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

by M C Beaton

  He frowned awfully as he saw his daughter deftly shaking the dice and called the game to a stop.

  “There will be no more gambling in the Grant household,” he snapped.

  “We are not playing for money,” pleaded Fiona, to whom the game of dice was like a soothing drug.

  “It does not matter,” said Sir Edward. “Stop, now, and never let me see cards or dice played under my roof again!”

  Fiona sighed and put the dice away.

  “Furthermore,” said Sir Edward, “as you are soon to be a married lady with your own household, I suggest you take that maid, Polly—the one you picked out of the gutter—away with you.”

  “Polly!” cried Fiona. “Poor child. I had almost forgot about her.”

  “She cannot stop stealing,” said Sir Edward. “Trinkets belonging to the staff have been found under her mattress. She said she only took them to keep up her skills and meant to give them back. But she must go! And if you will not take her with you, then I shall throw her back in the kennel where she belongs.”

  “Send her to me, Angus,” said Fiona. “Perhaps I had better see if I can put a stop to her stealing.”

  “And while you’re about reforming the maid,” said her father nastily, “think of reforming yourself. I am sure Cleveden does not want to lose his fortune through his wife’s gambling.”

  “Aye,” said Angus, shaking his head as Sir Edward stomped out, “there is nothing so bad as a reformed anything, be it gambler, drunkard, or lecher. They are aye harder on folks wi’ their vices than someone without them would be.”

  Sir Edward decided to improve the state of his spleen by walking to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was nearly noon, but the fashionable streets of the West End of London were largely deserted, society usually not rising before two in the afternoon unless something unusual had animated them, like unpaid gambling debts or the unexpected marriage announcement of a friend.

  Several times he thought he heard the light patter of footsteps behind him and swung around, but there was no one to be seen.

  He was walking through St. James’s Park when he heard a soft voice calling his name.

  Beginning to think he was being haunted, he swung about again, expecting to see no one there, but the short figure of Lizzie Grant could be clearly seen, hurrying toward him.

  “Were you following me?” snapped Sir Edward as she came up to him.

  “Yes,” said Lizzie meekly. “I wanted to speak to you of a strange happening. I did not want to tell you in front of Fiona for she might laugh at me.”

  “I doubt it,” said Sir Edward repressively. “Fiona is a very kind girl.”

  Lizzie stood in front of him, head bowed, saying nothing.

  “Well?” he barked. “Out with it!”

  “I don’t quite know how to begin,” faltered Lizzie. “I am not superstitious, but sometimes I am given to seeing signs and omens. It happened on the road back from Bath…”

  She trailed off into silence.

  “Go on,” said Sir Edward, intrigued.

  “I saw two magpies,” said Lizzie.

  “Nothing odd in that,” said Sir Edward, although his gambler’s heart beat a little faster. The sight of two magpies was a good omen.

  “What was odd,” said Lizzie carefully, “was that one of the magpies, the male, had a tattered tartan ribbon tied about his neck.”

  “What tartan was that?”

  “It was the Grant tartan,” said Lizzie.

  Sir Edward drew in his breath in a sharp hiss. Then he tried to laugh.

  “And what has some fool bird wearing a ribbon got to do with me?”

  Lizzie drew closer. “The bird was in the garden of the Green Man posting house outside Marlborough where Lord Roderick Grant died in 1731.”

  “Gad’s Ooonds!” cried Sir Edward. “There was the luckiest gambler of all times, and he died at a comfortable old age in that very posting house.”

  “It happened when I was sitting in the garden with her grace,” said Lizzie. “Her grace was saying how she longed to see her dear friends, Lady Grant and Sir Edward, when the bird hopped down at my feet.”

  All the old gambling fever rushed back. Sir Edward forgot his resolutions. It was a sign. An omen. The ghost of his grandfather’s cousin, Lord Roderick Grant, had appeared to Lizzie so that she might let him, Sir Edward, know that Lord Roderick’s ghost would be with him at the tables. He was anxious to get away.

  “Most interesting, Lizzie,” he forced himself to say in a casual voice.

  “The duchess did not mark the bird,” said Lizzie, “but you know there is a belief that we illegitimate Grants have a gift of seeing things that the ordinary person cannot.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sir Edward impatiently. He turned away but Lizzie caught his sleeve.

  “You know you must never tell anyone what I told you,” she said. “You know that.”

  Sir Edward did not know anything of the kind, but his superstitious Highland soul immediately told him that Lizzie was right, that his luck brought to him by this omen would fade if he told anyone.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “Now I must take my leave.”

  He turned and strode off under the trees. Lizzie watched him go.

  After he had proceeded a little way south in the direction that would take him to the Strand and then along to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Sir Edward stopped. He veered east instead—east toward St. James’s Street, east to the clubs and coffee houses.

  The following afternoon, Fiona sat and awaited the arrival of her fiancé, the Marquess of Cleveden. She had sent for him as soon as the three ladies had given her the money.

  Fiona felt like a completely different person now that she possessed £9,000. She was no longer a weak woman who would have to marry. She was a woman of substance. Money had given her freedom.

  Now all she had to do was to endure an uncomfortable interview with the marquess and then she would be free to plan her future. She knew now that what she wanted more than anything else in the world was to go home to the Highlands of Scotland. There was a small property for sale near Inverness. She would buy it, and take Angus and Christine with her. Angus must learn to work instead of lounging about, waiting for someone to ask him to play the pipes. And Polly could come too. The Highlands would cure her of thieving. There was so little to steal.

  Lady Grant came into the drawing room and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “You are looking very fine, child,” she said, standing back to admire Fiona’s ensemble of white tunic dress ornamented with a gold key pattern.

  “I am awaiting Cleveden, Mama.”

  “You should have told me! You cannot receive him alone before your marriage. You are allowed a few moments after the proposal but nothing after that until the wedding.”

  “I would rather see him alone, Mama.”

  “I am sorry, Fiona, I cannot allow it. What do you want to see him about?”

  Fiona looked worried. She had not intended to tell her parents about breaking the engagement until it was all over.

  She was about to confess the truth when Dougal, the butler, came in with the biscuits and wine she had ordered to be placed ready for the marquess’s visit.

  “Is Sir Edward still absent?” asked Lady Grant.

  “He’s been out all night, my leddy,” said Dougal.

  “Oh dear,” moaned Lady Grant. “Surely he could not… he promised me…”

  “Here’s a carriage now,” said Dougal.

  “It will be Cleveden.” Fiona ran to the window. “No, it is Papa,” she said, “arriving in a hack. He looks dreadful.”

  They waited in silence until Sir Edward trailed miserably into the drawing room. He collapsed in a chair and buried his face in his hands.

  “I’ve lost it all,” he moaned. “Our house, our lands…”

  Fiona took a deep breath. She would still tell Cleveden the engagement was off. But she now had money to save her home.

  “Papa,” she said, “I did not want to tell
you this, but I won a great deal of money on a wager. Do not worry. Our lands are safe.”

  He looked up in wild hope. “How much?” he demanded.

  “Nine thousand pounds,” said Fiona proudly.

  Down went Sir Edward’s head again. “I lost fifty thousand pounds,” he said.

  Lady Grant screamed. She had borrowed money before to bail him out, but she did not know of anyone who could afford to lend such a vast sum. There was only the Duchess of Gordonstoun, and that lady, when appealed to before, had refused to lend a penny.

  “You liar and cheat!” raged Lady Grant.

  Fiona felt her world was crumbling apart. Never before had the placid and long-suffering Lady Grant given way to any strong emotion. Her mother’s steadfast love for her father, faults and all, was the bedrock of Fiona’s security.

  Gambling does this, she thought, appalled. It wrecks souls as well as fortunes.

  “The Marquess of Cleveden,” announced Dougal gloomily.

  The marquess strolled in and surveyed the tableau—Sir Edward sunk in a chair, Lady Grant, cheeks flaming, fists clenched, and Fiona, white and wretched.

  He had not expected anything pleasant from this visit. He had fully expected Fiona to tell him the engagement was off. He had been wondering just how to handle it, for he was sure, if only he could wed Fiona, he would make her love him.

  “Perhaps I should call at some other time,” said the marquess.

  Sir Edward looked up. He had forgotten about this rich, soon-to-be son-in-law. But the gleam of hope in his eyes quickly died. He was so disgusted with himself that the idea of presenting the marquess with such an enormous debt immediately after the marriage seemed almost worse than anything else.

  “Yes, perhaps you had better go,” said Fiona.

  “On the other hand,” said the marquess, “I might be able to help. It is all over London that you put your house and lands on the tables last night, Sir Edward.”

  “Do not humiliate me further,” mumbled Sir Edward.

  “I have no intention of humiliating you, sir. I do not wish to be saddled with a father-in-law in the Fleet Prison. I believe the sum is fifty thousand pounds.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Edward drearily.

  “I am very rich, as you know. The marriage settlement will just cover that sum and you may have it today. But there is one condition. And that condition must remain private between myself and Miss Grant. Would you allow me a few moments alone with your daughter?”

  “Yes,” said Lady Grant firmly. She went across to her husband and tugged at his arm. “Come, Sir Edward,” she said. “I feel that what is happening to us now is more than you deserve.”

  Sir Edward rose from his chair and allowed himself to be led from the room by the hand like a child.

  Fiona gripped the back of a chair and faced the marquess.

  “Now, Fiona,” he said. “You see what comes of gambling? Before I state my conditions, I must ask you this. Have you anything to tell me?”

  Those golden eyes of his bored into her own.

  But Fiona could not tell him about the wager. She was sure if she did, he would cry off. It was all right for him to talk about marrying for amusement, but Fiona was sure he would not be at all amused to find out he was Miss Fiona’s Fancy in a betting book. With £9,000 she could easily have told him the engagement was off. But the sum of money, which only such a short time ago had appeared so magnificent, was now only a small part of her father’s staggering debt.

  “No,” she said miserably.

  There was a short silence, and then he said, “The conditions of our marriage are this. I would have you love me for myself alone, Fiona Grant. Do not look so distressed. Call it another whim, if you will. I shall give our marriage one year. During that year, if you have not willingly, and of your own volition, come to my bed, I shall have the marriage annulled on the grounds of lack of consummation. Do you understand?”

  Fiona stared at him. He saw the hope beginning to dawn in her eyes and knew that for Fiona Grant the prison gates were beginning to open. The fact that she might ever come to love him was obviously not entering her pretty head.

  He felt a qualm of doubt. Was he being an arrogant fool, thinking that this Highland girl with a gambler’s blood in her veins would ever come to love him? But he was a bit of a gambler himself, he thought ruefully, and Fiona Grant was worth the gamble.

  “I agree,” she said.

  “Good,” he replied as matter-of-factly as if they were two gentlemen who had just completed a business agreement.

  Fiona rallied. “May I offer you some refreshment, my lord?”

  “No, Fiona. You may call me Cleveden. That is the correct form. In moments of ecstasy, you may remember my name is Charles.” He went forward and raised her hand to his lips.

  Then he walked toward the door.

  “Wait!” cried Fiona. “When shall I see you again?”

  “At the altar, my sweet,” he said. “Make sure you are there!”

  NINE

  Fiona was caught up in a maelstrom of wedding preparations. It was to be a very small, informal wedding, not held in church but in the Grants’ rented London home.

  Church weddings were definitely “exploded,” the Duchess of Gordonstoun explained to Sir Edward and Lady Grant. Nobody who was anybody wanted to stand in some dark, drafty place making their vows. But the Grants would much have preferred the wedding to be less fashionable, and grateful as both Fiona’s parents were to the marquess for saving them from ruin, the very fact that he did not want to marry their daughter in church made them worry about his character and morals, and Fiona had to endure many hours of questioning as to whether she was sure she was doing the Right Thing.

  She wanted to scream that, no, she was sure she was doing the wrong thing, but that would mean explaining about the wager. It was of no use blaming her father for having put her in a position where she was forced to marry Lord Cleveden when she herself was just as guilty by agreeing to the engagement in the first place. To her surprise, the one question her parents did not ask her was about the £9,000 and how she had come to win such a sum.

  The fact was that they had forgotten Fiona’s offer, the whole episode of the marquess’s proposal being remembered only in pieces and with a mixture of shame and relief.

  Fiona was cured of gambling forever. She could only hope the same could be said of her father.

  Up until the day before her wedding, she had never really thought of the marquess as a human being, a person with feelings. It was when she finally told Christine of the marquess’s plan to annul the marriage after a year if she showed no signs of loving him that her eyes began to open.

  For Christine looked amazed, and then said, “I call that handsome of him, miss. To not constrain you to any intimacy, to settle your father’s debts without a murmur, surely he must be the noblest gentleman alive!”

  “He is a very odd man,” said Fiona cautiously, “and he did say he was marrying me because I amused him.”

  Christine was on the point of saying that only a man already deeply in love would behave like the marquess. But she had an instinctive feeling that that idea might frighten Fiona, and besides, Christine already had a certain loyalty to her soon-to-be employer, because Fiona was taking Christine with her to her new home until such time as she could persuade the marquess to arrange something for Christine and Angus.

  So she merely cautioned, “Do be careful, Miss Fiona. Cleveden is much older than you, but there’s no need to go on as if he is made of iron. He has behaved handsomely and is entitled to respect and delicacy of feeling.”

  “You have the right of it,” sighed Fiona. “I will try to be good. Is being in love pleasant?”

  “It can be heaven or hell,” said Christine, “it all depends how you play your cards.”

  Fiona shuddered. “Don’t even mention cards or dice to me again, I beg you. I must say the Duchess of Gordonstoun is doing wonders. Mama said she could not possibly manage the ar
rangements without her. It is even worth having that creepy Lizzie about the place.”

  “It is not too hard a thing to arrange a rushed wedding,” said Christine dryly, “when you have unlimited funds and can command the best caterers.”

  “But Papa has practically no money at all now. We cannot afford it!”

  “The Marquess of Cleveden has said that all accounts are to be sent to him.”

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Fiona. “I wish he had not. I will try to love him, Christine, but being under such a weight of obligation makes him seem more of a parent in my eyes than a lover.”