Rake's Progress: A Novel of Regency England - Being the Fourth Volume of A House for the Season

by M. C. Beaton

  Rake’s Progress

  A Novel of Regency England

  Being the Fourth Volume of A House for the Season

  M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney

  Copyright

  Rake’s Progress

  Copyright © 1987 by Marion Chesney

  Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2010 by RosettaBooks, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.

  ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795315008

  For Ita Ali,

  Maria Browne, and

  Jane Wibberley

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter

  One

  When late I attempted your pity to move,

  What made you so deaf to my prayers?

  Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love,

  But—why did you kick me downstairs?

  —ISAAC BICKERSTAFFE

  Reputed to be haunted, damned as unlucky, a tall thin town house at Number 67 Clarges Street in London’s Mayfair, nonetheless, on that spring day of 1810, looked as if the curse had been lifted and the tide of ill fortune had turned.

  It belonged to the Duke of Pelham, who was only dimly aware of its existence. He owned a great deal of other property. The letting of it, and the employing of the staff, was the job of Jonas Palmer, the duke’s agent, cheat, bully, and liar. He paid the servants low wages, charged his master higher wages, and slipped the difference into his coat pocket.

  The servants, either because they had gained bad reputations—unjustly—or because they stayed at Number 67 out of loyalty to the other members of the staff, continued to pray for a new tenant every Season. A tenant meant parties, routs, and suppers, and all those festivities meant lashings of good food and tips. They all put their tips in the Vail Box so that, when they had sufficient, they would buy a pub and become independent of the frightful Palmer.

  Hard times and resentment of Palmer had welded them together into an odd sort of family. Head of the family was the butler, Rainbird. After him came housekeeper, Mrs. Middleton; cook, Angus MacGregor; and, next down the line, the effeminate footman, Joseph. There were a chambermaid, Jenny; a housemaid, Alice; and little Lizzie, the scullery maid. Dave, who had been rescued from his miserable life as a climbing boy by Rainbird, was the pot boy.

  On that fine sunny spring day, they were all assembled in the hall, the women crackling with starch and the men in their best liveries. They were awaiting the arrival of a new tenant, and a tenant who showed all the signs of being open-handed.

  He was Lord Guy Carlton, younger son of the Earl of Cramworth. He had been fighting in the wars against Napoleon for some time and was being invalided home. Palmer had said sourly that from his letters it appeared my lord had every intention of kicking up his heels and had said he meant to hold many parties.

  The optimism of the servants seemed to have communicated itself to the house and banished the ghosts. The ninth Duke of Pelham had hanged himself there; a murderer had fallen to his death there sometime after killing one of the tenants’ daughters. But now the narrow black town house looked fresh and new. Even the two iron dogs chained on the step outside had been polished so hard by Dave that sunlight sparkled on their metal flanks.

  Spring flowers decorated the rooms, which smelled pleasantly of beeswax and lavender.

  As they gathered in the hall to greet their new, if temporary, master, the servants talked amiably to each other, not observing that rigid caste system of the servants’—much more strict than any of the social divisions above-stairs. As soon as Lord Guy arrived, they would remember their places in the pecking order.

  Mrs. Middleton, spinster daughter of a curate and fallen on hard times—the “Mrs.” was a courtesy title—smoothed down her best black silk gown with nervous fingers.

  “I do wonder what Lord Guy will be like,” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  “He must have settled in his ways, although he is not married,” said Rainbird, the butler, his sparkling grey eyes set in his comedian’s face darting here and there to make sure everything was in order. “I looked up the peerage. He is thirty-five, long past sowing his wild oats.”

  “I wonder if he is handsome,” said Alice dreamily. Alice, the housemaid, was a beautiful blonde, slow-moving and languorous.

  “Eh wish he wasn’t bringing his own sarvant,” said Joseph, the footman, in his mincing, affected tones. “Strange sarvants cause trouble, if you esk me.”

  “Nobody asked you, you clown,” snapped Rainbird, who had contracted a hopeless passion two years before for a visiting lady’s maid and had not yet got over it.

  Unabashed, Joseph picked a piece of lint from his velvet sleeve and went on, “Besides, I think it is not quait the thing to have all of us to greet him.” He looked contemptuously at Lizzie and Dave, who were waiting to take their places at the bottom of the reception line.

  “You disgust me, you jessamy,” growled Angus MacGregor, the fiery-tempered Highland cook. “Lizzie is more of a lady than you’ll ever be a gentleman.”

  Lizzie, the scullery maid, looked distressed. She had fallen in love with the footman when she had first arrived, and loved him still, although she was not blind to his faults.

  “Mayhap his servant will be a great soldier brute,” said Dave cheerfully, “who likes picking fights with footmen.”

  “Don’t,” said Lizzie, distressed. “We’ve hardly quarreled all winter. Don’t let’s start now.”

  “Silly Lizzie,” said quick and dark Jenny, the chambermaid. “We’re all that excited. And this is the first winter we’ve passed where we’ve all had enough to eat and enough coals to warm us. I know we’re going to have a wonderful Season. What’s the matter now, Liz?” she demanded crossly, seeing a shadow lurking in the little scullery maid’s eyes. “You ain’t gone and had one of your presmonishuns.”

  “I only feel,” said Lizzie cautiously, “that a gentleman who has spent all of his youth in battle won’t want a quiet life.”

  “Shouldn’t ha’ taught her to read and write,” jeered Joseph. “Education addles the brain.” He had taken to picking on Lizzie of late, a nasty habit everyone thought he had given up.

  “Aye, weel,” said Angus MacGregor, “you’re the most addled brain here and you can barely read a book.”

  “Shhh!” said Rainbird. “I hear a carriage approaching!”

  They all fell into line.

  Rainbird threw open the door. But the carriage went on past.

  “Not yet,” he said, disappointed. “I wonder what’s keeping his lordship!”

  “I suppose we had best be on our way,” said Lord Guy Carlton regretfully, putting down his empty glass. He and his friend, Mr. Tommy Roger—nicknamed the Jolly Roger—had stopped to take some refreshment.

  “No hurry,” said Mr. Roger. “Let’s have another bottle. You look as fit as a flea, Guy. If the colonel could see you now, he’d have you posted back on the next ship.” />
  “Go back when I’m ready,” said Lord Guy lazily. “Another bottle it is. That fever was the best thing that happened to us for ages. I don’t know about you, but it made up my mind for me.”

  “Thought you’d never leave the battlefield, you old war horse,” said Mr. Roger affectionately. “You swore you’d fight on until you saw the last of Boney. Don’t know how you stood it all these years.”

  “Don’t know either,” agreed Lord Guy amiably. He pulled a pretty serving maid onto his lap, kissed her on the lips, and told her to bring another bottle of the best. The girl went off, giggling.

  “Don’t waste your energies on serving maids,” said Mr. Roger. “I plan to treat myself to the best high-flier in London.”

  “Only one?” mocked Lord Guy. “I plan to have ’em by the dozen.”

  The two men, who were roughly the same age, made an odd contrast. Mr. Roger was squat and dark, with a head of tough wiry black hair. He was still in his scarlet regimentals, looking as odd without his horse as a reeling sailor on dry land without his ship, for his legs were pronouncedly bandy.

  Lord Guy was tall, slim, and fair. His high-nosed, rakish face was lightly tanned, and his merry blue eyes under their drooping lids had a habitual devil-may-care look.

  He was dressed in civilian clothes, blue morning coat with plaited buttons, leather breeches, and top-boots. His cravat was intricately tied and starched. In contrast to all this understudied elegance, his waistcoat was an embroidered riot of gold and scarlet birds of paradise.

  As they broached the new bottle, an amiable silence fell between the two friends.

  They were sitting in the garden of an inn at Croydon. Crocuses were peeping up through the grass, and the branches of the trees, still bare of leaves, stretched up to the pale blue sky.

  A huge puffy cloud passed overhead, reminding Lord Guy of the ship that had borne him home. Home! How odd that sounded. Home would be a rented house in Town for a few months. His conscience told him he would be back at the battlefront as soon as the Season had ended.

  He could have stayed. His fever, though violent, had soon abated, leaving him weak and listless. The voyage home had been calm and restful. His health was almost immediately restored.

  But for the moment, he was sick of war and bloodshed. He wanted to surround himself with the prettiest women in Town and kick up all those silly pranks that single gentlemen indulged in. He planned not to let one serious thought enter his head until it was time to go back.

  He did not plan to marry. Women, like fine wine, were to be savoured and treated with respect, and, like wine, there was a tempting variety to look forward to.

  An hour and another bottle later, Mr. Roger idly remarked that the sun was setting and the day had lost its warmth.

  “This house I’ve taken for us,” remarked Lord Guy, rising to his feet, “some fellow told me it was unlucky.”

  “Must have been a gambler,” said Mr. Roger, nodding wisely and then finding to his surprise that he could not stop nodding. “They’re a supperstish … sushersh …”

  “Superstitious,” said Lord Guy with a smile. “You’re foxed, Tommy.”

  “Am I, b’Gad! Lovely.”

  “Where’s that man of mine, Manuel?”

  “Try raising an eyebrow. He’s always lurking about. Makes my flesh creep.”

  Darkness had fallen on Number 67 Clarges Street. The oil lamps and candles had been lit. Mrs. Middleton, weary with the long wait, was asleep in a chair in the hall, her large starched and frilled cap casting a shadow over her face, which wore its habitually frightened, anxious look even in repose. Joseph was cleaning his nails. The Moocher, the kitchen cat, was the only thing in the household that looked alert as it sat facing the door with a comic air of expectancy.

  “Ah’m off down the stairs,” grumbled Angus MacGregor wearily. “I dinnae think he’s going tae come now.” He took off his white skull-cap, exposing a head of flaming red hair, fished inside the cap, produced the end of a cheroot, and lit it with a candle.

  “Then take that nasty-smelling thing with you, Angus,” said Rainbird crossly. “Jenny’s been sprinkling rose water in all the rooms, and what’s the point of it if you’re going to stink the place up?”

  “Someone’s coming,” said Lizzie.

  “I’ve opened that door about a hundred times today,” said Rainbird. “It’s just a carriage going back from a rout.”

  Angus was just making for the backstairs when there came a brisk tattoo at the door. Knocking at a door in London was an art, like drumming. The number of knocks and the violence and rhythm with which they were performed denoted the importance of the visitor. This tattoo was sounded with all the vigour and verve of a Royal footman.

  Angus threw his cheroot into his cap and crammed it on his head. Mrs. Middleton awoke with a start. Rainbird pulled down his waistcoat and made for the door while all the servants formed a line in the hall behind him.

  He swung open the door. A slim, supercilious manservant looked at him contemptuously. “You take the time, fellow, do you not?” he remarked with exquisite insolence. He stood aside as two gentlemen mounted the steps.

  “Well, this isn’t too bad,” said Lord Guy, strolling into the hall with Mr. Tommy Roger. “Not bad at all,” he said, one wicked blue eye rolling in Alice’s direction.

  Rainbird began introducing the servants. Smoke from the burning cheroot was beginning to send curls of smoke out from under the cook’s cap. Rainbird banged MacGregor on the head when he felt he was unobserved in the hope of extinguishing it. When he came to the women, Lord Guy smiled charmingly on Mrs. Middleton, grinned at Jenny, winked at Lizzie, caught Alice around the waist, drew her to him, and planted a lazy, caressing kiss full on her mouth.

  Alice looked up at him in a dazed way.

  “My lord,” said Rainbird repressively, “you will wish to see your rooms.”

  Mrs. Middleton took Alice, who was standing with her mouth open, firmly by the hand and led her downstairs, signalling to the other women to follow.

  “Draw me a bath, will you?” said Lord Guy. “Rainbird, I think you said your name was. This is my servant, Manuel. Look after him. He’s a capital chap.”

  There was a loud crash as Mr. Tommy Roger fell over on the tiled floor and began to snore.

  “And black coffee,” said Lord Guy. “I do not plan to celebrate my first night in Town alone. Sober Mr. Roger, please, after you have drawn my bath.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Rainbird woodenly.

  “And send that fair-haired beauty up to scrub my back.”

  “Of course, my lord,” said Rainbird, determined to humour him. He was sure Lord Guy was as drunk as his friend and would probably fall asleep in his bath. He led the way upstairs.

  The ground floor of the house consisted of front and back parlours, the first floor of a dining room and bedroom. There were two bedrooms above that, and above that, the attics.

  With the exception of little Lizzie, who washed herself regularly under the pump, the servants frowned on bathing, thinking it a pernicious practice. It endangered the health, everyone knew that.

  So it took some time to prepare my lord’s bath, since said bath was in the cellar and full of firewood.

  At last Joseph and Rainbird carried its coffin-like shape upstairs. Rainbird told Angus and Dave to help carry the cans of hot water, for he did not want any of the maids to be left alone with Lord Guy who, Rainbird was fast deciding, showed all the signs of being a rake.

  In the meantime, Lord Guy had demolished a bottle of champagne. It had served only to deepen the wicked look in his blue eyes and to make him look livelier than ever.

  With the help of Manuel, his Spanish servant, he stripped off and sank down into the bath. “Hey, Manuel,” he said, “go find me that gorgeous creature.”

  Manuel bowed, immediately identifying the “gorgeous creature” as Alice.

  He walked downstairs and into the servants’ hall, where they were all busily discuss
ing the new tenant. Their voices died and they surveyed him in silence. Manuel was small in stature and dressed in black-velvet livery ornamented with pink silk braid. His hair was smooth and black like shiny leather and his skin was olive. His liquid dark eyes were expressionless, his nose was small and thin, and his slightly protruding teeth gave his small mouth a rabbity look.

  He beckoned Alice. “My lord wishes you,” he said.

  Alice blushed and made to step forward.

  “No,” said Rainbird. “If my lord wishes anything, I shall fetch it, or Joseph here.”

  The Spanish manservant shrugged. Then he walked towards Alice and seized the maid’s hand and started to drag her out. Rainbird leapt forward, wrenched Alice away and gave Manuel a push that sent him flying.

  Manuel fished in his pocket and produced a long stiletto knife, which he held to Rainbird’s throat. “You,” he said to Alice over the butler’s shoulder, “go upstairs or I will slit his throat.”

  A tense silence fell on the servants.

  Then Angus MacGregor rolled up his sleeve, stretched one hairy arm around Rainbird, and seized the Spanish manservant by the cravat. Manuel made to stab Rainbird with his knife, but Jenny the chambermaid sank her excellent teeth into his wrist and he let the knife fall with a clatter. MacGregor picked him up and began to shake him to and fro while the Spaniard screamed in terror like a wounded animal.

  “What the deuce is going on?” demanded a cold voice from the doorway.

  The women began to scream as loudly as Manuel and covered their eyes with their hands, although Mrs. Middleton peeped through her fingers. It was a sight she had not seen before and was not likely to see again.

  Lord Guy stood there, dripping water, stark naked.

  “Well,” he demanded, “what are you doing with my servant?”

  “He tried to drag Alice upstairs,” said Rainbird. “Then he drew a knife.”