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

by M C Beaton

  “I am not afraid,” said Fiona coldly. “Come, Polly.”

  She took the girl by the hand and began to lead her down the street to the carriage. “Get Jenkins,” called a shrill female voice. “Jenkins’ll do fer ’im.”

  “’Ere comes Jenkins,” called another voice. And then another said, “Mr. Jenkins, this ’ere swell’s taking away Reilly’s girl.”

  “I’ll see to ’im,” said a deep voice. The marquess groaned inwardly and turned about. A mountain of a man was pushing his way to the front of the crowd.

  Cursing Fiona under his breath, the marquess raised his fists.

  Fiona settled Polly in the carriage. The high perch afforded her a grandstand view of the fight. She was just debating with herself whether to try to handle the ribbons herself and drive in search of a parish constable, prompted by Polly’s sad little remark of, “Mr. Jenkins will kill your fellow, missus. ’E allus kills people,” when the man mountain that was Jenkins seemed to fly through the air to land with a great crash.

  There was an enormous cheer from the onlookers, now as friendly to the marquess as they had been hostile before. They huzzaed and cheered him all the way to the phaeton.

  The marquess tossed a guinea to the man who was guarding the horses and climbed in. His cravat was torn and his lip was split and bleeding.

  “I am sorry,” said Fiona as they drove off. “Are you most dreadfully hurt?”

  “No, Miss Grant. I shall live.”

  “Well,” went on Fiona in a small voice, “it was a very odd place to take me for a drive.”

  “I lost my way,” lied the marquess grimly. “Are you really going to take that child into your home?”

  “Of course,” said Fiona, wide-eyed. “She has nowhere else to go except back to that horrible man. Have you, Polly?”

  “No, mum,” said Polly cheerfully. “I be ever so grateful, mum. Pinch all the wipes you want.”

  “She means,” explained the marquess, “that she will steal all the handkerchiefs you desire.”

  “Oh, you must not steal anymore, Polly,” said Fiona. “Stealing is wrong.”

  “Right,” said Polly, folding her skinny arms across her chest and gazing about her in delight.

  The marquess felt obliged to say when they returned to the Grant home facing Hyde Park, “Do you wish me to come indoors, Miss Grant? I fear your parents will be alarmed and might not welcome this addition to their household.”

  “Oh, no,” said Fiona. “They are very understanding.” Summoning up her courage, she added, “I hope to see you again, soon, my lord.”

  All his old disappointment in her returned. She was simpering at him and batting her eyelashes.

  “I am afraid I shall be very busy over the next few weeks, Miss Grant,” he said.

  Fiona looked very cast down and seemed about to cry. But he decided he had already wasted too much time with her. He merely smiled and inclined his head, waiting until he had led the disgraceful Polly inside and shut the door.

  Sir Edward and Lady Grant accepted Polly’s arrival without much fuss. They were used to clansmen and odd relatives popping up on the doorstep. Polly was sent below to the kitchens to begin her training as a maid.

  But Fiona’s parents were distressed when Fiona described her drive.

  “Oh, you must not have anything more to do with him,” cried Lady Grant. “Such a disappointment. Imagine taking a young lady to the slums for a drive!”

  “I was puzzled,” said Fiona. “It’s not as if he is a reformer or a preacher or anyone who plans to alleviate the conditions there. Perhaps he is one of those peculiar people who enjoy other people’s misery.”

  “You made that up,” pointed out Sir Edward. “No one enjoys another human being’s misery.”

  “Then why do thousands of people turn up to see a public hanging?” snapped Fiona. “I bet the Marquess of Clevedon reserves a front seat.”

  “You do?” said her father. “How much?”

  “Edward!” cautioned his wife. “You promised!”

  “Oh, yes,” mumbled Sir Edward, “so I did.”

  Fiona went up to her room and regaled Christine with the whole story.

  “How very odd!” exclaimed the maid. “Well, there’s fine men aplenty in London. No need to bother your pretty head with an eccentric.”

  “But I must,” wailed Fiona, thinking of her bet. She was mad ever to have made it. And now the family fortunes had been saved without her doing one thing about it!

  “Why?” asked Christine. “Never say you are spoony about him.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what?”

  “He is rich, and I must marry well.”

  “But there are others. Do be sensible, Miss Fiona, dear. Everything is going so nicely. That Lizzie Grant sent for her traps. You are supposed to be enjoying yourself as well, miss. What if you don’t find a man to suit? There is always Mr. Jamie.”

  “Oh yes,” said Fiona gloomily, thinking of Jamie Grant. “There’s always Jamie.”

  The Marquess of Cleveden sat at the desk in his library and worked on an impassioned speech he hoped to deliver to the House of Lords concerning the miserable condition of children among London’s poor. Did Fiona realize just how many children and girls like Polly there were thieving for a living? And what would she say, or what would any other girl say, when they found out about his slum charities?”

  Probably think he was mad, thought the marquess, throwing good money away to help a lot of paupers. His fortune, he cynically believed, was what drew the ladies to him. They would expect that fortune to be spent on gowns and baubles and would no doubt scream in horror at the size of the sums he gave away to his orphanages and charities.

  His lip throbbed and he stood up and went to the mirror over the fireplace and studied it. The swelling seemed to be going down a little. Damn Fiona Grant. While she was defending that Polly, she had been magnificent, the sort of woman he had dreamed of. But then she had simpered and ogled him as she had left in a most vulgar way.

  His butler, Osborne, entered, not a shaggy Highlander like the Grants’ butler, but a smooth, fat, pompous man.

  “There is a female person here to see you, my lord,” said Osborne.

  “Really, Osborne! I trust you sent her packing!”

  “No, my lord. She is in great distress and appears to be a lady.”

  “Then why did you say person in the first place?”

  “Because she is not accompanied by a maid, my lord, and is heavily veiled.”

  “And does this person give a name?”

  “Miss Grant, my lord.”

  The marquess’s thin black brows snapped together. Then he said, “Give me a few moments, Osborne. If I do not send for you again, show her in.”

  When the butler had gone, the marquess wondered whether to send for Osborne again and tell him to show Miss Fiona Grant out into the street. Or should he give her a dressing down? He thought wearily of all the debutantes who had dreamed up every trick to bring themselves to his notice. But not one of them had ever been so bold or so heedless of her reputation as to call at his town house.

  He stayed where he was. At last the door opened and Osborne ushered in a small, plump, heavily veiled figure.

  The marquess’s eyes narrowed. Unless Fiona Grant was a witch and had contrived to shrink in height, then this was certainly not she.

  He nodded to Osborne who bowed and withdrew.

  “You are not the Miss Grant I know,” said the marquess curtly. “Who are you?”

  She raised her hands and put back her veil, revealing the timid features of Lizzie Grant.

  “I would not have done such an unconventional thing,” she whispered, “but I felt you had to know the truth about Fiona.”

  “Why should the truth, or lies, about Miss Grant concern me?”

  “All society knows you showed an unusual interest in her at the Bellamy’s ball.”

  “You are impertinent, miss.”

 
Lizzie began to sob in a dreary snuffling way. “I-I sh-should n-not have come,” she choked.

  “Sit down and unburden yourself, girl, if it makes you feel any better. What is this terrible thing about Fiona Grant that I should know?”

  “She is going to marry you.”

  The marquess visibly relaxed.

  “’Odso! She will need to be asked first. Or does she plan to drag me to the altar?”

  “She must marry you.”

  “Must?”

  “She has made the most awful bet. She bet Miss Perkins, Miss Helmsdale, and Lady Yarwood three thousand pounds each that you would propose to her before the Season was over.”

  “What a gossipy lot we are, to be sure,” said the marquess evenly. “’Twill make a vastly entertaining story, particularly when it gets about that you came, unattended, to my home to spike your cousin’s guns.”

  Lizzie turned paper white. “No!” she gasped. “You must not tell anyone it was I. I only told you because it was my duty…”

  “Yes,” said the marquess, “you are stupid, are you not? Society would merely laugh at Fiona Grant, but they might consider Miss Lizzie Grant to be dangerous and spiteful.”

  “I only did it for the best,” wailed Lizzie.

  “Then if you do not wish me to betray you, I suggest you never interfere in Fiona Grant’s life again or I shall most certainly tell society about it. Good day to you!”

  Lizzie turned to go. Then she half turned back, lowered her veil over her face, and said in a hard little voice, “You are called Miss Fiona’s Fancy. In the bet, you know. They made a betting book.”

  He made no reply, and so she left.

  The marquess sat down at his desk again. So that was why Fiona was flirting and ogling so desperately. The minx.

  He leaned back in his chair and began to laugh.

  He could hardly wait to see Miss Fiona again!

  SIX

  The Prince Regent adored anything and everything Scottish, mainly thanks to the works of Walter Scott and the Prince’s own romantic disposition.

  Fiona’s wild Highland dance had not, therefore, damned her in the eyes of society, nor had the withdrawal of the Duchess of Gordonstoun’s help. The duchess was not popular, and now she had turned her back on her only friend, the easygoing Lady Grant, she was left with Lizzie for company.

  The fact that she doted on the girl was evident. She chaperoned her as zealously as any matchmaking mama and sternly quelled any rumors about Lizzie’s doubtful birth. For society still speculated as to why any gently born miss should have been sent to a dressmaker for an apprenticeship.

  Fiona felt embarrassed at meeting Lizzie at balls and parties—for although the duchess was disliked, she was also feared because of her hectoring, bullying manner, and most hostesses were not brave enough to close their doors to her or Lizzie. But after a week of seeing Lizzie everywhere, she and the duchess disappeared. Christine, the maid, who was very good at picking up snippets of gossip, reported the duchess had taken Lizzie to Bath, considering the society of that famous spa “more genteel” than London.

  Relieved not to have to face the contemptuous, angry duchess or see Lizzie’s sly sidelong looks, Fiona set out to win the heart of the Marquess of Cleveden with renewed zeal. He had been present during that week at a few of the parties and functions, but although he had smiled and nodded to her, he had not approached her. Fiona wondered what to do next.

  She did not know the marquess was gleefully waiting to see just what she would do.

  Lady Grant was puzzled by her daughter’s behavior. Several very attractive and eligible young men had started to call and send poems and bouquets of flowers, but Fiona seemed uninterested in them all.

  As ten whole days since Fiona had last spoken to the marquess went past she began to feel desperate. In order to clear her thoughts, she went riding in the Row early one morning with Angus, the piper. They were trotting along under the trees when Fiona suddenly saw the marquess cantering toward them on a tall black Arabian horse. He raised his hat to Fiona, nodded and smiled, and rode on.

  “Stop!” cried Fiona to Angus. “Did you see that man who passed us?”

  “I did not mark him,” said Angus laconically. “I was thinking of something else.”

  “He sneered at me,” said Fiona.

  “Oh, he did, did he?” said Angus. “Well, we’ll see about that!”

  He wheeled his horse about and spurred it after the marquess.

  Now what have I done? thought Fiona wildly. But I had to do something.

  She followed the piper.

  Angus had come alongside the marquess. Both men had reined in their mounts. Angus was shouting something, and the marquess was looking angry and amazed.

  Fiona rode up to them just as Angus was saying, “Get down from that horse and let’s see what you’re made of.”

  “Angus, what is the matter?” said Fiona, all innocence.

  “This man sneered at you, you said,” replied Angus.

  “Oh, Angus, I only said he smiled at me. This is the Marquess of Cleveden.”

  “Miss Fiona, you said—”

  “Do forgive Angus,” said Fiona, dimpling up at the marquess, who surveyed her with a hard cynical gaze. “He has become a trifle deaf.”

  But Angus was no London servant to stand by and listen while his mistress told blatant lies about him. “Wait till I tell Sir Edward,” said Angus. “Me! Angus Robertson! The finest and sharpest ear in the glens to be so insulted. If your ruse was to force the gentleman to speak to you, you should have said so.” And then turning to the marquess, “Pray accept my deepest apologies, my lord.” He rode a little away, leaving the marquess alone with Fiona.

  Fiona felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. It would have been bad enough to have lied to an ordinary servant, but to lie to her father’s piper was ten times’ worse. A piper held a special place in the household and was treated with courtesy and respect by his master. She forced herself to meet the marquess’s gaze. “It was a misunderstanding,” she faltered.

  He smiled. “How churlish of me not to grasp at any excuse to talk to you. You are looking very beautiful today, Miss Grant.”

  “Thank you,” she said curtly, and then, to his amusement, she rallied and fluttered her eyelashes. “I do not think my beauty could ever match the beauty of your compliments,” she said.

  How far, he wondered, was Miss Fiona prepared to go in her pursuit of him?

  “Have you been enjoying your first Season?” he asked.

  “Not much,” said Fiona. “I mean,” she added hurriedly, “I have not been about much yet, but ’tis vastly amusing.”

  “I confess to being a trifle bored,” he replied. “But perhaps tonight’s entertainment will be different.”

  “What do you attend this evening?”

  “A masked ball at the Pantheon. May I hope to see you there? I would like the pleasure of waltzing with you again.”

  “But… but the Pantheon is no longer respectable.”

  “Ah, Miss Grant, you do not know how much I long to meet a lady who would do something, just once, that is not considered respectable.”

  “London abounds in the Fashionable Impure,” said Fiona tartly. “I am sure any of them would be delighted to oblige you.”

  “Tut, tut, Miss Grant. I was thinking of the lady of my dreams, the lady I mean to marry.”

  “I was only funning,” said Fiona hurriedly. “Of course I shall be there.”

  “May I escort you?”

  “N-no, my lord. I shall see you there. I hope you recognize me.”

  “I shall recognize you, Miss Grant, even when you are masked. I look forward to seeing you.”

  He bowed and rode off.

  Now what am I to do? thought Fiona. Mama does not approve of Cleveden because he took me driving in the slums. She would certainly not allow me to go to the Pantheon, even if the Prince Regent himself were to invite me. But I must go.

  Angus rode up to her, scow
ling. Fiona said, “Are you going to report me to Papa, Angus?”

  “Aye, save you do one thing for me.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Contrive a way to get me into the company of Christine Grant.”

  “Christine! But you see her every day, Angus.”