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

by M. C. Beaton

  “Answer me,” said Luke, giving her arm a vicious wrench. “Did she?”

  “N-no,” sobbed Lizzie. “Alice hates Mr. Palmer, same as the rest o’ us.”

  “Tell Joseph I want to see him,” said Luke. “Now. Or I’ll throw you down the steps.”

  Crying, Lizzie stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Joseph was polishing the silver.

  “What’s up with you, Blubber Face?” asked Joseph.

  “Mr. Luke w-wants t-to see you right away,” gulped Lizzie.

  Joseph threw down the pot of rouge and the cloth with which he had been burnishing the teapot. “Why didn’t you say so right away?” he demanded. He took off his baize apron and put on his coat.

  “Please don’t go, Mr. Joseph,” begged Lizzie. “He’s found out …”

  But Joseph was already out the door and running up the stairs.

  MacGregor and Dave listened with interest to the shouts and yells and thuds and blows that were coming from the street above.

  “Just two footmen fighting.” MacGregor laughed. “Nothing to it, Lizzie. Don’t distress yourself.”

  But Lizzie sat and cried, holding her frail body with her thin arms.

  Then there was silence.

  Lizzie stood up as dragging steps could be heard coming down the kitchen stairs. Joseph crept into the kitchen. His coat was torn, his nose was pouring with blood, and his lip was cut. He slumped into a chair and for once made no protest as Lizzie cried and fussed over him, bathing his face and trying to comfort him by pointing out that his new livery was due to be delivered the following day.

  Rainbird and Mrs. Middleton came in and instantly demanded to know what was up with Joseph. With a pleading look at Lizzie, Joseph explained that he and Luke had had a falling out.

  Rainbird looked at the huge purple bruise that was beginning to show on Lizzie’s thin arm. “Where did you get that?” he snapped.

  “Mr. Luke,” whispered Lizzie, now too overset to do anything other than tell the truth. “He twisted my arm.”

  “Come back, MacGregor,” said Rainbird to the cook, who was about to charge out of the door. “I will handle this.” Rainbird made his stately exit.

  Never had the servants of Clarges Street, who often took the air of an evening when their masters and mistresses were at balls or parties, had such free entertainment. The fight between Luke and Joseph had not been much fun because Joseph had not put up any fight at all.

  But Rainbird and Luke—that was another matter.

  Alice was helped to the window of the attic bedroom by Jenny to watch the fight. MacGregor, with Dave on his shoulders, stood on the area steps. Bets were laid. Rainbird and Luke each stripped to the waist. It took Rainbird a mere ten minutes to lay Luke out on the cobbles with a punishing left.

  Downstairs, Joseph, having drained a bumper of brandy, was feeling less ill physically, but mentally he was tortured with shame and guilt. Again, he had had too much to drink at The Running Footman and the lie about Alice and Palmer had come tripping off his tongue. Only when Luke had started to his feet and rushed out did Joseph realise the enormity of what he had done.

  “Is telling lies very sinful, Lizzie?” he asked, his eyes round and anxious.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Joseph,” said Lizzie seriously, “but very human, Mr. Joseph. We can’t be saints, least of all me.”

  Joseph gave her a grateful, doglike look, and Lizzie picked up his empty brandy glass and filled it again.

  News spread like wildfire that Number 67 Clarges Street was free from infection. But callers found the beautiful Miss Sinclair often gone from home. Fiona enjoyed driving in the park with Sir Edward Kirby. Various gentlemen now went out of their way to drop a hint in Fiona’s ear that Sir Edward was bad company for a respectable female, but Fiona had become accustomed to the malicious gossip of London society and preferred to make up her own mind. It was ridiculous to brand someone so innocent and cherubic as Sir Edward a womaniser, thought Fiona, not knowing that many other females had fallen from the straight and narrow by coming to that same conclusion. He never seemed to want to press his attentions on her. He did not want to talk about politics or the state of the nation, but, on the other hand, he had a fund of amusing stories and a passion for all the latest novels. Above all, he made Fiona feel as if she belonged in this alien world.

  Now that she was free to accept invitations, it was pleasant to know that Sir Edward would be there to dance with her and hold her fan and fetch her refreshments. Although Mr. Sinclair dutifully accompanied her, his friend, Sir Andrew Strathkeith, always came as well, and the two elderly gentlemen disappeared to drink or play cards as soon as they arrived at whatever function they had escorted Fiona to.

  It was surely a guarantee of Sir Edward’s good character that he was invited to so many ton parties, thought Fiona, not knowing that a rotten womaniser is still socially acceptable, but a lady who falls from grace just once, and is Found Out, is beyond the pale.

  Mr. Sinclair had taken a strong liking to Sir Edward because Sir Edward always deferred to him in the most flattering way possible.

  One of Fiona’s first engagements was a splendid ball being held by Lord and Lady Charteris, who had taken their friend Mr. Johnson’s house in Kensington for the affair because the Kensington house had a large garden capable of housing a marquee for dancing. It was pleasant for the guests to travel the mile from Hyde Park corner to the greenery of Kensington, where the nursery gardens, which grew fruit and vegetables for Covent Garden market, lay spread out on either side of the large white mansions and villas of the rich.

  Fiona, as she prepared for the ball, remembered again her impassioned scene with Lord Harrington and thought of it as the mad act of a green young girl. She felt infinitely older and wiser. She was not interested in any man other than Sir Edward, and, although he did not make her pulses beat any faster, at least, with him, she could feel her own woman. Something, however, made her maintain her defensive act of appearing vague and stupid, even with Sir Edward. Perhaps she had been alarmed by Mr. Sinclair’s statement that clever women only gave gentlemen a disgust of them.

  As she was driven along the Brompton Road on the way to the ball in Sir Andrew Strathkeith’s lumbering and antiquated carriage with Mr. Sinclair and Sir Andrew, Fiona gazed out at the lime trees that lined the narrow way, looking forward to the evening with pleasant anticipation. She had given up gambling—or rather, gambling had given up her, the hostesses of the gambling hells having closed their doors to her—but she had amassed enough to make sure that she and Mr. Sinclair could live in a very comfortable style, and even, should she fail to marry, manage very well if they returned to Scotland. Security was added by Sir Andrew’s generous offer to give both of them a home.

  For the first time in her life, Fiona began to know what it was like to feel young and carefree.

  She was wearing a new ball gown she had fashioned for herself out of white-and-blue muslin. It was cut in the Grecian style, with key embroidery at the hem, high-waisted, and with small puffed sleeves. The price of the India muslin had made Fiona blink, but now she was glad she had bought it for it was cool and light and floated about her body when she moved. Her black hair was dressed in her favourite Grecian style, bound with blue silk ribbons wound twice round her head and with a knot of curls at the back.

  She walked into the marquee on Mr. Sinclair’s arm, oblivious now to the stares of admiration, looking only for the reassuring presence of Sir Edward Kirby.

  That was when she saw the Earl of Harrington. Her breathing quickened, and a delicate blush rose to her cheeks.

  His topaz eyes fastened on her and then moved to Mr. Sinclair. A slow, amused smile appeared on Lord Harrington’s face. He walked forward and made a magnificent bow in front of them. “Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “and … er … your lovely … daughter. How goes it?”

  He knows, thought Fiona. He knows, and he is not shocked. Worse than that. He is merely amused and contemptuous.

&nbs
p; He chatted to Mr. Sinclair and Fiona for a few moments. Dimly she heard herself promising to dance with him. He bowed again and moved away. Fiona searched desperately for Sir Edward, but he was nowhere to be seen. Automatically, she accepted invitations to dance while her mind was a jumble of incoherent thoughts … he knows … I am sure he knows … he is going to bait me … oh, where is Sir Edward? … please God let him appear….

  Then the dreaded moment arrived when it was Lord Harrington’s turn to lead her through the steps of a country dance. “You look hot and distressed,” he said. “Would you care to take a walk in the gardens instead of dancing?”

  Fiona said yes and then immediately wished she had not.

  Once they were outside, he led her away a little from the noise of the fiddles and said, “I received a most odd letter when I was in the country.”

  “In the country?” said Fiona quickly. “I did not know you were gone from town.”

  “But you should have known! Do not tell me you failed to notice my absence?”

  “No. Y-yes,” stammered Fiona. “That is, I was nursing our maid, who had the measles, so I did not go out and nobody came to call for fear of catching the infection … except Sir Edward Kirby.” Her voice warmed as she spoke Sir Edward’s name.

  “Ah, that is what I want to talk to you about. The letter I received was anonymous, but the writer seemed most alarmed that you had been seen in the company of Sir Edward.”

  “Sir Edward is all that is good and kind.”

  “Sir Edward is one of the most experienced womanisers London has ever known.”

  “I am tired of malicious gossip,” said Fiona. “I am surprised you stoop to it.”

  “He will not marry you,” said the earl bluntly.

  “There is a better chance of his proposing to me than of your proposing to me,” said Fiona dryly.

  “Granted.”

  “Because,” went on Fiona, moving a little in front of him, her dress fluttering across the lawn, “you will never marry for love, only for name and rank.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, and then, longing to punish her, “But I would never marry a liar or an adventuress.”

  Fiona’s face was a pale disk in the twilight. “Take me back to the ballroom, my lord,” she said in a thin voice. “Your company fatigues me.”

  He felt suffocating anger rise up in him. All the old craving for her, all the old torment, had come flooding back, only this time it was worse than it had ever been. He wanted to crush her in his arms and beg her to marry him, but a wall of pride, as high as a mountain, stood between them.

  “As you wish.” He shrugged, but she had already gone before him, her dress giving a last mocking flutter as she disappeared into the marquee and joined the other dancers.

  Chapter

  Nine

  Friendship is a disinterested commerce between equals: love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves.

  —Oliver Goldsmith

  When Sir Edward Kirby appeared, Fiona nearly disgraced herself by flying into his arms. But she forced herself to wait until he approached her. She had kept two dances free, hoping he would arrive.

  “You are looking distressed,” said Sir Edward. “Have you time from all your suitors to walk a little in the gardens with me?”

  Fiona assented gladly, although she shivered, feeling that the fates were against her and that Sir Edward would jeer at her and tell her he knew about her low birth. But he was the same as ever, pointing out flowers, talking about gardening, until she was able to feel calmer. How old was he? wondered Fiona. He was rumoured to be in his thirties, but he often appeared as young as she herself.

  “Now you are feeling better,” he said, giving her a sidelong smile. “Why do you not tell me what ails you?”

  “Nothing ails me,” said Fiona. “The Season fatigues me. All this husband-hunting is wearisome.”

  “My beautiful widgeon”—he laughed—“you do not need to hunt for a husband. All you need to do is crook your finger. Have any proposed?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Fiona dully. “At least five.”

  “And you have accepted one of them?” His voice was sharp, and his face in the dim light looked older and almost cunning.

  “No.” Fiona sighed. “Fortunately Papa is too engrossed in his friendship with Sir Andrew Strathkeith to press me to make up my mind. Although he has actually said I must not feel I have to marry.”

  “A splendid parent … and a generous one to judge from the splendour of your gowns.”

  “I make them myself,” said Fiona. “Papa is quite as mean as he is reputed to be, I can assure you. What are your views on marriage, Sir Edward?”

  “As to that,” he said, plucking a lilac blossom and crushing it between his fingers, “I fear I am a born romantic. It is not marriage I dread so much as all the tedium of the wedding arrangements, all the questioning relatives, all the marriage settlements. One day, I hope someone as beautiful and good as yourself will simply say, ‘Let’s run away. Let’s go to Gretna.’ It would be monstrous fun, I think—to leave everyone and everything behind.”

  Fiona’s heart began to beat hard. An elopement was surely the answer to her problems. No suspicious relative to step in before the marriage, no sharp and questioning lawyer. But what would his reaction be if he ever found out the secret of her birth?

  “But you would not run away with a servant or someone of that ilk?” said Fiona.

  “Of course not.” He laughed. “Base-born birth will out no matter how finely dressed up it may appear. I remember a merchant’s daughter who … Never mind. I will not sully your pretty ears with such a tale. Why should you know of such people?—you who are the beautiful daughter of one of Scotland’s most famous judges. Let me tell you about the play I saw the other night. Kean was magnificent …”

  And yet, as he talked, Sir Edward kept darting sidelong looks at her to see if she had taken the bait. It had always worked in the past and was his favourite ploy. Get them to elope, ravish ’em on the Great North Road, return to London unwed, and swear blind and on your oath you were somewhere else at the time and the girl was lying. Lady Disher and Mr. Pardon would supply all sorts of useful alibis. Amazing how even the most genteel girls were weighted down with the horrors of family pressure during a Season. Allied to that was the virginal fear of sex. Sir Edward promised escape and boyish, brotherly companionship. And this was what had lured so many young misses to their ruin.

  But would he be able to leave such a pearl as Fiona? He had never seen such beauty before. The miser of a father was drinking himself to death. But Sir Edward was genuinely afraid of marriage. Like most womanisers, he affected to like women, and yet he despised and hated them all.

  And while Fiona appeared to listen to him, her mind was wrestling with the problem of whether Lord Harrington knew her background or not.

  Who had told Sir Edward that Mr. Sinclair was a judge? Probably Mr. Sinclair himself, who had become carried away with what he described as the gullibility of society. Although Sir Edward had said he would not marry anyone base-born, Fiona was sure he would not mind provided he found out the truth only after they were married. But if he should find out before? She realised with a shock she was actually considering marrying him. The idea of an elopement had done it. To run away with someone cheerful and kind, far, far away from London with its perils of gossip.

  But if Lord Harrington knew then she would need to risk telling Sir Edward the truth before he proposed. Somewhere in the earl’s house he might have papers or a letter. Oh, to be sure!

  Fiona allowed Sir Edward to lead her back to the ballroom. Another partner came up to claim her. As Fiona was dancing close to where Lord Harrington was standing with Mr. Toby Masters, she heard him say, “What a dull affair. Let’s finish the night at White’s.”

  Fiona now knew that gentlemen who went to White’s Club in St. James’s Street often did not return home until the dawn, such was the gambling fever that gripped society.

&n
bsp; A plan began to form inside her head.

  Rainbird yawned as he carried the candle snuffer downstairs. He had been extinguishing the lights after having hefted Mr. Sinclair into bed and after having been assured by Miss Fiona that they had no further need of his services until the following day. “Except it is the following day,” grumbled Rainbird. “It’s two in the morning.”

  Lizzie was fast asleep on her pallet on the scullery floor. Dave was snoring under the kitchen table. Rainbird picked up his bed candle and began to climb up the stairs from the kitchen and then up the main staircase to his room in the attics. He was just about to open his door when he heard a soft footfall on the stairs below. He blew out his candle and crept back down again as silently as a cat. He could make out the dim shape of Miss Fiona as she stole silently from her bedchamber.

  He followed her down the stairs. One oil lamp was left burning in the hall. She was wearing the old cloak in which she had first arrived, its hood hiding her face. She quietly unlocked the street door and let herself out.

  Rainbird decided to follow her. The streets could be dangerous at nights, even in the West End. His heart sank as he trailed her into Hanover Square. If Miss Fiona had an assignation with Lord Harrington, there wasn’t much he could do to stop it. The earl was a powerful aristocrat and would punish any servant who had the temerity to spoil his pleasure. Keeping under the shadow of the trees in the little garden in the centre of the square, Rainbird watched Fiona.

  She went straight up the front steps, which were lit by a huge oil lamp hanging from an iron bracket. She fumbled in her reticule. He heard the chink of money. She walked back down the steps, carefully laying a trail of guineas. She went up and knocked loudly on the door, and then flattened herself against the wall at the side of the door where the rays of the lamp would not shine on her.

  There was a long silence.

  Then the door opened and Lord Harrington’s fat butler appeared, struggling into his jacket. He peered about, cursed, and was about to close the door, when he saw the gold. From his viewpoint, Rainbird could see the gleam of avarice in the butler’s eyes. The butler bent down, picked up the first gold piece, and then moved down the shallow steps, picking up the rest. The shadow that was Fiona detached itself from the wall of the house and silently glided inside.