The Fortune Hunters

THE FORTUNE HUNTERS, a Regency by Carola Dunn

Jessica Franklin came to Bath to marry a rich man--and she was delighted to find handsome Matthew Walsingham with every qualification. Matthew, however, had come to Bath for the same purpose, regarding Miss Franklin as the perfect wife--wealthy and beautiful. When they discovered the truth, they had to reassess the situation--and their hearts. Originally published by Harlequin

Jessica's story:

Jessica gazed unseeing at her plate. "Mr. Scunthwaite wants to marry me."

After a moment of heavy silence her brother said tentatively, "I don't suppose..."

"Nathan, he's fifty and fat!"

"And shockingly vulgar," Miss Tibbett added.

"I see. Then of course that's out of the question." This time he took her hand. She knew the despair in his hazel eyes was mirrored in her own.

"Marriage!" said Miss Tibbett in a portentous voice. They both turned and stared at her. The long, narrow face bore a look of excitement usually reserved for the acquisition of a new volume of some obscure treatise on Roman Britain. As she nodded meaningfully, her spec­tacles, perched on top of her head, slid down to entan­gle themselves in loops of iron grey hair and the ribbons of her plain cambric cap. "That is the answer," she continued, fiddling in an absentminded way with the eyeglasses which now dangled over one ear. "I wonder that I did not think of it sooner."

"But Tibby, you agreed that I cannot possibly marry that dreadful man." As she spoke, Jessica moved around the table to assist in the disentanglement, a task she performed so frequently as to make it automatic.

"There is more than one fish in the sea. Thank you, dear." She returned the spectacles to her nose and peered over them as Jessica resumed her seat. "One of you must find a wealthy spouse."

Sunk in gloom, Nathan did not respond.

"That is all very well," Jessica objected, "but, though I don't mean to boast, most of the eligible gen­tlemen in the county have been my suitors at one time or another and the few rich ones are already wed."

"County Durham is a desert. We must go to Aquae Sulis!”

"To Bath? It's true that the heroines of novels are forever finding husbands there. I suppose there is no other reason for choosing that city?"

Miss Tibbett blushed. "I cannot deny an ulterior motive," she said guiltily. "I have longed this age to see the Roman remains. However, Bath has other advan­tages. The London Season is almost over, and besides, London is bound to be more expensive."

"And it is easier to gain entrée to Bath Society, I be­lieve." Jessica was beginning to consider the sugges­tion seriously. "The cost of post horses would be prohibitive, but we could go on the stage, and there must be cheap lodgings to be found."

"Oh dear no, that will never do. If you wish to at­tract the right sort of person, you must keep up ap­pearances."

"Yes, of course. I shall sell Great-Aunt Matilda's di­amonds and we shall do the thing in style."

"No!" Nathan exploded. "I cannot allow you to sell your most valuable jewels for my sake."

"They are too hideously old-fashioned to wear," Jessica pointed out. "Besides, it will be for my sake, too. I have no objection to catching a wealthy hus­band, just so he be amiable, and even if we fail it will be a famous adventure. You have been all the way to America, but I have never gone farther afield than Eboracum and Hadrian's Wall."

"Eboracum?" Nathan looked blank. He had spent fewer years under Miss Tibbett's tutelage than his sis­ter.

"The Roman name for York," the governess re­minded him.

He made an impatient gesture. "If you are willing to sell the diamonds, Jess, will they not bring enough to pay for the lease?" he asked.

"No, I had already thought of that and had them valued in Durham, but they would pay for a few weeks in Bath and even enable us to cut a dash." Jessica's ha­zel eyes sparkled at the prospect.

"I cannot countenance such deceit!" cried Nathan. "To put on a show so as to lure innocents into our net would be utterly dishonourable. I had rather resign myself to living in genteel poverty."

"So should not I." The sparkle in her eyes was now militant. "I don't mean to suggest that you should elope with an heiress without her parents' permission. If I am so lucky as to receive an offer from the right sort of gentleman, you may be sure I shall not accept it with­out revealing my true circumstances. Think of Langdale, Nathan. Can you bear to let it go, after it has been in the family for two centuries, without making every effort to keep it?"

"Of course not," he said wretchedly. "If only there was another way! Surely it would be enough for one of us to marry?"

"To be sure, but if we both make the attempt it will double our chances. You might succeed where I fail. On the other hand, if I am betrothed before you, then you can withdraw from the hunt. The search, I mean," she amended. "Hunt" sounded shockingly mercenary, and her brother's tender sensibilities must be spared.

"I wish I had not sold out," he groaned. "Perhaps I should re-enlist and dash over to Belgium to fight Boney."

"Nathan, no!" Jessica was aghast. "You have done your duty for your country and now it's time to think of yourself and your family."

"Don't worry, Jess, I'm tired of fighting." He man­aged to smile. "All I want is to settle down and raise sheep. It did not seem too much to hope for."

Matthew's story:

 

His aunt patted his arm. "I have often thought that your enthusiastic embrace of the amusements of Town was more of an attempt to forget the horrors of war than a defect of character."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Half his friends dead in the Peninsula and himself laid up for the better part of a year, not knowing if he would ever walk again—yes, the horrors of war was one way to describe it. "Dearest Aunt, you may just be right." His smile was crooked. "However, it's past time to put the wretched business behind me. I shall strive to become a useful citizen."

"That seems to be your best course," she said, laughing at his dismal tone, "unless you can find an heiress to marry."

His fork half way to his mouth, he stopped with an arrested look. "Now there is a famous notion. It will take some time to set up as an architect, so I might as well look about me for a rich bride in the meantime."

"Why not? Bath was said to be a fertile ground for fortune hunters in my youth. The living was cheaper and the competition less than in London."

She was teasing, but the more Matthew thought about it the more it seemed an excellent solution. At worst. Bath would provide superb buildings for him to study in pursuit of his new profession.

"And it's only fifteen miles," he said, "so I shan't spend a penny on post horses getting there."

"You really mean to do it?"

"Don't look so worried. Aunt. I've no intention of abducting my heiress should I be so lucky as to find one. All fair and square and above board." Well, nearly, he admitted to himself. If he was perfectly honest about his comparative poverty he would never meet an heiress in the first place. He'd have to put up a show. "I don't suppose it would be possible to stay at Uncle Horace's house on North Parade?"

"He never goes there," she said doubtfully, "since he blames the waters for ruining his digestion. Certainly they always made him bilious. He has really only kept the house because when there are no tenants I like to spend a few days there occasionally. In fact he was talking of selling it, and it is not let at present, I be­lieve."

"Be a dear and give me a letter to the housekeeper," he coaxed. "Is it still the same woman?"

"Yes. She always had a soft spot for you and never fails to ask after you. Very well, Matthew, I shall aid and abet you in this horrid scheme, and we must hope that my brother never comes to hear of it."

"On the contrary. I cannot think of anything more like to persuade him of my respect for money than to turn up with a wealthy wife on my arm."

"Possibly." She shook her head wryly. "I can let you have twenty pounds to keep the wolf from the door for the present."

"Bless you, but if I am to save the cost of lodgings by staying in North Parade, I can manage until quarter day. That's what is so infuriating about the whole busi­ness," he added with a rueful grin. "Uncle Horace is on his high ropes because of that wager—and I won it!"

Available for Nook, Kindle, and other ebook formats.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Fortune-Hunters-ebook/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-fortune-hunters-carola-dunn/

 

The Valley of the Shadow: out at last!

by Carola Dunn

The Valley of the Shadow came out last week. It is an Indie bookseller pick and on the USA TODAY Books: New and Noteworthy list.

 Here's a scene where my chief protagonist, Eleanor Trewynn, is trying to discover where the victims may have been abandoned to die:

 

The Tregeddles' cottage opened directly onto the narrow street. A large grey cat was asleep in the sun on the slate windowsill, its tail hanging down. The tip twitched. Teazle was usually very good with cats, but this was too much for her.

Barking, she reared up against the wall, dancing on her back legs. The cat whisked its tail away just in time and stood up, back arched, hissing and spitting. Naturally this incited Teazle to further frenzy.

As Eleanor pulled her away, the front door swung open.

"What the...!?" The small, wiry, weatherbeaten man recognized Eleanor. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Trewynn. Sounded like there was an Alsatian going for our Smoky. Quite a voice your little un's got, hasn't she?" He bent down and scratched under Teazle's chin. By now the Westie's rear end was wagging madly, while the cat was already apparently asleep, his tail carefully tucked up under his chin.

"I'm sorry. It was very naughty of her."

"No harm done. Out collecting, are you?" He peered into her basket. "Looks like you're doing nicely. Come in, come in. The wife was saying just now she has summat or other for your shop and she hoped you'd drop in soon."

Eleanor hesitated. He had his cap in his hand, apparently on the point of going out, and he was the one she really wanted to talk to. But as he waved her in, Teazle accepted the invitation, dragging on the lead. Taken by surprise, Eleanor followed. Abel Tregeddle shut the front door and came after them.

Naturally, Teazle headed straight to the kitchen. The door was open and she trotted in, Eleanor in tow. Mrs. Tregeddle, a stout woman busy at the kitchen table, looked round at the click of toenails on the lino.

"Mrs. Trewynn, how nice to see you. Set yourself down, do." She tossed a scrap of the meat she was chopping to Teazle. "We bin dying to hear what happened yest'day."

"I told Mrs. Trewynn as you got summat for her shop," Abel chided.

"I 'spect I can find something. You'll have a cuppa, Mrs. Trewynn." She filled the kettle at the sink and set it on the gas.

Eleanor was still sloshing about inside from the tea she'd already drunk, but Abel was more likely to stay and chat with a cup in his hand, she thought, so she accepted. Too late, she realised that having invented a donation to inveigle her in, he wasn't likely to leave before hearing about the rescue. Resigning herself to further liquid intake, she recounted the story again, her own minor part and what the others had told her.

All the talking was giving her a dry throat. When the tea was made, she sipped it gladly.

As before, she omitted the young man's race. She stressed the drama of Megan risking her life to save a stranger. "It's a beautiful spot, but dangerous. Do you know it, Mr. Tregeddle?"

"Yas," Abel admitted. "Took a boat in once, when I were a young duffer. But it's risky even at high tide in a calm sea. No use setting pots if you can't be sure when you'll be able to check 'em."

"A funny place to go for a swim," said his wife, "but these young lads'll do anything for a bit of a thrill. In a bad way, was he?"

"He was still unconscious when the ambulance took him away. But I heard later that he came round, just briefly, and he said something rather odd."

As one, the Tregeddles leant forward eagerly. "What'd he say, then?" asked Abel.

"He said his family were stranded in a cave. What no one can work out is how they reached the cave in the first place, and if they could get in, why can't they get out?"

"That's easy. Went in by boat, climbed out to explore, didn't tie it up secure. Landlubbers in a hired boat, could be. First thing a seaman learns is to be sure of his knots."

"Oh, yes, that might explain it. The awful thing is that the lifeboat won't be able to go looking for them because of the fog."

"Whereabout is this cave supposed to be?" he asked warily.

"The boy couldn't explain. It must be somewhere in Bossiney Cove, don't you think? He couldn't have survived a swim from farther away."

"Likely not."

"There are lots of caves. If they have to search all of them, I hate to think what condition the family will be in by the time they're found—if they're found. I've been told there are hidden caves, used by smugglers. I remember you saying, Mr. Tregeddle, there's still some smuggling going on."

"That's as may be."

"Suppose they chanced to come across one of the smugglers' caves, and that's where they're stuck? That could be why no one has seen or heard them. They might never be found."

Mrs. Tregeddle was aghast. "Oh, Abel, the whole family dead!"

Abel's lips set in a thin line.

Eleanor played what she hoped was her ace in the hole. "The boy said his mother is dying. Even if he was exaggerating, even if they find them in the end, any unnecessary delay—"

"Abel, his mam! You can't..." She faltered as her husband glowered at her.

"My niece risked her life." Eleanor spoke quietly. He met her eyes, and she held his gaze. "What would you risk? Information given to me in confidence would be passed to the authorities without any mention of where it came from." She paused. He looked down sulkily at the table, his weathered cheeks flushing. "What would you have to lose? A couple of convenient hiding-places. Against several lives."

Available from all booksellers and in ebook formats.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Carola Dunn, author of the Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries, the Cornish Mysteries, and over 30 Regencies. 

Anthem for Doomed Youth, the 20th Daisy Dalrymple Mystery, came out in 2011, but it's just been issued in paperback. This is the poem quoted at the beginning of the book, which lent me the title and inspired the story.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs--
The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers, the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk, a drawing-down of blinds.
                         

                Wilfred Owen

(killed in action just a week before the Armistice)

The UK edition

 On the whole my Daisy mysteries, set in the 1920s, are light-hearted little murder stories, but obviously this one has a serious theme. However Daisy's cheerful nature peeks through. In fact, the book divides into two interwoven threads, following Daisy and Alec through separate investigations which may--or may not--be connected. I'll give you a taste of each.

Here are Daisy and her friend Sakari:

DI Gant was not lying in wait, but as they reached the pudding course, a message was brought to them: He had arrived and wanted to see Daisy.

Daisy was speechless. She had thought herself safe for the day, though she should have considered the irregular hours worked by detectives. Somehow she hadn't expected Gant to stay on the job late. After all, he had abandoned the triple burial site before Alec even arrived there.

Sakari spoke for her. "Tell the inspector that Mrs Fletcher will receive him when she has finished her dinner."

"I've lost my appetite," said Daisy, pushing away her enormous slice of sponge cake layered with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

"Nonsense, Daisy. It will do him good to wait. If you let him spoil your meal, you give him a victory."

"We can't have that." Daisy took another look at the cake and decided it was still irresistible—worth lingering over, in fact. She savoured every bite.

After a twenty-minute wait, Detective Inspector Gant was even more irritable than earlier in the day. When Daisy and Sakari joined him and his silent acolyte in the writing room, he said rudely, "I don't need Mrs Prasad."

"But I do," said Daisy. "I'd be extremely uncomfortable shut up alone in here with two men who are virtual strangers."

"But we're police officers, madam!"

"So is my husband. Perhaps I should send for him to come and—"

"That won't be necessary," Gant conceded with a martyred air. "Mrs Prasad may stay."

As Sakari had already sat down and looked singularly immoveable, he had little choice, short of arresting her for obstruction. It was a near thing, though, when a waiter brought in the ladies' coffee, and Sakari decided she wanted a liqueur with it. Daisy was sure she was just being awkward, and she guessed Gant realised it too. His face turned an interesting shade of mauve.

"Daisy, will you have something? A Drambuie? I know it's your favourite."

"Lovely, thank you." Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. She could do with a bracer.

So Gant had to wait for the waiter to go off and return before he could start the interview. He paced round and round the writing table till Sakari said, "Do take a seat, Inspector. You are making me quite dizzy. If you insist on disturbing us at this hour, you must take us as you find us."

"It's only nine o'clock! And may I point out, I'd no intention of disturbing you." He sat down. "You're at liberty to leave!"

"Do you imagine I could rest easy," Sakari said soulfully, "while you interrogate my dearest friend?"

Daisy frowned at her irrepressible friend. Sakari sighed and fell silent. The waiter came in with the liqueurs and poured out their coffee.

"Anything else, madam?"

Sakari opened her mouth. Daisy and Gant waited on tenterhooks, but all she said was, "No, thank you. That will be all. For now."

Gant pursed his lips but managed to contain himself in the face of the final provocation. "Mrs Fletcher, all I want is for you to go over again exactly what you saw and did when you found the body."

"If you're hoping I'll remember some clue I didn't mention before, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. But here goes."

US edition

And here is her husband DCI Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard:


The butler announced him. A tall, lean man who had been standing staring out of a window, came forward to greet him, walking with the aid of a stick. He moved stiffly, but his shoulders were unbowed by age, his steel-grey hair still thick. Observing his lined face and liver-spotted hands, knowing the age of his son, Alec reckoned he must be in his seventies.

"Chief Inspector, Cheriton did not inform me of the purport of your visit, but I can only assume you bring bad news."

"I'm afraid so, sir. Won't you sit down?"

Sir Daniel raised his chin with an impertinence-depressing stare, then thought better of it. With a sigh and a faint, ironic smile, he said, "We none of us want to admit the influence of anno Domini, do we? Perhaps I will."

He moved to the table and took the seat at the end, motioning to Alec to join him. Alec was pulling out a chair when the door was flung open and a plump, fair girl-child burst in.

"Grandfather, they said there's a policeman—" She stopped dead on seeing Alec. "Oh!"

"You were not invited, Delia." The baronet's voice was icy. "I will not have you rushing about in this hoydenish manner."

"It's my daddy who's missing!" she cried. "You don't care."

"Of course I care."

"Then why didn't you—"

"Don't argue. Go back to your mother at once. You will be told what you need to know in due course."

He was unduly harsh, Alec thought, but it was none of his business and, in any case, nothing would make him relate the grim story in her presence. In fact, he was glad the girl's mother and grandmother were also apparently to be excluded.

Delia glared at her grandfather, then her face crumpled and she ran from the room, sobbing noisily.

"My apologies, Chief Inspector. I don't know what they teach at that school she goes to, but it's clearly not self-restraint."

The simple fact of his speaking thus to a stranger, and a mere policeman at that, showed him not half so cool and calm as he would have liked to appear. His face had taken on a greyish tinge Alec didn't like. He looked every minute of his age.

However, he continued abruptly, "Please go ahead. I assume your presence indicates that my son is dead."

Alec sat down. "Pending positive identification by a member of the family, sir, so we believe. All the evidence points that way. Have you a photograph?"

Sir Daniel was prepared. He handed over a studio portrait in a silver frame of an Army officer, a major—in his late thirties, at a guess—in dress uniform. "It's not very recent. We don't go in for family photography. Well?"

Army officers in uniform tend to look very alike, yet there was no doubt in Alec's mind. "I'm sorry, this strongly resembles the deceased. We're still required to have someone make a personal identification, I'm afraid."

He inclined his head in acceptance. "Regulations must be observed. I take it Scotland Yard would not be interested had Vincent died a natural death."

"Correct."

"May I know...what happened?"

After a brief internal debate, Alec said, "The information could materially affect our investigation, sir, but if you will give me your word—"

"You need not fear that I shall talk to the press," the baronet said with a touch of anger.

"I'm sure of that, sir, but I must have your assurance that you won't tell any of the family, even. No one at all."

"You have my word."

"Mr Halliday was shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous."

There was silence while Sir Daniel absorbed this. Then he said, "May I at least tell the family that he didn't suffer?"

"If you wish." Alec didn't add that Spilsbury said Halliday had been bound hand and foot for several hours before death. He had undoubtedly suffered physical discomfort and considerable mental distress.

Gone West - a Daisy Dalrymple Mystery by Carola Dunn

Excerpt from GONE WEST, a Daisy Dalrymple mystery, set in Derbyshire in 1926. Published January 2012 by St Martin's Minotaur. My website/blog is http://www.caroladunn.weebly.com/ and I'm on Facebook. So is Daisy, with her own page.

"Pink gin, sir?" Simon offered his father.
"Thank you, my boy." He looked at the doctor and said half laughing, half defensively, "No need to look like a stuffed turkey, Knox. I didn't have a drink with my lunch."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"You see, Mrs. Fletcher, cowboys are—or were in my day—a hard-drinking bunch, and the habit is hard to abandon. The hooch we used to drink was known as whisky, but they had only the name in common. As pond water to Malvern! To this day the very word brings back the taste, and I never touch anything that goes by the name of whisky."
Daisy didn't feel it incumbent upon her to comment on his drinking habits. "You actually worked as a cowboy, Mr. Birtwhistle?"
"For a few years. I went looking for adventure but I started life in America as a humble tout for a travelling quack. The English accent impressed the rubes—the local yokels. I'd stand up on the seat at the front of the wagon and give the spiel, and they'd be queuing up at the side to buy 'Dr. Pangloss's Potent Purple Pastilles, Patent Pending.'"
"Pangloss. Voltaire?" she asked cautiously.
"'All is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.' The chances of any of our marks having heard of Candide were extremely slim, but if they had, what could be better for their health than a little optimism?" Almost inaudibly he added, "It's what keeps me going."
Thinking it best to ignore this comment, Daisy said, "I hope the Potent Pastilles didn't actually kill anyone."
"Not in my time. They were made with 'the best butter.' Chicle, actually, the stuff they make chewing-gum from. Purple dye from beetroot and he wouldn't tell me what else. Useless, perhaps, but not deadly. We sold them in tins of twenty, to be taken one a day, no miracle cures to be expected till the entire course was finished."
Daisy laughed. "By which time you'd left town, to avoid being tarred and feathered."
"Of course. We headed west, and by the time we reached cowboy country I'd saved enough money to buy a decent horse. As I wanted to see the country, I moved from ranch to ranch, from Montana down to Old Mexico."
"Old Mexico?"
"As opposed to New Mexico, one of the United States."
"Oh yes. Alec—my husband—and I didn't have time to go there."
"You've been to America, Mrs. Fletcher?"
"Just a short visit, most of it spent in Washington and New York. But we flew across the country to Oregon and returned by train."
"You flew! You had a very different view from mine, then, crawling along at horse-speed. That must have been interesting."
"A lot of the scenery was beautiful from the air, but the aeroplane was so noisy and I was so cold, I wasn't able to appreciate it properly at the time. The view from the train was better, of course, but limited. You spent several years in the West, I gather. You must have loved the country to have stayed so long."
"I did, and do. I have a special fondness for New Mexico, which is where I met Ruby. She misses it. We always intended to go back some day for a visit, until this wretched illness overtook me. But we won't talk of that. Ruby was a school-marm, as they called it, in a one-horse town. I was a nearly penniless cow-hand. So I took my grub-stake to Nevada, went prospecting, and struck silver."
"Right away?" Daisy asked in surprise.
He laughed. "Not quite. But soon enough to make some of the old-timers look green. It was a nice seam of ore."
"What luck!"
"Yes, and if I'd worked it, I might have ended up richer, or I might have ended up dead. I didn't care to spend my time watching over my shoulder for claim-jumpers. In any case, the life of a miner didn't appeal, and Ruby was waiting—I hoped. So I sold out, went back to New Mexico, and got married. I was negotiating for some land when the news reached me, by what roundabout route I never did discover, that my father had died the previous year. Add the fact that New Mexico was suffering a serious drought, and I decided to head for home."
Glancing at Mrs. Birtwhistle, Daisy wondered whether she had had any say in the decision to leave her home and her country. She caught Daisy's eye and came over, looking anxious.
Daisy explained, "Mr. Birtwhistle's been telling me about his career, or careers, rather, in America, and how much he loved your part of the country."
"New Mexico is very beautiful. I miss it, especially when the winter rains set in here!" She laid a hand on her husband's shoulder. "But it just wasn't the right time to try to get a start in ranching. Even well-established people were in trouble because of the dreadful drought—not something you can imagine here in England. Also, there was Humphrey's family to be considered."
"He'd've done better to have stayed away." The muttered comment coming unexpectedly from behind Daisy made her jump. "We were doing very well without."
The dog, back in his spot on the hearthrug, creaked to his feet and moved stiffly to meet the speaker.
Birtwhistle's eyes briefly flickered towards the newcomer, then turned up to his wife. Her gaze was fixed on the intruder in an inimical stare. Birtwhistle raised his hand to cover Ruby's on his shoulder. She glanced down at him and nodded.
"Hello, Norman," she said in a neutral voice. "Let me introduce you. Mrs. Fletcher, this is Humphrey's brother, Norman."
Norman wore a baggy, shaggy tweed suit and an air of disgruntlement that had carved permanent lines into his face. Daisy added this to his sister Lorna's general put-upon-ness and realised that the Prodigal's return had not been welcomed by his siblings. Thirty years later, they still resented it. Did Humphrey now own Eyrie Farm, left to him by a father in a dynastic mood, or were the three forced uneasily to share?

Carola Dunn