Miser of Mayfair

by Beaton, M. C.

  What if the earl had not known of Fiona’s background? What if there was no evidence? Then the earl would merely think her a common thief. To be found with your hands full of jewels and then say you had only been looking for papers – particularly if the earl did not have any such papers – looked very bad.

  When he grasped from the heaving, sweating Mr Masters that the Earl of Harrington had been on his way to Clarges Street to beg Mr Sinclair to allow him to pay his addresses to Fiona, Rainbird’s heart gave a lurch. Fiona was somewhere on the Great North Road and everything that might have made her life happy had come too late.

  ‘We’ll catch ’em,’ said Rainbird. ‘Lord Harrington may miss them if Kirby goes off the main road. All of us will go and if . . . if Kirby’s done anything he should not, then he’ll be forced to take her to the nearest church and marry her.’

  ‘I-I d-do not have a carriage,’ stammered Mr Masters, backing before the fury in Rainbird’s eyes, although that fury was not directed to him.

  ‘We’ll hire one,’ said Rainbird. ‘I have money. We’ll get the best.’

  Old Mr Sinclair snored upstairs in a drunken sleep as Number 67 Clarges Street roared into life. Soon servants from the adjoining houses turned out to watch the goings-on at Number 67.

  First a big, fat gentleman – Mr Masters – arrived with a spanking open racing carriage, drawn by four matched bays. To the watchers’ surprise, all the servants from Number 67 began to pile in. ‘I’m not very good with a four-in-hand,’ panted Mr Masters, ‘and these tits are fresh.’

  ‘I am,’ said Rainbird curtly. He took the reins. Mr Masters sat beside him. In the back were Mrs Middleton, Alice, Jenny, Lizzie, and MacGregor – who was clutching a large blunderbuss. On the back strap stood Joseph and Dave.

  ‘Hold tight!’ called Rainbird. ‘I’m going to spring ’em.’

  The watching servants sent up a ragged cheer as Mr Masters and the entire staff of Number 67 raced round the corner into Piccadilly. Mrs Middleton clutched her bonnet and let out a faint scream. Elated beyond words, Dave produced a yard of tin and blew a deafening blast.

  ‘Don’t go charging through the turnpikes,’ shouted Mr Masters, holding on to his hat with one hand and the side of the box with his other. ‘We’ll need to keep asking if anyone has seen them.’

  Mr Percival Pardon crackled open the stiff parchment of a letter that had been brought into him with his morning chocolate.

  It was from Sir Edward Kirby, he noticed from the seal. When was the man ever going to get on with it? Bessie Plumtree had discovered that a certain Mr Benham, who she was sure was smitten by her charms to the point of marriage, had up and proposed to Fiona Sinclair and had been turned down and now stated his intention of taking his broken heart out of the country. She had turned up at Mr Pardon’s the night before with her parents and had blamed him for doing nothing to stop Fiona from wrecking the hearts of all the eligible young men in London. Lady Disher, the sobbing Bessie had said, had promised them all that Mr Pardon would arrange things. Then Lady Disher had called on Mr Pardon, told him he was an idiot, and said that Sir Edward Kirby seemed to be falling in love with Fiona just like every other fool.

  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 mad-man would wear a muffler in this weather.

  Lizzie sat silently praying for Fiona’s safekeeping. 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 turnout 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 womanizing 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 assured him she had left no letters and had told no one what she planned to do or where she was going. He did not anticipate any pursuit.

  He would lie with her that night. If she were willing, so much the better. If not, he would drug her. Either way, Fiona Sinclair would see the next dawn with her reputation in ruins while he made his way back to London to collect his reward.

  He was sweating freely, and, feeling more secure as the distance from London lengthened, he tore off the suffocating muffler. Only a mile to go and then they could rack up for the night. He was tired to death, but he still had work to do. Lady Disher should know how hard he had strived to earn his reward. It was a good thing Fiona Sinclair was such a quiet, placid sort of female. She must still be asleep. She had not raised a murmur.

  By this time, Fiona had actually been awake for two hours and had spent the time in first grieving over Lord Harrington and then in beginning to remember all she had heard about Sir Edward Kirby. Things about him began to come back to worry her as well, things she had been too anguished and upset to take in during her flight.

  When she had asked him to elope with her, he had not said one word of love. He had readily assented, but, as he had turned away to straighten his cravat in the looking glass, Fiona, who could see his reflection, had noticed an odd gloating look on his face.

  He had rented the carriage. The master of the livery stables had brought it around himself and had said something with a snigger about expecting his turnout back in the usual two or three days. Fiona had not paid any particular attention at the time, but now it nagged at her mind.

  Her thoughts swung back to Lord Harrington. He was irrevocably lost to her: if there had ever been a chance of securing his affections, then it was gone.

  Although he had treated her shamefully, he had thought she had come to rob him. And yet . . . there was no need to make love to her. He could have called the watch, or, as he said he did not want to become embroiled in a scandal, have simply called his servants and had her turned out. Then he had said nothing at all about having known anything of her past.

  Back went her thoughts again to Sir Edward. It was surely unusual, even during an elopement, not to have servants. Surely it would have been wise to have outriders and grooms for the long, perilous journey north to Gretna Green on the Scottish borders, where fleeing couples were married in vulgar haste by the blacksmith over his anvil?

  Fiona bit her lip. Her long sleep had served to clear her brain. As soon as they stopped for the night, she planned to sit down and write a long letter to Mr Sinclair, telling him not to worry about her because she was going to . . .

  She sat up straight. There was one great, huge, immovable obstacle to her marriage to Sir Edward Kirby, Fiona realized with an aching heart. She loved Lord Harrington, and always would, and marriage to another man, however kind, would do nothing to make the sick longing go away. It would have been better simply to have persuaded Mr Sinclair to go back to Edinburgh.

  Fiona felt guilty about leaving him. He had been drinking too much and would not live very long unless she were around to try to put a stop to it. She would need to pluck up courage and tell Sir Edward it had all been a mistake.

  Fiona longed to change her clothes, which were sticking to her body. She raised the carriage blinds and jerked down the glass, breathing in great gulps of hot scented air.

  The carriage began to slow its pace. They lumbered under the arch of a posting inn and rolled to a stop outside the door. Fiona, looking out at the grandeur of the posting house, which was called The Pelican, reflected gloomily 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 realized 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.