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

by M. C. Beaton

  Mr. Pardon scanned the note, and then a pleased smile crossed his face. He took off his chin strap the better to enjoy the pleasure of rereading the words. Success! That very morning, Sir Edward had written, Fiona Sinclair had called at his lodgings and begged him to elope with her. He would be back in town in a few days’ time to collect his reward before leaving for the Continent.

  Mr. Pardon sipped his chocolate contentedly. He would give an impromptu party in two days’ time. It would amuse him to invite all those who had been at that first dinner party at his home on the night of the storm, all those who were in London, that is. He would also invite Lady Disher and the gambling hostesses. He would wait until they were all gathered and then have the delight of telling them that he, Percival Pardon, had risen to Machiavellian heights. Fiona Sinclair was no longer a threat!

  Rainbird wished he had brought more money. Each time they changed the horses, the price was more expensive because they demanded only the best from each posting house. It seemed odd that prices should rise the further one went away from London, but such seemed to be the case. He felt he had taken a considerable sum, but it seemed to be dwindling fast.

  The light was turning to that greenish violet colour of twilight as the burning sun slowly slid down the sky to bury itself behind the parched fields.

  Was there ever such heat! The trees, which would normally have been clothed in the delicate green foliage of spring, were dusty and heavy with their summer leaves. Roses as large as cabbages hung over the hedges of cottage gardens, appearing well before their time. Lines of smoke rose up into the suffocating air from fires at the side of the road set off by sparks from the wheels of the heavy traffic on the Great North Road.

  They were all weary and tired. But at each turnpike, they learned they were hot on the trail and not only had Sir Edward Kirby been spotted but also Lord Harrington—“looking like the devil hisself”—had gone through ahead of them.

  Sir Edward, who had hoped to disguise his appearance by muffling up, had on the contrary caused people to notice him who might not otherwise have done so. Only a madman would wear a muffler in this weather.

  Lizzie sat silently praying for Fiona’s safe-keeping. She was covered in dust. Her pretty new gown was dirty. It was actually of the cheapest cotton, but it had a little design of rosebuds round the hem. Mrs. Middleton had sniffed and had said it was too saucy-looking for a scullery maid, but Rainbird had not only insisted that she have it, but had given her two more gowns as well.

  Lizzie had been much comforted to learn that Lord Harrington was looking for Fiona. She had never seen him, but felt reassured by the thought that someone so high in rank would surely be a match for the likes of Sir Edward. But something else was making her feel uneasy. She had a feeling there was something they had not done that they should have done. The carriage lurched and swayed over the sun-baked ruts as Lizzie desperately tried to remember what it was.

  Jonas Palmer had arrived back in London the day before after a pleasant journey to various of his master’s establishments where he had been fawned on and entertained by the servants.

  Palmer would not admit to himself that there was something about Rainbird that frightened him. And so he told himself on the following day that there would be no harm in a visit to The Running Footman just to pick up a bit of casual gossip about what was going on at Number 67.

  The tap was quiet when he pushed open the door. There were only a few servants. A pompous old man in butler’s livery was sitting at a table. With a great effort of memory, Palmer identified him at length as that butler, Blenkinsop. Adopting a bluff and hearty manner he accosted Blenkinsop and asked him what he would like to drink.

  Blenkinsop was only too delighted to have a fresh audience to listen to the sinful iniquities of his mistress, Lady Charteris. Palmer patiently heard him out, and then asked idly, “I hear my tenant is a bit of a miser.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sinclair,” said Blenkinsop. “Yes, that’s the tale. But you can’t say the same for the beautiful Miss Sinclair. Spoils those servants rotten. Gives them money and new livery, and they’ve all gone out driving in the finest turn-out you’ve ever seen.”

  Palmer’s eyes widened. “I might step around and see what is going on. All gone driving, you say? The deuce! I have forgotten my keys.”

  “They went off and left all the doors open,” said Mr. Blenkinsop. “Anyone could walk in.”

  “Indeed? I’ll see to that.”

  Palmer made his way out and along to Clarges Street. As Blenkinsop had said, the street door was standing open. Leaning over the area railings, Palmer noticed the kitchen door was open as well. He walked in the front door and called loudly.

  No reply.

  Above him in his bedchamber Mr. Sinclair slept on.

  “She gave them money, did she?” mused Palmer. “Wonder where Rainbird’s hidden it. Isn’t good for servants to have money. They might get frisky and think o’ leaving.”

  He went down to the servants’ hall and searched diligently about, going through everything from the butler’s pantry to the scullery and the kitchen, even ripping open Lizzie’s bed to see if the money had been hidden there. Then he remembered Mrs. Middleton’s little parlour.

  He went up to the half landing on the kitchen stairs and pushed open the door. It was a tiny room but as neat and sparkling as a new pin. Palmer heard a groan from far above his head and a masculine curse.

  Mr. Sinclair! Of course! Blenkinsop had said nothing about either Miss Sinclair or the old man having been in the carriage with the servants. He ripped things apart and turned things upside down on the floor in his haste.

  Then there it was, in front of him all the time. A japanned box on the window ledge. He jerked it open. It was full to the brim with sovereigns and notes. A small fortune. Whistling between his broken teeth, Palmer tucked the box under his arm and made his way swiftly out.

  By George! He’d give a monkey to see that Rainbird’s face when the butler came back and found his means of escape gone.

  Fiona slept for most of the day, and Sir Edward did not bother to awaken her at any of the posting houses when he changed horses. He wanted to get her as far away from London as possible in case she woke up and changed her mind.

  He did not plan to take her to any out-of-the-way inn. He had done things like that early in his womanising career, but had found that small innkeepers were apt to turn puritan while the landlords of very expensive posting houses could be easily bribed to turn a blind eye. Fiona had as-that she was putting Sir Edward to a great deal of unnecessary expense.

  Sir Edward opened the door and smiled at her. She smiled back, although she thought he looked a shocking mess with sweat channelling rivulets through the dust that coated his face.

  “Wait there a little, Miss Sinclair,” he said, “while I see to the booking of our rooms.”

  Fiona sat patiently after he had gone, rehearsing various speeches in her mind. Feeling the confines of the carriage too hot and stuffy, she stepped down into the courtyard of the posting house and looked about her with interest.

  Ostlers stood and gawked at her beauty. Coachmen came from the stables and looked in awe. Servants emerged from the inn. Sir Edward appeared with the landlord and cursed under his breath as he saw Fiona standing in the middle of a circle of admirers. He had forgotten the stunning effect of her beauty on all who saw her.

  “Put the hood of your cloak over your face,” he snapped as he came hurrying up.

  He reminded her so much of Mr. Jamie that Fiona looked at him and said, “No. It is too hot.”

  He muttered something rude and hustled her into the inn. They would dine first, he said.

  “I am hot and dusty,” said Fiona firmly. “I must change and bathe.”

  “I am sharp set,” he said crossly. “I have bespoke a private parlour. No one will see us.”

  Fiona’s eyes, those large grey eyes that usually looked on the world with an air of wide-eyed innocence, turned on Sir Edward. They
were as hard as steel. “I said, I will bathe and change first, and then I have something to say to you, Sir Edward.”

  The servants were listening, so he gave in with bad grace.

  It was only when the landlord was leading Fiona up to the bedchamber that Sir Edward realised she would find his belongings in it, because he had, as usual, reserved only one bedchamber, there being no point in the expense of two when he meant to seduce the girl. But he marched to the tap for a much needed drink of ale. He would think of some excuse.

  The landlord held open the door and ushered Fiona into a large bedchamber on the first floor. Fiona crossed to the open window and looked out. There was a pretty garden at the back, and a pond, the areas of black mud around it showing where the water level had sunk.

  “Is everything in order?” came the landlord’s voice.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Fiona, turning round. “Wait a bit,” she said sharply. “Those trunks at the end of the bed are not mine. You have given me the wrong room.”

  “Well, they’re Sir Edward’s trunks,” said the landlord with a worldly smile.

  Fiona raised delicate eyebrows. “Then take them to his room,” she said.

  The landlord edged a finger into his shirt collar. It was not only Fiona’s great beauty that was so intimidating; it was also the force of her personality, which seemed to fill the room.

  “Beg pardon, miss. This is his room.”

  “Then pray take me to my room.”

  “Sir Edward bespoke only one room.”

  There was a long silence. Fiona’s eyes seemed to bore into the landlord’s very soul. Then she suddenly said with a charming laugh, “As usual, of course.”

  The landlord’s face cleared and he winked, “Quite so, madam.”

  “Tell Sir Edward to meet me in the private parlour in half an hour’s time,” said Fiona.

  Smirking with relief, the landlord bowed himself out.

  Fiona resolutely bathed and changed as if her world had not come roaring about her ears. At last, she was dressed in a muslin gown, only slightly creased from the packing. She brushed her hair and twisted it up in a knot on top of her head, then drew on her gloves.

  She picked up the first of Sir Edward’s trunks, walked to the open window, and threw it out into the pond. It sank slowly with a satisfactory, gurgling sound. Returning from the window, Fiona collected the two other smaller trunks and threw them out as well. A white duck looked up at her with an almost human look of amazement on its face.

  Fiona let out a long breath. She had quickly come to terms with the fact that Sir Edward was a villain. She squared her shoulders and set out for the private parlour.

  Sir Edward was still in his travelling clothes. He had passed a wet towel over his face, but that was as much as he had done to make himself presentable. He looked nervously at Fiona as she entered the parlour. She gave him a bewitching smile as she sat down at the table and shook out her napkin.

  He gave her a relieved smile. He tried to make conversation about the strain of their hectic drive, but Fiona ate steadily, not even looking up.

  At last, after the covers were removed and the servants had left them alone, Sir Edward said, “Very quiet, ain’t we?”

  Fiona dabbed her lips with her napkin and threw it down. “I am now ready to talk to you,” she said, looking up. Her face was hard and set. If she had been Aphrodite at the beginning of the meal, now she was Artemis.

  “What about?”

  “About your intentions.”

  “My intentions? Why, to marry you, my love.”

  “Why did you only book one bedchamber?”

  “We are to be married, so there is no harm in … er … getting to know each other better.”

  “I am sure you can wait a few days,” said Fiona calmly. “It is not as if you have evinced any signs of mad passion.”

  “As you please,” he said hurriedly. He could feel his boyish mask slipping and hurriedly straightened it. “What you must think of me!” He laughed. “The fact is the inn had only one bedchamber left and so—”

  “I pushed open a few doors as I came along here,” said Fiona, “and the bedchambers were empty.”

  “That curst landlord!” exclaimed Sir Edward. “He has lied to me. Of course, guests may be due to arrive later. Hark! Someone is arriving now.”

  The sound of a carriage being driven at great speed sounded from the road outside the inn. But whoever it was had evidently decided to stop their mad ride and after a little the vehicle could be heard turning into the courtyard.

  Sir Edward thought quickly. He should have drugged the wine. Too late and too difficult. He studied Fiona’s neat head. One good blow should suffice. Get it over with and have her on the floor. All he wanted to do was sleep and sleep. “Go and see who it is,” he said, hoping to catch Fiona off guard.

  She went to the window and looked out. But, like the bedchamber, it overlooked the pond at the back of the inn. She turned back—and then jumped to one side with the agility of a cat. The bottle Sir Edward had been going to bring down on her head smashed against the window frame. Drops of red wine stained the muslin of Fiona’s gown.

  She ran to the door, but he caught her by the shoulder and spun her back. She seized a ripe peach from the bowl on the table and threw it full into his face. As he clawed at the pulp, she ran again for the door, but he dived after her, seizing her legs and bringing her crashing down.

  He pinned her to the floor. Stunned and winded, Fiona tried to summon up all her strength to escape as she felt greedy hands fumbling in her gown. The weight of his body was suffocating. Her head hurt. She could not move.

  The door opened and jarred against their bodies. Fiona had one glimpse of the Earl of Harrington’s tortured and furious face. Sir Edward was plucked from her as if he weighed no more than a child. Both casement windows had been opened to let in the maximum amount of air.

  Lord Harrington held Sir Edward by the seat of his breeches and the scruff of his neck. He swung him back and forth several times while Sir Edward fought and kicked helplessly. Then he flung him clean through the window. There was a long descending wail and then an almighty splash.

  From the kitchens downstairs the landlord watched Sir Edward fall and wrung his hands. “Oh, he’ll kill me, too,” he moaned, meaning Lord Harrington, before whose stormy arrival and imperious demands he had just fled after telling him where to find Fiona. “All I can do is swear to my innocence.”

  Lord Harrington came back and knelt on the floor beside Fiona and took her in his arms. “Marry me,” he said huskily.

  “I can’t,” said Fiona shakily. “I am a nameless orphan. I do not know the names of my parents. It is doubtful if my mother, whoever she was, was ever married to my father.”

  “I know,” he whispered, holding her close. “I know and it does not matter. I drove you into running away with that lecher, did I not?”

  Fiona nodded dumbly.

  “Has he touched you? Has he harmed you?”

  Fiona shook her head. “He tried to stun me. I was so silly. I did not think he would resort to violence. I thought I could handle him.”

  “Wait here until I deal with him further.”

  Fiona wound her arms about his neck. “You want to marry me?” she asked dizzily.

  “Oh, yes, my heart, my life.”

  And Fiona kissed him.

  And the Earl of Harrington promptly forgot about Sir Edward and everyone and everything else in the whole wide world as he returned her kiss with savage ferocity, which gradually calmed into dreamy, caressing passion.

  Sir Edward struggled frantically from the mud of the pond. He would gain the front of the inn, call for his carriage, and escape from the hellish terror that was the Earl of Harrington. He stumbled around the front of the inn, wiping the mud from his face with his sleeve.

  But his nightmare had only just begun.

  Into the inn courtyard came an open carriage that was crammed with people who all screamed and point
ed at him. He recognised Fiona’s butler.

  He dived past them, across the road, and into the fields beyond, sobbing his way through the darkness as the whole staff of Number 67 Clarges Street bayed at his heels like hounds.

  Upstairs in the private parlour, Lord Harrington had finally left off kissing Fiona to explain how he had learned of her elopement, how he had reorganised her past, how nothing in the world mattered except that she be his wife.

  Fiona listened to him, her eyes shining. The earl went on to say he had old friends who lived close by. They would travel there that very evening, and, if his friends were willing, as he was sure they would be, they would be married in their family church.

  “I will send my servants back to London to fetch Mr. Sinclair,” said the earl. “When we are married, we will go to my home in Kent. I am weary of London. I never want to see the place again.”

  Fiona raised her lips to his, but, before he could kiss her, there came a terrible row from the staircase outside. The earl set her aside and went and opened the door.

  Stumbling up the stairs with MacGregor’s blunderbuss in his back and with the rest of the servants crowding behind came the sorry figure of Sir Edward Kirby.

  “Oh, my lord,” cried Rainbird thankfully. “I am glad you are here. We caught him as he was escaping. How is Miss Fiona?”

  “Well,” said the earl, grinning. “We are to be married.” He backed into the room as the servants pushed Sir Edward in front of them.

  “He is so muddy,” said Lizzie, looking at Sir Edward.

  “I had finished with him,” said the earl, smiling down at her. “I have no more time for him.”

  “What did you do with him, my lord?” asked MacGregor.

  “I threw him through that window.”