Miss Fiona's Fancy (The Royal Ambition Series Book 3)

by M C Beaton

  Her voice trailed away. For once her father was not paying her the slightest attention. He was gazing eagerly, almost greedily, at the Duchess of Gordonstoun.

  “Are you sure,” he asked, “that Fiona could attract a rich fortune? It all seemed possible while we were still in Strathglass, but London is full of pretty girls who are also blessed with good dowries.”

  “If you let me take her about the Season at first,” said the duchess, “and if you let Lizzie set her an example, then I am sure Fiona will ‘take’ very well.”

  “I am sure Mama is all I need as chaperone,” said Fiona hotly, but her parents were looking hopefully at the duchess. Lady Grant knew her husband had dipped deep at the tables. He had lost money before, but always in Scotland to a friend or neighbor to whom one could appeal for a certain length of time to settle the account.

  But only Sir Edward knew the exact extent of his losses. He owed Lord Alvanley £15,000—and unless Fiona’s prospects were good, he had nothing but his home and his lands to offer the moneylenders by way of security. He avoided Fiona’s angry gaze, and said, “That would be very kind of you. A good marriage is just what this family needs.”

  Fiona bit her lip and decided to hold her tongue until the formidable duchess had left. But no sooner had the Duchess of Gordonstoun fussed out into the night and Fiona immediately began to put her case than she realized her parents had hardened themselves against her pleas for the first time. It was evident to Lady Grant that Fiona was her husband’s last hope. And much as she loved her only child, Sir Edward, as always, came first in her affections.

  With unusual harshness, Lady Grant silenced her daughter by telling her not to be such a silly chit and sent her to bed.

  Fiona lay awake for a long time, furious. It was not the fact that her parents expected her to make a good marriage that hurt—she would have found it strange had they expected less of her—it was that they had surrendered her up to the care of the Duchess of Gordonstoun and to Lizzie Grant. If only I could gamble like Papa, thought Fiona miserably. I am sure I would be lucky. There are gambling clubs for women, but unmarried girls like myself do not get elected and no gambling lady of the ton would dream of accepting my IOUs and I have no money with which to play cards or dice.

  The door of the bedroom quietly opened and Christine Grant, the maid, came in. “I saw your candle burning,” she said softly, “and wondered whether I could fetch you something.”

  Fiona struggled up against the pillows and looked curiously at this other accidental Grant daughter. These “accidental” offspring were a normal feature of Highland life and Fiona realized with a start she had never bothered to wonder about the fathers of these half-relatives.

  Christine, unlike Lizzie, looked very Highland. She had masses of dark hair, a creamy skin, and steady gray eyes.

  “Christine,” said Fiona, “do you know Lizzie Grant?”

  “Her what works i’ the dressmakers? I saw her but once.”

  “Whose child is she?”

  “Your uncle’s. Sir Edward’s brother, Charles, over at Aviemore.”

  Fiona wondered why she had not made the connection before. Lord Charles Grant was plump and fair and no more like the other members of the clan than his illegitimate daughter.

  “And the mother?”

  “I do not know, miss. ’Tis the same in my own case. Most grand families give the lassies a pension to bring up the child, but the Grants always took the child away after it was born into their own household.”

  “Who is your own father, Christine?” asked Fiona, and then wondered with a stab of fear whether Christine might prove to be her own half-sister.

  “Thomas Grant of Speyside.”

  “And was he kind to you?”

  “I never saw him. I was brought up and schooled with his own daughters and then when I was old enough I was sent as a servant to Sir Edward’s household.”

  “Did that not strike you as hard?” asked Fiona. “To be educated as a lady and condemned to be a servant?”

  “Oh, no.” Christine smiled lazily in her usual amiable way. “I always knew what I was, a bastard. I would have had a dismal time of it most other places. I have cause to be grateful to the Grants.”

  “But don’t you often wonder about your mother?”

  Christine laughed and settled herself comfortably on the end of Fiona’s bed. “I’ll tell you a secret, miss. I know who my mother is. You can’t keep a thing quiet in the Highlands. She’s Jessie Blythe, one of the fishwives at the Helvendale market in Cromarty. I’m just one of many by different fathers. She’s a bold coarse woman who’s overfond of the whisky. It’s better this way.”

  “And what of Lizzie? If everyone knows everything, surely people know the identity of her mother.”

  “No, that’s the odd thing,” said Christine, “there’s never been a word about that. Lord Charles rode off one day and came back carrying the baby. He would not even tell his lady where he got Lizzie and who by.”

  Fiona sighed. “Marriage does seem to be a dreary affair, Christine.”

  “Only for the upper set,” said Christine cheerfully. “I shall wed a Highlander of my own station and he will be loyal to me. Is that what troubles you, miss… marriage?”

  Fiona sat up and hugged her knees. “It’s like this, Christine. The Duchess of Gordonstoun is to have the launching of me and she has said that Lizzie Grant is to be my companion.”

  “And Sir Edward and my lady agreed?”

  “Yes. I fear Papa is gambling again, and they need me to make a rich marriage.”

  “Oh, with your appearance you’ll have no trouble at all,” said Christine. “Pay this Lizzie no heed. Once you are suitably engaged, you can get rid of her.”

  “It may seem very odd,” said Fiona cautiously, “but I would rather not have to marry. I am much luckier at cards than Papa. If only I could gamble!”

  “It’s different I should think,” said Christine, “playing cards for mountains of guineas instead of playing with me for imaginary money. Besides, I hear tell that in the ladies’ clubs, they mark the cards.”

  “Oh, if only I could go home,” said Fiona wretchedly. “If only I had not been born a woman.”

  Christine reached behind her and plumped up Fiona’s pillows. “Don’t fret, Miss Fiona,” she said. “Look at it this way—marriage is a lottery, and an amazing amount of young ladies win the prize, love and money.”

  “Love? Does it exist outside books?”

  “Oh, yes, miss, indeed it does.”

  “And how do you know, Christine? Are you in love?”

  “That’s enough, miss,” said Christine. “You ask too many questions. Now, what can I get you to settle you for the night?”

  “I don’t know,” said Fiona. “I don’t think anything can settle me this night. Oh, I know. Look in the drawer over there and you’ll find a pack of cards. We’ll play for hundreds and hundreds of guineas, just as if we were rich ladies.”

  “Very well, miss,” said Christine. “But don’t keep me awake all night!”

  So Christine and Fiona forgot their troubles as they gambled by candlelight on top of the bedcover, laughing and teasing each other like old friends.

  Only once during the night did Fiona remember that handsome man who had been the unwitting cause of bringing Lizzie Grant closer into her life. But she shrugged and thought with all the superstition of the true gambler that the gentleman was one of those people like black cats that one should never allow to cross one’s path.

  THREE

  Despite her addiction to gambling, Fiona was a levelheaded girl.

  She awoke late the next day, determined to do her best for the Grant family, even if that best meant enduring the chaperonage of the Duchess of Gordonstoun and Lizzie Grant.

  Lizzie moved in. She was very quiet, always sewing something or knitting or tatting. She had very little conversation, but such as she had took the form of humbly chiding Fiona when she thought Miss Grant was too forward
and bold.

  Fiona contrived to rub along very well with Lizzie by paying her scant attention. When not out and about, Lizzie spent her time reading to Lady Grant and soon became popular with that undemanding lady.

  After attending the playhouse, the opera, and several concerts, Fiona began to become acquainted with some of the other debutantes. It was not as if she could be really friendly with any of them, she thought sadly. They were all preparing for one thing, to find a husband during the Season, and were wary of a beauty like Fiona Grant. Each saw in the other debutante a possible rival. But Fiona became something of a favorite with them—as much as they could make a favorite of any pretty rival. Her open friendliness and unaffected gaiety drew them to her.

  The Duchess of Gordonstoun had told Fiona that as morals were very strict in the ton, she must never reveal poor Lizzie’s bastard status, but always refer to her as “cousin.” Fiona good-naturedly agreed, for much as she disliked Lizzie, she felt sorry for the girl for having been born out of wedlock.

  Through listening to gossip, Fiona put together a list of the most eligible men in London. Although many gentlemen had already appeared to be attracted to her, she could not be quite sure how popular she was going to be with them until her first London ball. That would be the acid test.

  Her gambling fever was now dormant. The strain on her father’s face showed the Grant family fortunes were still at low ebb. Fiona began to wish her father had a less expensive Family Curse, like drunkenness or a passion for collecting objets d’art.

  By the eve of her first ball, Fiona had become accustomed to the duchess’s hectoring ways and Lizzie’s meek and sly looks.

  She felt she was going into battle. All the calls and concerts and chatter had been mere military training.

  The first setback came when Christine took her ball gown, only arrived that day from the Misses Hatton, from its tissue paper and exclaimed in dismay.

  Fiona, sitting at her toilet table brushing her hair, said over her shoulder, “What is the matter, Christine?”

  “I think they’ve sent the wrong gown,” said Christine. “Only look. It’s red!”

  Fiona swung around on her stool. Christine shook out the gown and held it up.

  It was of red silk, flaming red, uncompromising red.

  Fiona got up and surveyed the line, the low neckline, the puffed sleeves, and the deep flounces.

  “The style is the same as Lizzie chose for me,” said Fiona, “but it was to be white muslin, not red silk. Go and ask Lizzie what happened.”

  Christine disappeared, only to return some ten minutes later looking puzzled. “Lizzie is already dressed and belowstairs with her grace. I tried to tell them about the gown being an unsuitable color, but her grace snapped at me—you know how she does, ‘If Lizzie chose it, then Fiona may be assured it is in perfect taste.’ I don’t understand it. All the other debutantes will be in pastel colors or white. Lizzie is wearing the finest white muslin gown you’ve ever seen.”

  Fiona sighed. “Put it on me, Christine, and let us see how it looks. But I have red lights in my hair, and I do think the effect is going to be quite awful.”

  Christine helped her into the gown and then stood back while Fiona went to the long mirror to see the result.

  “Oh, miss,” said Christine, “you look beautiful, but, well, like one of those dangerous women.”

  “You mean I look like a tart,” said Fiona. The gown was wickedly seductive. It clung to her body, showing off her deep-bosomed figure. Fiona felt she did not look like herself, but like someone more worldly and sophisticated. It was a pleasurable feeling, like finding a mask to hide behind, a role to play. “You know, Christine,” said Fiona meditatively, “I feel Lizzie made the mistake deliberately. I think she meant me to look dreadful. If that is the case and the duchess is shocked, it may be the means of removing her from my house. On the other hand, I do not wish to destroy my chances. Can we make this ensemble a little more jeune fille, do you think?”

  Christine put her head on one side, and then said, “It is quite correct for young ladies to wear flowers in their hair. Your mama has a set of very pretty white silk flowers, very tiny, like jasmine. I could make a garland for your hair.”

  “The very thing. Quickly. We will be late if we take much longer.”

  If the duchess had seen the full glory of Fiona’s gown before they left the Grant mansion, then Fiona would most certainly have been ordered to change it. And that, thought Fiona, as she arrived downstairs with her gown covered by a cloak, was surely what Lizzie intended. But then, Lizzie would get the blame. So why?

  Lizzie’s eyes fastened for a moment on the ethereal coronet of jasmine decorating Fiona’s thick chestnut hair. She cast her eyes down and opened her pale lips. But before she could speak, the duchess said, “Vastly pretty, those flowers. Lizzie can be trusted to produce the best effect.”

  Fiona looked cynically at Lizzie, waiting to see if she would stand there and meekly take the praise for something that had been Christine’s idea, and that is just what Lizzie did.

  The ball was being given by Lord and Lady Bellamy at their town house in Park Lane. Unlike most of the other town houses, which were quite small—the aristocracy not wishing to waste money on accommodation for only a few months of the year—the Bellamy home was vast and had a real ballroom instead of one improvised out of a chain of saloons.

  The ladies were ushered into an anteroom to leave their cloaks. The duchess only had a shawl, which she handed to a maid and left the room, saying she would meet the girls in the hall. And so she still had not seen Fiona’s red gown.

  Lizzie patted her hair in the mirror and said in a whisper, “I had better join her grace. Do not be long, Fiona. It is not good manners to keep people waiting,” and then sidled off.

  Fiona sent a horrible scowl after her retreating back, and then sat down at one of the mirrors and poked a stray curl back into place.

  She was immediately surrounded by some of the debutantes she had already met, all exclaiming over her gown and telling her she was “too vastly daring for words!”

  “Oh, since we all have to get married,” said Fiona, “I may as well make my mark at this first ball.” She fished in her reticule and brought out her list of eligibles. “See!” she said, holding it up. “I am well prepared. Do but look and tell me if I have missed anyone.”

  Three of the girls came forward, put their heads together and studied the list. There was little Miss Euphemia Perkins, only sixteen and surely too young to have a Season. There was Lady Penelope Yarwood, harsh-faced and horsy, but already engaged to Colonel Henry Buxtable of the Blues. And there was plain Letitia Helmsdale who was rumored to be the richest heiress in London.

  “Oh,” squeaked Miss Perkins. “You have forgot the Marquess of Cleveden.”

  “Yes,” boomed Lady Yarwood. “Can’t ignore him.”

  “There’s no hope there,” said Miss Helmsdale, shaking her corkscrew curls. “He’s thirty-seven, he’s never married, and he’s never even been in love!”

  “Pooh! Must I chase an old man?” mocked Fiona.

  “He’s so handsome,” sighed Miss Perkins. “But I would bet any money in the world that he would never marry.”

  “You would?” Fiona sat up straight, her eyes gleaming. Here were three rich young ladies. All her gambling fever came roaring back. Surely a man as old as thirty-seven would be an easy target. When they were as old as that, thought Fiona naively, all they wanted was a pretty girl to sit and listen to all their boring old reminiscences. Various elderly gentlemen had already fallen over themselves trying to scrape an acquaintance with her when she rode in the Park. It wasn’t like going after a young man.

  “I bet you,” said Fiona Grant, “I can get this Marquess of Cleveden to propose to me before the Season is over.”

  Lady Yarwood laughed. “How much?” she asked curiously.

  Fiona took a deep breath. “Three thousand pounds,” she said slowly.

  “Let m
e see,” said Miss Perkins, amazed. “If he proposes to you, we each pay you three thousand pounds. If he does not, then you must pay us three thousand each.”

  Fiona ignored the alarm bells screaming in her head.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Miss Perkins began to giggle. “You know, Fiona—I may call you that, may I not?—you are such fun. I have plenty of money of my own, so I say yes.”

  “Like taking money from a child,” said Lady Yarwood. “Oh, well, Fiona, the bet is on.”