The Miser of Mayfair: A Novel of Regency England - Being the First Volume of A House for the Season

by M. C. Beaton

  The fact was that that cautious misogynist had decided to keep away from Fiona Sinclair until such time as he received news of the respectability or lack of it of her background. All his pet theories about bloodlines and care in marriage were at risk. He felt Fiona had bewitched him. She was like a sickness in his blood, and it enraged him that he should be so held in thrall by a mere girl.

  So Lord Harrington, the one person who might have stepped in to warn Fiona before she fell under Sir Edward’s spell, was off the scene, and the other, his friend, Mr. Toby Masters, had gone with him.

  The second ace the fates dealt Sir Edward was that the maid at Number 67 Clarges Street, Alice, caught measles, the latest scourge of London, which was almost more dreaded than cholera. Suitors, learning of the plague at Number 67, kept away, contenting themselves by sending poems and bouquets. Sir Edward had had measles and was therefore in no danger, but he did not mean to tell Fiona that.

  The other ace handed to him was Sir Andrew Strathkeith. Mr. Sinclair, feeling that nothing could be done to push Fiona out of the nest while there was measles in the house, had found consolation in carousing with Sir Andrew from sunup to sundown. He had also come to the conclusion that Fiona was able to take care of herself, especially when he opened his strongbox and found even more money had been added to it. He conveniently forgot to remind her he had forbidden any more gambling.

  Made selfish by strong liquor and a return to his old hedonistic ways, Mr. Sinclair left Fiona to nurse the maid. That she should do so personally when she could have easily had hired a nurse did not strike Mr. Sinclair as strange. He had known of many Scottish ladies who had devotedly nursed their servants, Scottish households being more democratic than English establishments.

  So everything stood fair for Sir Edward.

  Perhaps the only other person who felt that there was some good coming out of Alice’s illness was Joseph. Although in his heart of hearts, he enjoyed the easy democracy of the hard times in the servant’s hall, he was a great stickler for appearances outside. The Running Footman was the social centre of Joseph’s world and, finicky and oversensitive, he felt that Luke’s courtship of a housemaid diminished him, and therefore diminished his friend, Joseph, in the eyes of the upper servants who frequented the pub.

  So when Luke gave Joseph posies of flowers and notes to take to Alice in the sick room, Joseph gave them to Jenny instead, fighting down his guilt by telling himself that he was preventing Luke from social ridicule. Jenny blushed as she accepted the flowers and notes, assuming the fickle footman had transferred his affections from Alice to herself.

  He dreaded Luke finding out the trick he had played, but Joseph felt that Luke would thank him one day.

  In an age when it was believed that jaundice was cured by swallowing nine live lice every morning, and that a frog tied to the neck stopped nosebleeds, it was as well for Alice that Fiona had met several of the great Scottish doctors of the time who had not been too high in the instep to do charitable work at the orphanage when there was an epidemic—which there frequently was.

  Many doctors, such as Abernethy—who had told an overindulgent alderman to cure his problems by going home and learning to live on sixpence a day, and earning it—had come to believe in the efficacy of a good diet. MacGregor, wooed by Fiona’s soft voice and courteous ways, had become her devoted slave and brewed all the herbal potions she suggested without a murmur. Fresh fruit and vegetables began to appear regularly on the servants’ table, and Rainbird had instructions to dose them all with a spoonful of cod liver oil every day.

  Little Lizzie, standing on tiptoe one morning to peer into the greenish glass above the fireplace in the servants’ hall, saw with a kind of wonder that her spots had disappeared. Fresh air was important, insisted Miss Sinclair. Mr. Rainbird was instructed to take his small staff walking in the parks as soon as their duties were over.

  Weak and listless, Alice nonetheless seemed to be over the worst of her fever and disfigurement by the time Sir Edward Kirby arrived on the scene. Fiona, who did not know Lord Harrington was out of town, had bitterly assumed him to be as afraid of the infection as all the rest.

  Normally she would not have received any gentleman with Mr. Sinclair gone from the house, but she was so grateful to Sir Edward for his kindness and courage that she entertained him for a whole half hour. It was hard to tell his age because of his cherubic, youthful appearance, but he had travelled a great deal and was able to tell Fiona many strange tales of his journeys in the Ottoman Empire.

  He called again the following day. He was merry, he was amusing, and he seemed very harmless. Fiona began to forget about Lord Harrington.

  And Rainbird began to worry.

  Although he made sure that the door to the parlour was always left open during Sir Edward’s visits and that either Joseph or himself was stationed outside in the hall, Rainbird felt he was not doing enough to protect Miss Fiona. He decided it was time to go to The Running Footman, that centre of gossip, and find out more.

  Joseph did not notice him coming in. He was happily engaged in talking to Luke. Luke, Rainbird noticed idly, had a face like a fiddle. He heard his name and saw the stately Blenkinsop at the other end of the tap.

  After exchanging courtesies, both men got down to the serious upper servants’ business of gossiping about their betters. Lady Charteris, who often bragged about the discretion and loyalty of her servants, would have been appalled to hear her affair with a certain Mr. Johnson so freely aired.

  Both men were drinking shrub. Rainbird ordered and paid for another couple of tankards, and said casually, “Sir Edward Kirby has been a recent visitor.”

  “Ah, well, he would, wouldn’t he,” said Blenkinsop ponderously. “Stands to reason.”

  “Why?”

  “ ‘Cos he likes them young and virginal,” said Blenkinsop. “They call him The Debutantes’ Ruin. Wonderful how he does it. There was that Miss Pallister who was the reigning beauty back in 1805. He had her. Terrible scandal it was. He left the country, and Mr. Pallister had to double the dowry to get her wed.”

  “Disgraceful!” said Rainbird, appalled.

  “Well, he’s a bit of a Don Joon,” said Blenkinsop tolerantly. “ ’S all right for the gentlemen to be wild. Now, when a lady stoops to folly, that’s another matter, and, believe me, I do not think I can go on working for her ladyship. A man of my respectability must need look elsewhere, Mr. Rainbird.”

  “They don’t seem to work you hard,” pointed out Rainbird, although his mind was working furiously. “Both you and Luke are in here a lot.”

  “They’re often away, that’s why. They’re staying over in Kensington tonight,” said Mr. Blenkinsop. “At Mr. Johnson’s.” He drooped one fat eyelid. “My lord Charteris hasn’t any idea of what’s going on under his nose. Mind you, they haven’t shared the same bed for ten years.”

  There was a crash behind them as Luke leapt to his feet and overturned his chair. “It can’t be true,” he said fiercely. “I won’t believe it.”

  The tall footman stamped out. Rainbird called Joseph over. “What have you been saying?” he asked.

  “Luke’s had a bit too much to drink,” muttered Joseph, with a cautious eye on Mr. Blenkinsop. “I told him Featherbed would win at Newmarket but he would have it that Prime ’Un would come in first.”

  Rainbird did not believe Joseph for a minute, but he was too worried about Fiona and Sir Edward Kirby to do other than resolve to get to the bottom of Luke’s distress another time.

  Rainbird demanded an audience with Miss Sinclair as soon as he got back. He told her of Sir Edward’s vile reputation.

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona. “But I prefer to make my own decisions as to the character of my friends. Sir Edward is the only person in London who has scorned the fear of infection to see me.” Rainbird would have protested, but she held up her hand. “No, Mr. Rainbird. And no more plots to secure the heart of Lord Harrington. I never want to see him
again.”

  But Rainbird did not believe her. It struck him that if he told Lord Harrington of Sir Edward’s courtship then the earl might feel obliged to rush to the rescue. With luck, he might be jealous.

  He accordingly set out for Hanover Square through the hot, dusty, smelly streets. The heat of the day had been wicked. It was rumoured that Napoleon had hired magicians to cause England to toast like a biscuit.

  The streets were not well scavenged, and there were only sewers in the main thoroughfares. A watering cart went past, chased by a swarm of half-naked ragged children. The water poured from a perforated wooden box hung below the axle tree of the cart.

  Rainbird began to dream of a post in the country—some mansion surrounded by cool green trees far from the smells of London with its defective drainage and festering graveyards. Disease lurked everywhere. Miss Fiona had insisted that all drinking water be boiled. MacGregor had tried to protest until Miss Fiona had drawn the cook a neat diagram she had copied from one of the newspapers, which showed that the drinking-water pumps in London houses were perilously close to the cesspools.

  An unusual woman, Miss Fiona, thought Rainbird. She should have been an aristocrat with plenty of money so that her brains and modern ideas would not be considered strange. An aristocrat was a pioneer of new ideas: a commoner was stark raving mad.

  Rainbird knocked on the door of Lord Harrington’s town house. He was hoping for a chat with a friendly butler, but the fat, disapproving face that faced him through a crack in the door changed his mind.

  “Miss Sinclair’s butler,” said Rainbird in his most pompous tones, “has a letter of hand to deliver to Lord Harrington.”

  “His lordship is at Harrington Court,” said the butler. “In Kent,” he added gloomily, as if wishing the estate further. “I will take the note.”

  “I must deliver it personally,” said Rainbird, backing away, because he did not have any such note.

  “Please yerself,” said the fat butler suddenly and venomously, and slammed the door.

  Rainbird made his way slowly back to Clarges Street. The servants’ hall was hot and suffocating. Mrs. Middleton was drooping over a piece of sewing.

  “Come for a walk with me, Mrs. Middleton,” said Rainbird.

  Lizzie looked up wistfully. She had enjoyed the walks in the parks, but that day Rainbird had shown no sign of taking the servants out.

  “I’m sorry, Lizzie,” said Rainbird. “Go and sit on the steps if your work is done, and get a bit of air. What I have to say to Mrs. Middleton is private.”

  Mrs. Middleton was in high excitement as she stepped out on Mr. Rainbird’s arm. She hoped passersby would take them for a married couple. Tremulous hope began to rise in her spinster breast as Rainbird led her into the cool shade of the trees in Green Park and said he was looking for a “quiet spot.” “God give me the courage not to repulse his advances,” prayed Mrs. Middleton.

  When they were seated on a bench, at first she could not quite take in what Rainbird was saying because sharp disappointment made her deaf to everything other than the fact that the butler was not making any sort of advances or proposals whatsoever. She gave a resigned little sigh. Mrs. Middleton was thirty-nine with a face like an anxious rabbit. She had taken the title of “Mrs.” as soon as she had entered service. She had asked Rainbird to repeat what he had said and at last she was able to grasp he was worried about Miss Fiona and Sir Edward.

  Mrs. Middleton soon forgot about her spinsterish state as she learned of Sir Edward’s wicked reputation. The fact that Rainbird was asking for advice gave her a comfortable glow.

  “Mr. Sinclair is deaf and blind to anything these days,” said Rainbird. “My shoulders are aching with the strain of carrying him upstairs to bed o’ nights. He hasn’t drawn a sober breath since he met that Sir Andrew Strathkeith.”

  “But Lord Harrington … has Miss Fiona confided her feelings to you?”

  Rainbird shook his head. That scene in Piccadilly where Fiona had revealed her true background would never be told to anyone. “All Miss Fiona said,” he replied, sighing, “is that she is no longer interested in the earl. What her feelings are towards Sir Edward, she has not told me. But her eyes light up when she sees him. Lord Harrington is down on his estates in Kent, so it’s not as if he can even be made jealous.”

  “Then we will write to him,” said Mrs. Middleton firmly.

  “Servants don’t go writing to earls,” pointed out Rainbird.

  “We’ll send an anonymous letter by the mail coach,” said Mrs. Middleton. “If he has a spark of feeling towards Miss Fiona, then that should bring him running back.”

  But a day before the anonymous letter arrived, Lord Harrington received a long letter from the Edinburgh lawyers, who pointed out dryly that it had been remarkably easy to find out all about the Sinclairs, Edinburgh still being a small town compared to London, and everyone in it making it their business to know about everyone else.

  It was all there. Fiona was a nameless baby left on the steps of St. Giles, taken into the orphanage where she had later been employed as a drudge, adopted by Mr. Jamie Sinclair, that late great philanthropist who had made it his business to give said orphan his name and all the benefits of a genteel education, although he had adopted the girl as his ward rather than as his daughter. Said Fiona left to one, Mr. Roderick Sinclair, brother to Mr. Jamie, a retired lawyer, a profligate, low on funds, and hard on drinking.

  Mr. Roderick had sold up and left for the south with Fiona Sinclair, saying he was going to put her on the Marriage Market. Lord Harrington’s lips curled in distaste. What a pair of adventurers they were, the one as bad as the other. And yet he could not think of Fiona as other than the virginal girl she was puffed off to be. Clever and cunning she might be, but he was experienced enough to recognise and remember the innocence behind the warmth and passion.

  He was grateful to the lawyers, he told himself, for exorcising the obsession that was Fiona Sinclair. If he had found out such details about her past and they were obviously so easy to find, then others would do the same.

  Although he did not want her for himself—for how could he now?—he did not, on the other hand, want to stand back and perhaps see her reputation ruined, leaving her no choice but to join the ranks of the demi-monde.

  After some thought, he wrote to his lawyers and suggested they spend as much as they liked to blot out Miss Sinclair’s questionable birth. They were to bribe anyone necessary to establish that Fiona Sinclair had been a relative of Mr. Jamie and Mr. Roderick and that her birth was everything that was respectable. A heavy donation to the orphanage should do the trick. It had been a long-lost relative Mr. Jamie had taken from the orphanage, not some nameless bastard. After he had sent off these instructions, he felt free of Fiona Sinclair.

  The weather was incredibly hot, and he was drawing up plans to convey water from the lakes on the estate to the surrounding fields. It was absorbing work, and he returned to it gratefully. London, the Season, and Fiona Sinclair faded away.

  The next day, he returned from his labours accompanied by his estates manager. Both men were muddied and tired. The earl rang for wine and then settled down to study plans of channels and pipes and ditches.

  When the manager had left, the earl was about to go and change out of his working clothes when his eye fell on the morning post, which he had not yet opened. He hesitated. Toby would be back soon from a fishing expedition—although how he hoped to catch anything in this weather was a mystery—and it would be pleasant to settle down to an evening’s conversation unmarred by any further land or business worries.

  The long windows were all open to let in as much air as possible. Flies hummed over the gallipots in the corners of the room. The cesspool would need to be drained. This was not the weather to put off such a task.

  One of the letters caught his eye. It was sealed with a plain blob of red wax and his name was neatly printed on it in capital letters. He sat down and opened it. He read, Miss Fiona Sinc
lair is in danger of being ruined by Sir Edward Kirby. A Well Wisher.

  He did not care, he told himself savagely. She and her protector were both swindlers. She had probably written the letter herself.

  Lizzie sat demurely on the narrow area steps and turned her little snub nose up to the evening air. After a while, she felt she was being watched, and looked up. Luke, Lord and Lady Charteris’s footman from next door, was staring down at her. She blushed and looked down. Such a grand personage as Luke would not want to be seen talking to a mere scullery maid.

  “Hey, you,” said Luke.

  “Yes, Mr. Luke,” said Lizzie, standing up and bobbing a curtsy.

  “Come here a minute.”

  Lizzie went up the steps and stood shyly at the top.

  “Where’s Joseph?”

  “Cleaning the silver,” said Lizzie. “He come in five minutes ago.”

  “How is Alice?” asked Luke, seeming to choke out the words.

  “She is better, Mr. Luke, and nigh recovered, thanks to our Miss Fiona, who has nursed her night and day. Jenny is in good spirits, too.”

  “Why do you say that? Has Jenny been sick as well? She’s the chambermaid, ain’t she?”

  Anxious to please this magnificent young man, Lizzie said boldly, “Jenny was ever so pleased with the flowers you sent.”

  A slow tide of red mounted up Luke’s neck. “I sent those flowers to Alice,” he grated.

  Lizzie looked at him in horror. Luke reached out, caught her thin arm, and twisted it painfully behind her back. “Has Alice been with a man?”

  “No,” whispered Lizzie, blushing. “How could she? Mr. Rainbird is ever so strict about callers. He don’t mind you …”

  Luke gave her a shake. “Joseph told me in The Running Footman she lay with Palmer.”

  Lizzie looked up at him in mute misery.