The Miser of Mayfair: HFTS1

by M C Beaton

  Joseph released him and beamed all around. He loved the world. He loved being a footman. He loved every cobble on the street.

  Luke stopped outside Number 67. “Best be off,” he said, “or old Blenkinsop will be after me.” Luke half turned away and then stopped and gazed open-mouthed down the area steps. Alice, the housemaid, had taken off her cap and was dreamily sitting halfway down the steps, combing her long golden curls.

  “Who’s that?” asked Luke.

  “ ’S our Alice. You know Alice,” said Joseph crossly.

  “Don’t recall as I do,” said Luke. He raised his voice. “Evening Miss Alice,” he called.

  Alice put down her brush with her usual slow languorous movements. She looked up, saw Luke, and gave him a warm smile. She rose and came slowly up the stairs. “You’re Luke, a’n’t you?” said Alice.

  “That’s right,” said Luke eagerly. “You do ‘ave pretty hair, Miss Alice.”

  Alice tossed her head and a golden tress flapped across Luke’s face. Luke took the tress, wound it around one finger, and smiled down into Alice’s eyes.

  Joseph stood appalled. He felt he had never seen such an outrageous sight. Had not Luke mourned with him only the year before over the sad case of Lord Chumley’s first footman who had made a cake of himself over falling in love with a housemaid? God put us in our appointed stations and anyone who tried to change the rigid hierarchy above-stairs or belowstairs was doomed to hell. Joseph was deeply shocked. He slumped off downstairs, the bland glow of gin evaporating to be replaced by a mean resentment against the whole world. As he entered the servant’s hall, the first person he saw was Lizzie.

  “Well, madam,” he said, lurching forward, “you wished me ill and that’s what happened, you little slut.”

  Rainbird and MacGregor moved as one man.

  Outside, Luke listened bemused to Alice’s slow voice and neither of them paid any attention to the howls of agony that soared up from below as Joseph had his head held under the scullery pump by the cook and the butler.

  While Fiona continued to enrich herself in the houses of every rapacious female gambler in London, the Earl of Harrington passed the days before the Bascombe rout by trying not to think of Miss Fiona Sinclair. He had heard she was to attend the rout. Who had not? He persuaded himself that it was only idle curiousity that had caused him to send a request for information on the Sinclairs by the mail coach. But he could not help thinking he would probably have some intelligence in a week’s time since the Royal Mail only took a little more than forty-five hours to reach Edinburgh.

  But when he finally dressed himself to go to the Bascombes’ rout at their mansion in Green Street he had to confess to himself that he was looking forward to seeing the unusual Miss Sinclair again. Any woman who was aware of what was going on in this country as well as abroad was out of the common way. But he was, nonetheless, confident that a further meeting with her would prove her to be as vapid and uninteresting as any other society female. He finished dressing just as his friend, Mr. Toby Masters, strolled in.

  “Fine as a peacock.” Mr. Masters grinned, taking in all the glory of his lordship’s corbeau-coloured coat, silk kneebreeches, clocked stockings, and diamond-buckled shoes. “Is this in honour of Miss Sinclair?”

  “Miss Sinclair is so vague and dreamy I doubt if she would notice if I appeared in the buff,” said the earl. “I rescued her from deadly peril, you know.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few nights ago. She was standing in Hanover Square pretending to be a statue when a little rat of a man tried to snatch her reticule. I gave her wine and comfort.”

  “Lucky dog. You have stolen a match on all of us.”

  “Not in the slightest. Miss Fiona yawned in my face.”

  “A rare pearl! I met two of the oddest females at the Cunninghams t’other night—Miss Plumtree and Miss Giles-Denton. They said they knew you intimately.”

  “They were both at that dinner party of Pardon’s. Friday-faced chits both of ’em.”

  “You are too severe. Miss Plumtree was quite pleasant. A man of my girth and looks must of necessity find beauty among the lowliest flowers.”

  “You are a well set up and likeable fellow,” said the earl, “and that should commend you to any lady of wit and discernment.”

  “Perhaps Miss Fiona will prove to be such a one.”

  “Perhaps. Although I think she is asleep most of the time.”

  “She is playing in deep waters, I have heard,” said Mr. Masters, watching with a pang of envy as the earl bent with one fluid athletic movement to brush a piece of lint from his silk stocking. “Seems she’s been fleecing the fleecers in the ladies’ gaming hells.”

  “She had been to Lady Disher’s, I believe,” said the earl, forbearing to mention that the fair Fiona had been cheating at cards. He reminded himself he had no reason to be discreet. Toby did not gossip to anyone other than himself. But he had a feeling of loyalty towards Fiona, a loyalty that irritated him because he did not know why he should be so careful of her reputation with this, his closest friend. “In fact,” went on the earl, “I believe her mysterious assailant to have been one of Disher’s servants.” He leaned forward and studied the intricate pleats of his cravat in the mirror.

  “Come along, then,” said Mr. Masters impatiently. “You may introduce me to this fair charmer.”

  The town house of Lord and Lady Bascombe was ablaze with lights as they approached it through the smoky blue dusk.

  The two men had elected to walk the short distance to Green Street from Hanover Square. Outside the Bascombes’ mansion, coachmen cursed and shouted as they fought for places. Lights blazed from every window of the house, the curtains being drawn back as was the custom when a rout was held.

  This rout, like all routs, was a hell of pushing and shoving on the crowded staircase to get to the rooms above. It was the fashion to invite many more guests than the house could comfortably hold. A rout was not a rout unless at least a dozen ladies fainted in the crush.

  Both the earl and Mr. Masters held firmly on to their hats, gloves, and canes, planning to deposit them behind some curtain on the first floor, long experience of routs having taught them that gentlemen were apt to help themselves to your accessories on the road out if they looked more expensive than their own.

  In fact the whole of two-faced society paid only lip service to the ten commandments and committed adultery, stole, and cheated at cards, because, after all, it was only the eleventh commandment that mattered—Thou Shalt Not Get Found Out. Being found out was a heinous sin. Any lady or gentleman of breeding should know how to be discreet.

  Mr. Masters did not need to ask the earl to point out Miss Sinclair. The radiant beauty being monopolised by Mr. George Brummell could be none other than she. Even the earl, who had thought himself inured to her good looks, caught his breath.

  Her glossy black hair was dressed in one of the latest Grecian styles and worn without ornament. Her deceptively simple gown of green crêpe was moulded to her figure, the neck and sleeves edged with thin bands of old gold silk made from the last scraps of the bedroom curtains. Her gloves were new, being of white kid, wrinkled up to the elbow in the correct manner. Also new was the pierced and carved ivory fan she carried. The sticks and guards were in the rococo style. The double-painted paper leaf of the fan was burnished to give it a sheen—a style found only on French fans. In all, a most expensive trifle, thought the earl, and then wondered if some man had given it to her.

  “Brummell is a pest,” muttered Mr. Masters. “It’s always the young ones he goes after. The Prince of Wales won’t court ’em unless they’re old enough to be his grandmother, and Brummell will not look at any female turned twenty.”

  The celebrated Beau Brummell was hailed as a very handsome man, but he was, in fact, merely pleasing in quite an ordinary way. His skin was very fair, and he had fine, light brown hair, curled and pomaded. His nose was flat, and had been flat for several years since a ho
rse had kicked it. His figure was slim and his dress exquisite. He was an advocate of “very fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing,” and he had done much to rid the air of ballrooms and routs of their heavy smells caused by last month’s underwear and last year’s bath.

  Fiona was not saying anything to the beau, merely smiling sweetly and listening to everything he said with flattering interest.

  “How do we get rid of him?” mumbled Mr. Masters.

  “Easily,” said Lord Harrington.

  He walked forward and clapped the beau on the shoulder. “Lord Amber is making his noisy way up the staircase,” said the earl. “Wants to see you, George. He won five hundred pounds from you t’other night at Brooks’s and he is clutching a sheaf of your vowels to his chest.”

  Mr. Brummell raised his eyebrows, which were plucked into a thin line. “Your servant, Miss Sinclair,” he murmured.

  He backed away with a slow, gliding movement—very odd—that made it look as if he were not moving at all, although he had disappeared into the throng in a matter of seconds.

  “Miss Sinclair, may I present Mr. Masters,” said the earl. “Mr. Masters, Miss Sinclair.”

  Mr. Masters had very large blue eyes. They grew wider and wider as he stared open-mouthed at Fiona. Mr. Sinclair was standing a few paces behind Fiona, glaring mulishly at the floor while Mr. Pardon whispered in his ear. Lord Harrington found himself becoming irritated with his friend’s stunned admiration, with his very presence—in fact, with everyone in the room.

  Fiona was of medium height, but Lord Harrington was just over six feet tall. The press of guests at his back thrust the earl towards Fiona. The nearness of her body and the way she looked up into his eyes unnerved him.

  “What do you think of our famous George Brummell?” asked the earl. “Do you find his wit devastating?”

  “I do not find him very witty,” said Fiona. “He has a certain quaint dry humour which makes what he says sound like wit, but very little of what he says bears repetition. Like some very light wines, it does not travel well. I fear him. I sense that underneath he is cold and hard and satirical.”

  Mr. Sinclair, who had been standing a few paces behind Fiona and had just shaken off Mr. Pardon, came up behind Fiona just as she made this speech. The earl smiled and bowed. “My compliments on the beauty of your appearance, Miss Sinclair,” he said. “Excuse me.” He bowed again and left, towing the dazed Mr. Masters after him.

  “What on earth did you say all that about Beau Brummell for?” hissed Mr. Sinclair. “I told you cleverness would give Harrington a disgust of you. Besides, I ain’t been in London very long, but one of the first things I learned was that it don’t do to criticise Brummell.”

  Fiona turned and looked at him, her grey eyes completely devoid of expression. Then other courtiers crowded around, and she turned back to speak to them.

  For the next half hour Mr. Sinclair could find no fault with Fiona. She laughed, she talked of fans and fashions, she flattered with her eyes and enchanted with the grace of her body. Mr. Sinclair rubbed his hands. Gentlemen would soon be calling on him to beg Fiona’s hand in marriage.

  Then Mr. Sinclair saw a familiar face. An old man had arrived. He was wearing an old-fashioned powdered wig and a gold-and-green-striped evening coat that belonged to a day of gaudier fashions. “Sir Andrew Strathkeith,” exclaimed Mr. Sinclair. He had met Sir Andrew at the Edinburgh High Court some ten years ago when Sir Andrew had been a spectator at a robbery case in which Mr. Sinclair had successfully defended the robber.

  They had repaired to the nearest tavern for a bottle of claret and had parted after a happy boozy hour exchanging vows of friendship. But somehow Mr. Sinclair had never heard further from Sir Andrew and had not had the social courage to try to seek the knight out. Even now, although he was ostensibly of the same rank and privilege as these other guests, Mr. Sinclair felt shy at approaching Sir Andrew. He looked across the room at him with a sort of longing.

  Then Sir Andrew saw Mr. Sinclair, and his old wrinkled face lit up. He waved his arm, and Mr. Sinclair happily lumbered across the room, totally unaware that Mr. Pardon had just accosted Fiona.

  “I was just renewing my acquaintance with your father,” said Mr. Pardon.

  “Your fondness for my father is very gratifying.” Fiona smiled. “In fact, your demonstrations of affection towards him were quite overpowering.”

  Mr. Pardon flushed angrily. “I mistook the room.”

  Fiona gave him a stupid look. “What room?”

  “I thought it was Mrs. Leech’s room.”

  Fiona looked bewildered. “I seem to have missed part of your conversation, Mr. Pardon. You tell me you thought it was Mrs. Leech’s room, but I thought we were talking about your affection for my father. What do you mean?”

  The other men about Fiona looked amused as the normally poised and polished Mr. Pardon blushed and stammered.

  “I will explain some other time,” said Mr. Pardon. He bowed and left. Fiona’s ripple of laughter followed him across the room.

  Bitch, bitch, bitch, thought Mr. Pardon. She dares to make a fool of me. Well, she will find me no mean adversary. She has fleeced the gambling ladies of London. All I need to do is stir them up a bit. And then let’s see what becomes of you, Miss Fiona Sinclair!

  Chapter

  Seven

  Why, you are pursing your brows, biting your lips, and lifting up your foot as if you would stamp it into the earth. I must say anger becomes you; you would make a charming Hotspur. Your every-day dining-out face is rather insipid: but I assure you my heart is in danger when you are in the heroics.

  —Thomas Love Peacock, Crotchet Castle

  “Why did you drag me away?” said the normally sunny Mr. Masters crossly. “By George, she summed up Brummell very well and before we had even started a conversation, you took your leave.”

  “Then go back by all means,” said Lord Harrington. “I was a trifle rude, I admit. But I suddenly felt I could not bear to waste time playing courtier to yet another beauty at yet another rout.”

  Mr. Masters looked at his friend strangely. “Well, I think it deuced odd of you to display such a heavy touch. For all you don’t rate the beauties very high, one would never usually know it to see you charm ’em. I am going back. It’s enough just to be allowed to look at her.”

  Lord Harrington watched him go and turned to speak to some of his other friends. He talked of this and that while all the time he was cursing himself for his rude behaviour. Fiona Sinclair affected him very strongly. When she had criticised Brummell, his first reaction had been irritation that she should so calmly dismiss London’s leading star, she who was a rank outsider. And Lord Harrington was sure she was an outsider despite her beauty and the modishness of her manners. There was something foregin about Fiona Sinclair, something that was oddly threatening to his caste, his way of life, his peace of mind.

  The father must have married late in life, he mused. But what had all that been about an orphanage? Perhaps Miss Sinclair had merely been involved in some charity.

  The glittering crowd shifted and moved and shifted again, and all at once Fiona was not there. A moment before, she had been in the centre of the room, surrounded by a group of admiring men, and the next, she was gone. She had probably gone downstairs to the ante room, which had been set aside for the ladies, to pin her hair or straighten her gown.

  It struck him that if he went down to the hall, he might catch her as she came out and have a few words in private to make up for his lapse of manners. He would not admit to himself that one of the main reasons he had walked away from her was because he could not bear to share her company even with Toby.

  People were still arriving. As he edged his way down, he saw the top of Fiona’s black curls as she made her way out of the front door to the street.

  What on earth was the girl about, to leave without her father or a servant? It was well known that the miser of Mayfair did not keep a carriage.

  Mov
ing quickly past the people who were still pushing their way upstairs, he gained the doorway and went out onto the steps, and stood looking to the left and right, until he saw her slim figure turn the corner of Green Street and disappear into Park Lane.

  Joseph had screamed in protest against the whole idea. But now, as he checked the time on the watch Mr. Rainbird had lent him, he felt a thrill of excitement. The costume had a lot to do with it.

  He was dressed in a long black cloak, its hood shadowing his masked face. Anyone seeing him would take him for a young blood on his way to a ridotto.

  The plan was this. Fiona would slip away from the rout at nine o’ clock precisely and go into Park Lane. Joseph was to swoop down on her and appear to club her. When she pretended to scream and swoon, Rainbird was to come running up and “rescue” Miss Fiona. He would then carry her “unconscious” body in his arms back to the Bascombes’ and make sure Lord Harrington heard of the “brutal” attack on Fiona. Joseph was to make his escape into Hyde Park where Dave and Angus MacGregor would be standing by to divert any pursuit.

  Lord Harrington was expected to have all sorts of feelings of knight errantry roused in his chilly breast. Fiona had thought the plan a very poor one, but at last had said it would do as a sort of rehearsal until Rainbird could think of something better.

  The first thing to go wrong, although Joseph did not know it, was that Rainbird had forgotten that the watch he had lent Joseph was the only timepiece at Number 67 that told the correct time. It was, therefore, a full ten minutes late when he set out followed by MacGregor and Dave.

  Meanwhile, Fiona had noticed to her satisfaction that Park Lane was as quiet as they had expected it to be at that hour, most of the rich and their servants being indoors. She smiled to herself as Joseph moved out from under the shadow of a large plane tree.

  “Hold hard, pretty maiden,” he cried. “I wouldst have thy jewels.”

  “Oh, Joseph,” hissed Fiona, exasperated. “Do get on with it. This is not the Haymarket.”