Miser of Mayfair
Page 1
M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker, Six Sisters and School for Manners Regency romance series, and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more, or follow M. C. Beaton on Twitter: @mc_beaton.
Praise for A House for the Season:
‘Plot intricacies, colourful domestics and characteristic attention to period details . . . an entertainment that will please fans.’
Publishers Weekly
‘A witty, charming, touching bit of Regency froth. Highly recommended.’
Library Journal
‘[Beaton] has launched another promising Regency series.’
Booklist
‘A romp of a story . . . For warm-hearted, hilarious reading, this one is a gem.’
Baton Rouge Sunday Advocate
‘[Beaton] is adept at character portrayal and development . . . Plain Jane is sure to delight Regency enthusiasts of all ages.’
Best Sellers
Titles by M. C. Beaton
A House for the Season
The Miser of Mayfair • Plain Jane • The Wicked Godmother
Rake’s Progress • The Adventuress • Rainbird’s Revenge
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher
The Skeleton in the Closet
Also available
The Agatha Raisin Companion
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First published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 1986
This paperback edition published in the UK by Canvas, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2013
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1986
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-78033-305-2 (paperback)
eISBN: 978-1-47210-436-6
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Cover design and illustration: www.kathynorrish.com
To the Mulcare family –
Ann, Tony, Patrick and Charlotte
History is but a tiresome thing in itself; it becomes more agreeable the more romance is mixed up with it. The great enchanter has made me learn many things which I should never have dreamed of studying, if they had not come to me in the form of amusement.
Thomas Love Peacock
PROLOGUE
Mr Glowry used to say that his house was no better than a spacious kennel, for every one in it led the life of a dog.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK, NIGHTMARE ABBEY
It had been a long winter, and the spring of 1807 seemed an unconscionable time in coming. The days were blustery and cold, the skies leaden and dismal.
But in the heart of London’s Mayfair there were already signs that spring was struggling through the gloom. Daffodils were blowing in the tussocky grass of Hyde Park, and a cherry tree at the corner of South Audley Street raised its weighted branches of pink blossom to the lowering sky.
Outside the town houses, from Grosvenor Square to St James’s Square, brass was being energetically polished, window frames painted, and steps scrubbed in preparation for the Season.
In fact, despite the chill, there was noise and bustle everywhere, from the blackbirds carolling on the rooftops to the hurrying servants in their new liveries in the streets below who were looking forward to the Season with all its promise of abundant food and extra money.
Everywhere, that is, except Number 67 Clarges Street.
The house at Number 67 seemed at first glance to be in mourning. The shutters were closed and its black, thin frontage stared down on the fashionable street like a gloomy undertaker. There were two iron hounds chained on the wide doorstep, gazing down at their paws as if they had long ago given up any hope of freedom. Although it was the fashion during each London Season to hire a house in Mayfair at a disproportionally high rent for sometimes very inferior accommodation, Number 67 stood empty and appeared likely to remain so, despite the fact that the rent was reasonable and the building in good repair.
The sad fact was that in an age when gambling fever ran high and everyone from a lord to a scullery maid was superstitious, Number 67 had been damned as ‘unlucky’. And no mama hopeful of finding a good marriage for her daughter was going to risk incurring the wrath of those pagan gods who look down on th
e exclusive world of the top ten thousand.
The house was owned by the tenth Duke of Pelham, a young man, the ninth duke having hanged himself in the house in Clarges Street. The suicide of the ninth duke was not the only reason why the house had remained vacant for two Seasons and seemed likely to remain so for a third. One family, who had taken the house the Season after the duke’s death, had lost all their money through their son’s gambling. The family following that had suffered a worse fate. Their young and beautiful daughter, Clara, had been found dead in the middle of Green Park without a mark on her or anything to explain the cause of her death.
Although the present duke’s agent advertised the town house at an increasingly modest rent, it stayed empty. The young duke was at Oxford University and did not appear over-concerned about the house, since it was only one of his many properties and he had a mansion of his own in Grosvenor Square.
The staff had been hired at very low wages during the old duke’s time, and nothing had been done to alter this state of affairs as the young duke, who left the handling of everything to his agent, was not even aware that Number 67 had a permanent staff. Although the servants could barely eat on their wages, they had, when the house was first let, been able to supplement their diet and income by the many parties held there. The servants’ table had groaned with leftover food, and livery and apron pockets had jingled with tips from the rich dinner guests. But without a tenant, their could be no alleviation of their sad state. So the servants of Number 67 gloomily looked on as their more fortunate rivals in the neighbouring houses prepared for yet another lucrative few months.
The agent responsible for the hiring of the staff was a brute of a man called Mr Jonas Palmer. Palmer entered the servants’ wages in his master’s books at a high rate while paying them next to nothing. So far, the young duke had not asked to see the books, but Palmer knew that day would soon come and was prepared for it.
And not one of the servants could leave and find another position. For Palmer had a hold over all of them and wanted to keep them all exactly as they were, so that he could continue to cheat his master. In his many sets of books, locked carefully away where his young master would never find them, he had neatly recorded the actual wages he paid the staff and the details of their backgrounds, which he had carefully collected before hiring each one.
Mr John Rainbird, the butler, had been first footman in Lord Trumpington’s household. He had been found in Lady Trumpington’s bed and dismissed. Despite the fact that her ladyship seemed to be enjoying herself immensely when she was discovered, Rainbird had been discharged and sent out into the world with a bad reference. When Palmer had offered him the job of butler it had seemed too good to be true. The wages were very low and the old duke was a skinflint, but there were good pickings to be made during the Season and the Little Season, the old duke staying at Grosvenor Square but using the house in Clarges Street to entertain. Because he had a morbid feeling that all his guests were thieves, he preferred to invite them to a house where the furniture and objets d’art were not very valuable. After the duke’s death, Rainbird had found his wages cut to the bone. He had gone to Palmer to announce the termination of his employ. Palmer had said that if he did leave, then he, Palmer, would put a notice in the newspapers, warning all future employers of Rainbird’s womanizing character. So Rainbird stayed. He was a slim, well-built man of forty with a clever comedian’s face, sallow and mobile, a long chin, and a pair of sparkling grey eyes.
The cook, Angus MacGregor, who had been a sous chef in a noble milord’s house in Paris just as the French Revolution broke out, had fled to England after watching his master beheaded. When it came to cooking, he was a genius, but his hot-headed Celtic temper had lost him one post after the other. He knew he would never get another post, much as he longed to take a cleaver to Palmer’s fat neck. In his last job, he had thrown a leg of mutton at Lady Blessop after she had sent word down to the kitchens that the leg was badly cooked and that the chef was cheating her.
Housekeeper, Mrs Middleton – the ‘Mrs’ being a courtesy title – was a curate’s daughter, genteel, educated, and fallen on hard times. Forced out into the world upon the death of her father, she had despaired of finding a ladylike post and thought the job as housekeeper at Number 67 had been heaven-sent. Now, much as she wanted to leave, she knew that no one would employ her without a reference.
Footman, Joseph, tall and good-looking, had been dismissed from the Bishop of Burnham’s palace for stealing, and although everyone knew privately the stealing was the result of the bishop’s wife’s penchant for lifting anything that took her fancy from the palace guests, her reputation had to be protected and so Joseph was told by the bishop that he might consider himself very lucky that he had not been sent to prison. Joseph was effeminate and adored the livery that first came with the job in Clarges Street. He could have left and taken a labouring job, but he was inordinately proud of his white hands and declared he would ‘rather starve’, which was what he was now almost doing.
Jenny, the chambermaid, small, quick, and dark, had found her first job at the tall house and could not possibly find another without a good reference. The same went for Alice, the tall, Junoesque housemaid, and the little drab of a between-stairs-cum-scullery-maid, Lizzie.
The pot boy, Dave, was a recent addition. He had run away from his master, a chimney sweep. He received no wages at all because it was Rainbird who had taken pity on the shivering waif when he had found him begging; Palmer did not know of Dave’s existence. The staff at Clarges Street had become Dave’s substitute family, and he never dreamt of leaving them.
On a cold spring night, they were all sitting in the servants’ hall, eating a modest meal of thin soup and stale bread. In palmier days, Rainbird and Mrs Middleton would retire to the housekeeper’s little parlour halfway up the back stairs to take wine. Now they ate what was available with the other servants. Above their heads, the house crouched silent and empty, the rooms full of shrouded furniture.
Usually the servants were a united group – united in their burning resentment against the agent, Palmer. But that evening, the trouble started when the footman, Joseph, minced in from the street and threw himself sulkily down at the table.
‘A pox on these street Arabs,’ he said, holding up one shapely leg in its white silk stocking with the black clock.
‘What did they do?’ asked the Highland cook, MacGregor, spooning watery soup into a bowl.
‘They stuck a pin in meh calves to see if they was real.’ It was the custom of many footmen to wear wooden calves if Nature had not endowed them with the proper muscular legs considered de rigueur in a footman.
‘And are they? Real, I mean,’ said the cook, thumping the bowl of soup in front of Joseph.
‘Course they’re real, you great hairy thing. It’s as well you aren’t a footman. You would hehv to wear whole oak trees to make up for those spindle shanks of yours,’ tittered Joseph. He picked up his spoon. ‘Faugh! Whatever is this muck?’
‘Mr MacGregor found a cat in the area,’ giggled Jenny, the chambermaid.
‘I’m no’ takin’ any mair insults,’ said the Scotch cook. He picked up a roasting spit and advanced on Joseph.
‘That’s enough,’ said Rainbird sharply. ‘Go and put your head under the pump, Angus. As for you, Joseph, any more of your spite and we’ll put you in skirts.’
‘Jessamy,’ sneered MacGregor.
‘Just because eh hehv a certain elegance, a certain je ne sais quoi, there is no need to mock me.’ Joseph took out a bottle of musk and held it delicately under his nose.
Mrs Middleton seized it. It spilled on the table and the pungent smell of musk mixed with the strong smell of old mutton from the soup.
‘Where did you get this?’ demanded Mrs Middleton. ‘We are supposed to share our pennies for food.’
Dave, the pot boy, put a grubby finger in the spilled pool of scent, dabbed it behind his ears, and began to mince up and down. ‘Look at me,’
he said, one little hand on his bony hip. ‘I’m Harriette Wilson.’ Harriette Wilson was London’s leading courtesan, dubbed by one and all The Queen of Tarts.
‘Sit down,’ said Alice, with a toss of her head. ‘I’ll take the birch to you, Dave, see if I don’t.’
‘There’s to be no spending money on anything but food,’ said Rainbird sternly.
‘I couldn’t ’elp it,’ wailed Joseph, a Cockney whine creeping into his voice. ‘I ’ad to ’ave somethink to keep me spirits up. There’s that footman, Luke, next door. They’ve got Lord and Lady Charteris coming and that means routs and parties an’ lots o’ vails. New livery ’e ’ad, too. Looks like a Bond Street Fribble, and so I told ’im. I ’ates this. Dingy kitchen, dingy food, no fun. You don’t understand.’
‘You’re always whining,’ said MacGregor, who had still not forgiven the insult to his legs. ‘Prettifying yourself is all you do while I go out and scrounge to try to find us something to eat. What of my art? I am the best chef in London and I cannae prove it. I hate all of ye . . .’ He changed into Gaelic and, although no one else could understand what he was saying, it sounded even nastier than it might have in English.
Little Lizzie burst into tears and threw her apron over her head. Rainbird sighed. Lizzie was such a scrap of a thing. They all looked down on her, and yet they were fond of her in their different ways.
MacGregor stopped his cursing and removed his white linen skull cap, where he had hidden a piece of meat, and silently pushed it across the table to the sobbing Lizzie.
Joseph jammed the stopper back in the musk bottle. ‘Have this, Liz,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t cry.’
‘Stop that row,’ said Rainbird sharply. ‘We are all feeling out of sorts,’ he said in a gentler tone of voice, as Lizzie hiccuped dolefully and lowered her apron.
‘We never said things like that to each other before,’ sobbed Lizzie. ‘Will our luck never change?’
‘Not likely to,’ said Jenny, the chambermaid.
‘We could pray,’ said Lizzie.