Page 4 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“I thought Giles was in London. The Baron decided to take his seat in Lords this year.” Aside from being an ardent supporter of the wars, and wishing to win the affections of those elements of government which were also in favor, the Baron held pronounced opinions on the subject of the Land Tax and had decided that, this session of Parliament, he would make his feelings known.

Sophronia also knew through Aunt Edmons, who kept apprised of all the local gossip, that the Baron had further resolved to at last fix his son and heir in the holy state of matrimony. The goal of taking Giles to London was, ostensibly, to review this year’s crop of eligible maidens. She guessed the review had not gone as expected and the Baron now meant to fall back on a known horse. Or one already affixed in his own sphere of control. One hint to the Colonel, from a man of the Baron’s stature, would be enough to make the old military man leap into action.

Sophronia had once been bartered over too, watching Hinton haggle with her father, tempting him with larger and larger sums to overcome Papa’s doubts about the age gap, the Hinton lineage, and Henry’s being entrenched in London. At last Henry had sketched a figure in which her father could see nothing but his own security and an assurance of happiness in the fortune that Sophronia would command during her marriage as well as, were life to follow its predictable paths, during her widowhood.

She had those sums at her disposal now, and her father, growing dotty and distracted in the worn but gracious environs of Foxleigh, could congratulate himself that he had done well in providing for his daughter. Even if the daughter did not care to reflect whether her independence was worth the cost she had paid.

But she could prevent another young woman from being bartered. Lily was some years younger and far less wise about the world than Sophronia had ever been, and this roused all her protective instincts.

Her sense of warning sharpened when Lily pushed at a clod of dirt with her tiny leather shoe. “Papa wishes me to go to London and meet Giles there,” she whispered.

“Go to whom?” Sophronia asked with a great deal of surprise. They knew no one in London. Hungerford was not the edge of the world, but London was above sixty miles away, a full day of travel by chaise even though they lived adjacent to the great road running from London to Bath.

Lily studied her gloves, one hand at a time, as if the buttery yellow kid could yield answers. “He says he will find a companion for me and is writing letters to his old acquaintances.”

“That will not do,” Sophronia said firmly.

Lily lifted an unhappy gaze. “I—I shall not go?”

“Do you wish to go to London?”

Young women were never consulted about their own preferences. Others told them how to conduct themselves, which pursuits to interest themselves in and which interests to avoid, and whom to marry, though the last was the most important consideration of a woman’s life and ought to be her own choosing.

“I— Of course I wish to go to London. It’s London.” Lily’s eyes grew wide.

Rowden was in London. He had returned from his time abroad, so Aunt had heard, and had resumed his customary dissolute ways.

The thought of Rowden caused a fluttery sensation in Sophronia’s middle, as if winged insects had been let loose among the pulled strands of taffy. She resolutely pushed these inconvenient sensations from her consciousness. Rowden’s presence was not to the point; his existence, in London or elsewhere, did not factor into her plans.

“Hinton’s is in London,” she said slowly. “My husband’s bank.”

Lily waited for the purpose of this remark to assert itself.

“If I should wish to turn Hinton House into a girls’ school, which is an avenue I would very much like to explore,” Sophronia said, “I shall have to develop some notion how to go about the task. I must also marshal sufficient funds, and for that, I will require the services of Mr. Bint, who is a current partner at my husband’s bank.”

She could write a letter, of course, but prior experience had taught her that Mr. Bint found it very convenient to ignore or decline a request sent by letter, particularly if said request diminished to any extent the coffers of Hinton’s. All the more so if said request issued from the pen of Mrs. Hinton, whose share in the holdings of the bank were a source of ongoing pain for Mr. Bint.

For certain, Sophronia found that the demise of her husband had considerably lessened her status in the eyes of her husband’s partners. Henry’s associates had been nothing but admiration when the ruler of their empire was alive, flattering him for her taste, her deportment, her information about the world, her occasional opinion on an investment Henry proposed. Now the emperor had fallen and the generals had taken over his domain, and the empress was deposed. Sophronia had little means to compel his former partners to respect Henry’s final wishes, though he had put them very clearly in writing.

Lily, regarding the fury in Sophronia’s sudden scowl, took a step backward. “Is Mr. Bint so awful?”

“Awful enough,” Sophronia said. “But worse if I am obliged to work with Mr. Withers, the other partner of my husband’s estate. I find Mr. Bint exceedingly difficult to work with, but Mr. Withers simply ignores my existence entirely.”

As Lily was a gently bred young lady, she too would find gentlemen ever shutting doors to her, ostensibly for her own care. Sophronia had never been able to concede to let others look after her best interests, despite Aunt’s well-meant efforts.

“I recall meeting him while he was here for the reading of the will.” Lily nodded. “I did not find him a very obliging sort.”

Sophronia snorted. “Very few do, unless they are someone he wishes to cozen for their influence or their money. He attempted to obstruct the disposal of Henry’s possessions at every turn, though the will was quite clear.”

Withers and Bint, of course, had wanted Soph’s fortune for the bank, or for themselves. They saw no reason that the fruits of their labors should support the relict of their revered predecessor, particularly since she lived at a forgettable distance.

If she were in London, beneath their very noses, they would be forced to reckon with her. And Sophronia could establish how she meant for their relationship to go on, which was very straightforward in its function: she would request the funds she required at appropriate intervals, and the bank that the Hinton family had established and governed for three generations would supply her needs without demurral and without dithering.

She felt a spark of her old spirit returning, the tiniest shard of that bright, determined girl she had been so long ago. She had a purpose now. Hinton House was an enormous if very handsome pile of bricks, refashioned by her husband to please his new bride and adorning with modern fashions the bones of gracious age. Behind those bays of windows lay four stately reception rooms, a music room and a library, and ten bedrooms for family and guests, besides accommodations in the attics for over a dozen staff. There were blocks of stables for horses she did not have, kitchen gardens as well as pleasure gardens, a grotto, an orchard, an orangery, a fish pond, and a lovely view of the Hungerford Downs.

Hinton had fortified this house as a country retreat for his family, but despite his efforts, he had never succeeded in breeding sons and daughters to inherit. And Sophronia would die of loneliness if she had to live in this cavernous house by herself, like Dorothy Popham of Littlecote.

She might be an independent sort, but she wasn’t made to be solitary.