Miss Fiona's Fancy (The Royal Ambition Series Book 3)

by M C Beaton

  “You appear very au fait with a great deal of trivial gossip about my family,” said Fiona.

  “I am au fait with a great deal of trivial gossip about everyone. My friend Mr. Harry Gore—the thin fussy man over there who has just tripped over his partner’s feet and is now gracefully accepting her apologies—keeps me up to the mark.”

  “Gentlemen are not supposed to gossip,” said Fiona.

  “They have little else to do with their time,” he said dryly. “Idleness breeds gossip. But I confess, I have found listening to gossip very useful in the past. It has stopped me from making quite a number of mistakes.”

  “With the ladies?” said Fiona sharply.

  “Now, I did not say that.”

  “But I think that is what you meant, sir. And if that is the case, then you were wrong to listen. The ladies at the Season are very competitive. One might say wrong of another in order to disaffect you.”

  “Were my affections seriously engaged,” he said, smiling into her eyes, “then nothing and no one could disaffect me.”

  Fiona found that gaze disturbing. She looked away in confusion—and found the Duchess of Gordonstoun bearing down on her with Lizzie in tow.

  “My dear Cleveden,” cried the duchess. “I see you have been entertaining little Fiona. May I present another Grant relative, Miss Lizzie Grant?”

  The marquess rose and bowed, and then sat down again. He pointedly did not offer either Lizzie or the duchess his place on the sofa and there were no chairs nearby. The duchess realized she would be forced to take her leave, for she could not stand in front of the couple like a maid being interviewed for a job.

  But she tried again. “The next dance is the quadrille,” said the duchess, “and Lizzie is just pining to show her steps.”

  “Then may I suggest Miss Grant position herself more prominently?” said the marquess sweetly. “She will never find a partner if she hides herself in this corner.”

  “You are so right,” said the duchess with a smile that did not meet her eyes, eyes which looked like Scottish granite as they surveyed the marquess and Fiona. “Come, Lizzie.”

  The marquess thoughtfully watched them go. “Now, that, my dear Miss Grant,” he said, “is very interesting. Here I am, a rich and eligible man, albeit a bit long in the tooth for a lady of your tender years, and there goes your launcher or chaperon after trying to remove me and throw me into the arms of your… cousin, did you say?”

  “Yes,” said Fiona.

  “Strange, these Scottish customs. I thought Highlanders only put their by-blows to trade.”

  “My lord!” exclaimed Fiona, pretending to be shocked in order to silence him, for despite her dislike of the girl, Fiona knew she would never betray the secret of Lizzie’s birth.

  “Forgive me. I should not have said that. But if you do not wish to ruin your chances at this Season, I suggest you ask Lady Grant to chaperon you herself.”

  “Mama is much impressed with the duchess. And they are old friends. She will not listen to me.”

  “Then perhaps she will listen to me. My age will make it seem like a fatherly interest.”

  Fiona’s heart sank. When he had smiled at her, £9,000 had seemed on the point of tumbling into her lap. Now it was whirling away.

  “You are very good,” she said in a dismal voice. “I think Mama will listen to me if—”

  She broke off. She had been about to say “if papa has been lucky at cards.”

  He relapsed into silence and watched the dancers. Fiona began to wonder whether he was bored.

  Then as the music finished he rose to his feet. “I must leave you to your other partners, Miss Grant. Will you walk with me tomorrow if I call for you at, say, three in the afternoon?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord,” said Fiona, her eyes like stars. She looked enchantedly delighted at the prospect and the marquess did not know she saw once more a chance of winning that all-important bet.

  To her great surprise, no sooner had he taken his leave than she was surrounded by young men clamoring for the next dance.

  The marquess watched, amused. Fiona was set to be the belle of the ball. But, he wondered, throwing a curious glance in the direction of the Duchess of Gordonstoun, what there was about Fiona’s success that did not please that odd little lady.

  Sir Edward and Lady Grant were asleep when Fiona arrived home. The duchess had said farewell to both Lizzie and Fiona outside, saying grimly she would call on Lady Grant on the morrow, and Fiona was sure she meant to complain about her behavior during the early part of the ball.

  She rose early next morning and waited anxiously until Christine came to say that Lady Grant was taking her morning chocolate and would be glad to see her daughter.

  “Good morning, my dear,” said Lady Grant, offering a plump cheek to Fiona to kiss. “I trust you enjoyed your first ball. Such news! Papa had the most tremendous luck at the tables and all debts are to be settled, including your dreadfully expensive dressmakers. Which reminds me. I was a little taken aback to receive quite a large bill for Lizzie’s dresses as well. One does not want to seem uncharitable to a less fortunate member of the clan, and yet…”

  “Oh, Mama, do but listen to me!” cried Fiona. “You must chaperon me yourself or I shall never wed.” She began to tell her mother everything—about the red gown, about the marquess, and how the duchess, instead of seeming pleased and gratified by her success, tried to destroy it and put Lizzie in her place.

  Lady Grant listened to her carefully. Now she was over her fear of losing the Grant estates, she could survey the situation clearly. She rang the bell and, when Christine answered, asked the maid to request Sir Edward to attend his wife.

  Sir Edward came in, wrapped in an enormous silk dressing gown with a red Kilmarnock nightcap perched on top of his head.

  Lady Grant made her daughter repeat her story over again, and like his wife had done, Sir Edward listened carefully. He was in a clearheaded sober mood, happy his debts were settled, determined never to gamble again.

  “Cleveden!” he exclaimed. “Why, he’s as rich as Golden Ball. And you say he is coming here! He must be encouraged, Fiona. He is a trifle older than I would have wished in a son-in-law, but if he proves interested in you, then we must put no obstacles in his path. Betty,” he went on, meaning the duchess, “has behaved most oddly. I am sure the matter of the color of your gown was a mistake. Lizzie seems such a quiet, docile girl and she is hardly in a social position to be malicious to her betters.”

  Fiona experienced a stab of compassion for the unfortunate Lizzie. It was unfair to damn her socially because of her accident of birth which had been none of her fault, after all. “And you say the duchess is to call? Then I shall see her myself. No,” he added, seeing his wife was about to protest. “You will be too soft with her. We will need to find out what to do about Lizzie. Perhaps I shall send her to Strathglass.”

  Fiona felt miserable. She did not like Lizzie. But she did not want the girl to be snatched away from all the balls and parties and pretty dresses to be sent north, no doubt to take up duties as a servant.

  “Perhaps Lizzie could stay with us a little longer,” she forced herself to say. “Without the duchess, she will not trouble me.”

  Fiona prayed the duchess would arrive before three in the afternoon. She did not want the marquess to arrive in the middle of a squabble.

  But the duchess arrived at noon. Fiona was sent out of the drawing room. She would not have known what happened had not the faithful Christine listened at the door.

  The duchess had tried her best to discredit Fiona’s tale of events, saying that the marquess had been merely amusing himself. The news that he was to take Fiona walking that afternoon obviously came as a shock to the duchess, for Fiona had carefully avoided mentioning the engagement. Accused by Sir Edward of having concentrated on Lizzie, the duchess hotly denounced Fiona as a sly ungrateful girl. Sir Edward went on to say that Lizzie should go north to Strathglass, where, he had no doubt, Mrs
. Macleod, the housekeeper, would be glad to find some duties for her. Lizzie wept at this. The Duchess of Gordonstoun flared up and said she would take Lizzie that day under her own wing and treat the child like her own daughter. One word led to another, and the duchess left, taking Lizzie with her and vowing to cut any of the Grants should she be unlucky enough to see any of them again.

  “So Lizzie is going to be in an even better position,” said Fiona. “I only hope she is really the ingenue she would have us believe.”

  “So all we have to do,” said Christine cheerfully, “is to have you looking your best for your beau.”

  “I am going to have to flirt a little, Christine,” said Fiona, “that is, if I hope to attract him. I do not quite know how to flirt.”

  “It’s quite easy,” said Christine. “I’ve watched other young ladies. You must go on as if you are very delicate and fragile. You must giggle shyly and wave your fan a lot. You must let him help you across the road. You dither on the edge as if faced with a crossing of the Tay River. On the other side, you must thank him as warmly as if he had saved you from croco-things, whatever they are.”

  “Crocodiles. You are quite right, Christine. I have noticed how the ladies behave. I should have thought that any man with half a brain would be bored to death with all that fluttering and giggling.”

  “It’s what they like, miss,” said Christine firmly. “Nothing disgusts a gentleman more than a strong-minded woman!”

  FIVE

  The Marquess of Cleveden wished he had not come. A gambler’s house was often a sorry place, he thought, looking bleakly at the scarred furniture and the musty curtains. He was accustomed to avoiding people who toadied to him.

  Sir Edward and his wife had certainly graceful and charming manners, but they made it quite obvious they already looked on him as a son-in-law and embarrassed him by praising his manners and dress.

  Fiona herself was a disappointment, although she made a ravishing picture in a white muslin walking dress with a high ruff and with a long green stole of shot silk with a dainty green bonnet of shot silk to match.

  She kept casting him arch, roguish glances.

  The marquess sighed. He had been in such situations before, although not for some years now. Always there was the hope that this might be the one lady for him, and always the latest choice turned out to be as pretty and dull as all the rest.

  Well, he would freeze her off with a time-tried ruse. Instead of walking, he would send for his carriage and take her on a drive through the most wretched and miserable parts of Town.

  He smiled gently on Sir Edward and replied that, yes, Weston was his tailor, and yes, he got his boots from Lobb, and added, “The sky looks threatening, Sir Edward. Would you be so good as to send one of your footmen to my address and ask my servants to bring my carriage round?”

  Of course, Sir Edward agreed and one of his footmen was immediately sent off.

  “Now.” Sir Edward beamed, refilling the marquess’s glass. “We will provide you with some entertainment while we are all waiting. Do you care for the pipes?”

  “I think pipe music sounds very romantic when heard from a distance of several mountains away,” said the marquess.

  “Ah, but the full beauty cannot be appreciated at a distance,” said Sir Edward. He turned to his butler. “Dougal, ask Angus to step along.”

  “I really must beg you not to trouble,” said the marquess.

  “No trouble at all,” said Sir Edward. “I have my own piper, Angus Robertson, and he is the best in the Highlands.”

  The marquess resigned himself. Angus came in with his pipes and proceeded to tune up by running up the scale. The marquess noticed that the F note sounded exactly like the squeaking of a rusty farm gate.

  “What’s it going to be, Angus?” Sir Edward beamed.

  “‘The Sassenach’s Awa’,’” said Angus maliciously, the title meaning, “The Englishman Has Gone.”

  “No, I don’t think…” began Sir Edward, but with a ferocious skirl, Angus began to play.

  Was there ever such a noise? The marquess sat, stunned and deafened as the wail of the pipes like ten thousand cats in the agonies of death bounced off the walls.

  He looked at Fiona. She sat with a dreamy smile on her face, her foot tapping.

  I have wandered among savages, thought the marquess bleakly.

  At last the horrible noise wailed off into silence.

  “What have you to say to that, my lord?” said Sir Edward, rubbing his hands.

  “I am beyond words,” said the marquess faintly.

  “Aye, ’tis a grand sound. Play his lordship something else.”

  “My carriage!” cried the marquess in relief. “Sir Edward, I shall return your daughter to you shortly. Lady Grant, your servant.”

  He led Fiona from the room.

  “Clever Fiona,” said Sir Edward with an indulgent smile. “I like a man who enjoys the pipes. You did fine, Angus.”

  “Never do anything else,” said Angus Robertson laconically.

  Fiona, remembering Christine’s advice, dithered and squeaked as she was handed up into his lordship’s high-perched phaeton. What a long way from the ground it was, she exclaimed. Quite terrifying!

  The marquess said nothing and set his team in motion.

  Fiona set herself to please. She exclaimed over the fine buildings and churches. She exclaimed at the beauty of the trees in the Park, she commented roguishly on the beauty of the London ladies.

  The marquess answered her politely while driving steadily away from the fashionable West End. Soon, he guessed, she would fall silent, then she would try to tease him about their miserable surroundings, and then she would beg to be taken home.

  As they began to move down mean streets under the shadow of crumbling buildings, Fiona raised a scented handkerchief to her nose. The smell was sickening and the condition of the children in the streets, heartbreaking. She had seen scenes of poverty before, particularly on her road south, but there was something so hideous about so many poor people being crammed together in these reeking sunless streets where the tottering buildings almost met overhead.

  The marquess noticed Fiona had fallen silent. She sat bolt upright beside him, her eyes wide. Any moment now, she would tell him to turn about.

  “Stop!” cried Fiona suddenly.

  “Why?” he asked innocently.

  Her answer surprised him. “Down that street—there!” said Fiona. “There is a man beating a child while everyone looks on.”

  “They send the children out in gangs to thieve handkerchiefs and things like that,” he said. “If they return empty-handed, they are beaten.”

  Before he could even guess what she meant to do, she had seized his whip out of his hand and leapt down nimbly from the high perch.

  “Miss Grant!” he called, appalled.

  But she was running straight down the street toward the man beating the little girl.

  The marquess looked around. “Here, you!” he called to a thickset man who was staring openmouthed at the elegant carriage. “A guinea if you hold these horses and beat off anyone who tries to annoy them.”

  “Right, guv,” said the man cheerfully. “For a guinea, I’d fight Mendoza ’isself.” Mendoza, the Israelite, was the latest hero of the ring.

  The marquess sprinted down the street after Fiona. She was in the process of laying about the man’s shoulders with the whip while the crowd stood looking on in amazement.

  He wrenched the whip from Fiona’s hands, and said, “Come along, Miss Grant. There is nothing you can do here.”

  “Oh, yes I can,” said Fiona. She put an arm about the sobbing girl. “What is your name?”

  “Polly,” sobbed the dirty scrap of humanity.

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen year, they say,” whined the girl. Fiona realized the girl was so small and wizened that she could easily have mistaken her for a small child.

  “Then you shall come with me and wear clean c
lothes and… and… have food and learn a trade.”

  Polly dried her eyes on her skirt. “You mean you’ll take me away from him?” she said, pointing a grubby finger at her tormentor.

  “Yes.”

  “Right,” said Polly with a grin, as happy now as she had been wretched a moment before.

  “For heaven’s sake, Miss Grant,” said the marquess. “Get a move on. Things are about to turn ugly.”

  An evil-looking group of men and women were pressing closer, staring greedily at the marquess and Fiona’s rich clothes.

  “Start walking quickly toward the carriage,” said the marquess, “but do not run and do not show any sign of fear.”