Never Fall for Your Fiancee

Chapter Three

“I still don’t like it.” Diana had uttered the same sentence at least twenty times since they had left London. “It’s all a little convenient. Potentially dangerous and, frankly, wrong, if you want my opinion.”

Minerva didn’t. She wanted to read or gaze out of the window at the lush green countryside rushing by. Anything to avoid thinking about the ludicrous, yet undeniably lucrative, scheme she had got them involved in until they arrived at his house.

She was going to pose as a peer of the realm’s fiancée to prevent him from being caught out in a monstrous lie. Minerva didn’t need Diana’s scowl across the confined space of the carriage to feel uncomfortable about what they were about to do, because she was thoroughly ashamed for agreeing to it. Although, in her defense, she had only done so because things were dire.

The direst, in fact.

If her unexpected knight in shining armor hadn’t turned up when he had to prize the nine shillings and threepence out of Mr. Pinkerton’s pudgy hands, at this precise moment they could all be sleeping on the street. Participating in his little white lie would ensure they remained off the streets for years, and the brief interlude of living in the lap of luxury didn’t hurt either.

Diana folded her arms and glared. “When exactly, Sister dear, did we stoop so low?”

When you got sacked from the lending library for biting back at a customer and we could no longer afford the rent! Minerva petulantly thought, but didn’t say it. It was hardly fair in the grand scheme of things to solely blame Diana. Had she been in her sister’s worn-out shoes when the gentleman had called her a brainless idiot, she’d have probably done the same before common sense had kicked in. They were all too outspoken and stubbornly proud. When life left you nothing else, you had to be. And despite being the most recent nail in the Merriwell sisters’ coffin, Diana’s outburst was hardly the only thing responsible for their rapid descent further down the slippery slope of poverty toward destitution. Nor was it Diana’s fault Minerva had sold her integrity to a handsome but dubious man for the princely sum of forty pounds.

Forty pounds that she hoped would alleviate the shame she inwardly felt for having to sell her integrity in the first place.

Vee chewed on her lip nervously, reminding Minerva that her youngest sister, no matter how mature and studious she appeared on the surface, was still only seventeen. “Not to mention highly improper—three single, unchaperoned girls staying on the country estate of a bachelor.” Vee was a stickler for the genteel propriety she devoured in books, although the Lord only knew why, considering their reduced circumstances and distinct lack of hope for any worthy suitors. She stared down at her gloved hands. “We only have his word and that servant’s that he is the Earl of Fareham.”

“He had the bearing of an earl.” Not that Minerva had ever met one before, of course. Earls were few and far between in their part of London. Clerkenwell was the home of a declining number of watchmakers and reputable shopkeepers, a few more ne’er-do-wells and pickpockets, and a large proportion of the great unwashed. But it was cheap, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Regardless, whether he is or he isn’t, he is wealthy enough to afford this splendid carriage—and this is his spare carriage at that!”

Minerva realized she might be in danger of appearing a tad overwhelmed by the trappings of his wealth rather than being the usual sensible, level-headed oldest sibling in charge—albeit one who had been privately pondering Lord Fareham’s soulful eyes a little too much. She stared levelly at her sisters and presented some cold, hard facts. “I appreciate you both disapprove of my decision. I disapprove of it myself. However, considering our ongoing and miserable situation, frankly, only a fool would have turned down his lucrative proposal.”