The Miser Of Mayfair Part 9

Rainbird's normally mobile face became devoid of expression. Thoughts of Salome demanding the head of John the Baptist flitted through his brain. Then he thought he knew the reason for his own feeling of unease. Fiona was mad.

"And how would you like his lordship?" said Rainbird, determined to humour her. Trussed, boiled, drawn and quartered? he added to himself.

"I would like him at the altar as my husband."

Rainbird said very carefully, "You wish to marry the Earl of Harrington?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish me to kidnap him?" Kidnapping was a word that had originally applied to the stealing of children or apprentices from their parents and masters and shipping them to the colonies. It had just lately come to mean the abduction of someone, usually for ransom.

"Oh, no!" Fiona looked shocked. "You must make him fall in love with me."

"And how am I to do that?" asked Rainbird gently, as if frightened that a raised voice or any evidence of surprise would cause Miss Fiona to fall down in a fit.

"By manufacturing incidents to throw us together."

"Such as?"

"I do not know." Fiona gave him a blinding smile. "But I am sure you will think of something." She stood up as a sign that the interview was over.

To Rainbird's surprise, the other servants took the matter of getting the earl for Miss Fiona very seriously. They heard him out, and then Joseph said, "We've got to do our best, reelly we have. You've ordered my new livery. Black and gold it is. Wait till Luke sees it. What if she takes it away suppose we don't 'elp her?"

"Miss Fiona would not do anything so petty as that," said Jenny stoutly. "Besides, it's only natural a young lady whose father treats her like dirt should turn to an intelligent man like Mr. Rainbird for help."

"Did she like her dinner?" asked the cook, who, of all of them, proved to be the most indifferent to the plans of his young mistress.

"As to that," said Rainbird, "Miss Fiona said an odd thing. If I have the right of it, you are to practise your art on us, Angus. She only wants one course served for dinner and the guests are to have the worst of everything. Do you think Mr. Sinclair is not a miser at all? Do you think Miss Fiona wishes her father to appear to be a miser?"

"It's Miss Fiona who sees we have money while Mr. Sinclair turned down your request for more wages," pointed out Alice. "There's nothing odd about Miss Fiona wanting a bit of help with her love-life. Course, I don't see as how she'll need any help what with her face and figure."

"But what can we do?" asked Rainbird. "We're only servants. It's not as if we can hold a rout and invite him."

"Perhaps we could send him a love letter supposed to have come from her," sighed Mrs. Middleton. " 'My dearest heart' ... something like that."

"Ugh," said Dave, turning red about the ears.

"When Joseph was attacked," said Lizzie timidly, "that brought Lord Harrington and Miss Fiona together. Why don't one of us attack her ourselves and let Lord Harrington save her?"

"You were told that washin' your hair would make the demp go into your brain," sneered Joseph.

But Rainbird held up his hand. "Save her from peril," he mused. "It might work, Lizzie. Let me think."

"If you are going to listen to the maunderings of a scullery maid, I'm off to The Running Footman," said Joseph.

"Know your place, young man," said Mrs. Middleton. "Don't ever let me catch you speaking to Mr. Rainbird like that, ever again."

"Sorry," mumbled Joseph, eyeing Rainbird nervously, but the butler was sunk deep in thought.

"I'm off unless anyone needs me," said Joseph, but only Lizzie looked up, Lizzie who had large tears in her pansy-brown eyes.

"I hope your feelings get hurt, Mr. Joseph," said Lizzie, "same as you've hurt mine."

Joseph muttered something and slammed out. He began to whistle jauntily and defiantly as he went up the area steps. Luke, the neighbour's footman, was out taking the air.

"No work to do?" asked Joseph.

"Naw," said Luke. "They've all taken themselves off to Almack's with Lord Brampton and gone in his carridge with his footmen, so that's given me some time off. And about time, too."

"Come along o' me to The Running Footman," said Joseph expansively. Money jingled in his pocket. It was amazing how easy it was to love the world when you had money, thought Joseph. Also, Joseph, like many servants of the ton, was even more rigid in matters of rank and precedence than any patroness of Almack's. Luke held the rank of first footman in a n.o.ble household. He, Joseph, was the only footman. Therefore by appearing with Luke he could underline that he was a member of the upper hierarchy of servant.

"You buying?" asked Luke suspiciously.

"All you want." Joseph grinned.

"Right ho, then," said Luke, linking his arm through Joseph's. The two tall, powdered footmen sauntered down the street together.

It was a magic evening for Joseph. Although his tongue was loosened with drink and he bragged openly about the generosity of London's latest beauty, he did not tell of the strange request to help Miss Fiona marry the Earl of Harrington.

That piece of gossip would go round London like wildfire, and Joseph knew that the astute Rainbird would trace it back to the proper source and use his fists to bring Joseph back to a nice understanding of what happened to indiscreet footmen.

He listened sympathetically as Luke talked about the glories of the Brewers' lady's maid at Number 63. A footman hoping to attract the attention of a lady's maid-even a first footman-was flying high, but Joseph was in favour of his friend turning his attentions upward rather than downward. Joseph himself was saved from many of the pangs of love that tortured other young male servants-for servants were not allowed to marry. It was not that he was indifferent to the sight of a well-turned ankle or a roguish eye, but rather he was too effeminate, self-absorbed, and lazy to waste much time anguishing over the opposite s.e.x. Joseph secretly considered himself on a level with Rainbird. He was unaffected by Jenny and Alice because he considered a housemaid and a chambermaid far beneath him.

After an hour and a half, Luke sighed and said he had to be getting back to prepare the dining room for a late supper. Lurching slightly, Joseph clutched at Luke's arm on the road back to Clarges Street for he had been drinking gin and hot, and, although the mixture had given him a pleasant feeling of euphoria, it also seemed to have taken the marrow out of his bones.

The heat of the day had gone and the air smelled of that London spring mixture of horse manure, bad drains, blossom, new leaves, patchouli, and wine.

"That Miss Nancy at the Brewers'," hiccupped Joseph, "I'm sure she would be glad to walk out with you if only you asked."

"Perraps." Luke grinned. "But don't clutch me so hard. You're nigh breakin' me arm."

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? G.o.d put us in our appointed stations and anyone who tried to change the rigid hierarchy above-stairs or belowstairs was doomed to h.e.l.l. 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 s.l.u.t."

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 pa.s.sed the days before the Bas...o...b.. 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 Bas...o...b..s' 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 peac.o.c.k." 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 h.e.l.ls."

"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 a.s.sailant 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 Bas...o...b.. 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 Bas...o...b..s' 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 h.e.l.l 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 crepe was moulded to her figure, the neck and sleeves edged with thin bands of old gold silk made from the last sc.r.a.ps 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 horse 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 repet.i.tion. 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."