’m quite glad you took up with someone sensible like me. I’d hate to hear such nonsense repeated to someone who might actually believe it.”

  The older woman humphed as she busied herself in plaiting the soft light-brown tresses for the complex bun Eugennia normally wore. “I know you’re no fool. Sometimes I find myself in awe of the vast store of knowledge you’ve amassed. I certainly would never have had the courage to pursue such studies.”

  The clipped tone implied she wasn’t entirely sure such studies were proper for a young lady. Society tended to agree with her. Once the topic had been insects, and Martha had followed Jenny about Hyde Park while she captured an amazing assortment of multi-legged creatures to observe. Martha had complained that the horrid things would get loose. Very likely she’d woken repeatedly each night they had been in residence to make sure she hadn’t expired from their bites, even though Jenny had been thorough in the plans for their captivity.