The Viscount's Revenge (The Royal Ambition Series Book 4)

by M C Beaton

  “Amanda! Richard!” called Aunt Matilda. “Oh, there you are!”

  Introductions were made. “Jem coachman is anxious to be on his way,” said Aunt Matilda, once the formalities were over. “He says the roads are treacherous and we should take advantage of the early start if we are to meet the mail. But I feel we should take Mr. Cartwright-Browne over Fox End before we leave.”

  “Indeed, yes,” chorused Richard and Amanda.

  “No need for that, ma’am,” said the old gentleman. “Mrs. Jolly says she knows your house as well as she knows her own and she will be calling later to put me in the way of things.”

  In vain did Amanda and Richard protest. In vain did Amanda try to delay their departure by inventing missing fans and bonnets. Mr. Cartwright-Browne stood smiling outside the stables and it seemed as if he were set to stay there all day.

  “I’ll find some way of riding back from town and getting them,” whispered Richard to Amanda at last. “We can’t stay any longer.”

  And with that, Amanda had to be satisfied.

  The vicarage coach rumbled forward. Amanda craned her neck until the tall chimneys of Fox End had vanished from sight. They were headed for London and the uncertain future, and the unknown Mrs. Pitts and her daughter.

  They made a fairly silent journey of it. Aunt Matilda had suddenly lost all her vigour, and slept most of the way.

  After the mail coach had deposited them in the City, Richard commandeered a hack. “Where to?” he asked Aunt Matilda.

  She opened her reticule and fumbled around until she found a small pair of steel spectacles, which she balanced on the end of her long pink nose. Then she scrabbled and fumbled again, spilling out papier poudre, a vinaigrette, a lead pencil, a box of lucifers, a whole forest of bone pins, two combs, and a steel looking glass, before she found a slip of paper. “Oh, here it is,” she sighed. “Berkeley Square. Number five.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Richard. “That is one of the most fashionable addresses in London.”

  “Quite sure,” said Aunt Matilda. “Mrs. Pitts wrote it down for me herself.”

  Amanda climbed into the hack, wrapping her skirts around her ankles to keep them clear of the dirty straw on the floor. She felt no excitement at being in London. She felt deafened by the noise and bustle.

  Postmen in scarlet coats with bells and bags were going from door to door; porterhouse boys were running with pewter mugs of beer for the evening’s suppers; small chimney sweeps with gigantic brushes were wearily trudging home; bakers were calling “Hot loaves,” their raucous voices competing with the bells of the dust carts and the horns of the news vendors. Apprentices were chattering and shouting to each other as they put up the heavy shutters on the bow-fronted, multipaned windows of their masters’ shops; ragged urchins were leapfrogging over posts; and hawkers with bandboxes on poles were threading their way through the jostling crowd.

  There were vast hooded wagons with wheels like rollers, and brewers’ drays drawn by Suffolk Punches, those huge and powerful draught-horses; bullocks on their way back from Smithfield wandering into yards, and rickety hackney coaches with their ancient jehus, like the one bearing Amanda out of the City and towards the West End of London.

  Every house seemed to have the same unadorned face of freestone-bordered sash, the same neat pillars on either side of the pedimented door, the same stone steps over the area crowned by a lamppost.

  They made their way along Cheapside to Newgate Street and then along Holborn, from Holborn to Oxford Street, and then from Oxford Street through Hanover Square. Now that they were in the West End, the London of fashion, bounded by Grosvenor Square and St. James’s Square, Amanda could see signs of wealth all around in the carefully ordered streets and the huge town houses and in the very absence of bustle which had so marked the rest of the capital that she had driven through.

  Berkeley Square was reached all too soon for Amanda, who had become increasingly nervous. Her plain muslin gown and nankeen pelisse and Pamela bonnet seemed increasingly countrified.

  And why had she never noticed before how shiny with wear Richard’s morning clothes had become.

  Fortunately for Amanda, night had fallen, and her first sight of the town mansion which was to be her home in the succeeding months was no more than a vague impression of a vast, square bulk. And so she was able to convince herself that Mrs. Pitts surely rented a genteel flat among other genteel flats. No one could possibly live in the whole thing.

  A footman in scarlet-and-silver livery with silver epaulettes opened the door, looking every bit as grand as a Hussar officer.

  “Miss Pettifor and Mr. and Miss Colby, guests of Mrs. Pitts,” said Aunt Matilda.

  “There is no lady of that name resident here,” said the footman, his quick eyes flicking up and down their countrified dress. He made a move to close the door.

  “But you must be mistaken,” said Aunt Matilda, beginning to cry noisily. “You must. We have come so far, and Maria wrote this address down for me herself.”

  “What is it, James?” demanded another voice. The footman stood aside, and an imposing butler surveyed the small party on the doorstep.

  “My aunt wishes to see Mrs. Pitts,” said Amanda, throwing an irritated look at the now crumpled and sobbing Aunt Matilda. “But it is quite clear she has been given the wrong address.”

  “You are Miss Pettifor and Master and Miss Colby?” asked the butler, his face clearing.

  Aunt Matilda stopped crying immediately. “Yes, indeed,” she said, peering at him over the edge of a damp handkerchief.

  He stood aside. “Then you are expected. Come this way. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s maiden name was Miss Pitts.”

  “Of course!” cried Aunt Matilda, failing to notice the look of alarm on the twins’ faces. “How silly of me! I remember she married, but I could not remember the gentleman’s name.”

  Amanda and Richard shuffled nervously in behind Aunt Matilda, trying not to gawk at the magnificence of the entrance hall with its black-and-white tiles below and its painted ceiling above, which simulated an open sky with flying birds.

  “The family is in the Red Drawing Room,” announced the butler, throwing open a handsome pair of double doors and announcing the visitors in a loud ringing voice.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald arose and walked forward to meet them. Her eyes, so like her son’s, were pale and expressionless. She had a heavy jaw and a rather dumpy figure. Her hair was hidden under an elaborate lace cap.

  “My dear Matilda!” she said in the sort of resounding voice that is used to making its presence felt in marble halls. “Susan, come forward and make your curtsy.”

  A thin, tall, dark girl with a very hard face in one so young, and thick black hair which she tossed from side to side, made an awkward curtsy, gave them an unsmiling look, and promptly retreated back to a sofa in a corner of the room.

  Amanda took a deep breath. At least the sinister Lord Hawksborough was not present. With any luck, he did not live with his mother.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald drew Aunt Matilda down beside her on a sofa in front of the fire and proceeded to organise that lady’s life.

  “Now, Matilda,” she said, “in a moment I will ring for our housekeeper, Mrs. Renfrew, who will show you to your rooms. Dinner is at seven. I hope you will not find our town hours too late. I will lend you a gown, since I am sure you have nothing suitable. We planned a quiet evening, as it is your first. After dinner, we will play cards. My daughter and Amanda will become better acquainted.”

  Amanda and Richard looked hopefully towards Susan, who stared insolently back and then pointedly looked away.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald’s incisive voice went on and on. Aunt Matilda murmured “yes” and “no” like an obedient child.

  The Red Drawing Room was vast. A Murillo depicting a religious scene—looted by the French from a Spanish church and rescued by Lord Hawksborough, as Amanda was to learn later—hung over the fireplace.

  The rosewood and satinwood furniture was carved
with a peacock design. There were also walnut pier tables. Enormous pier glasses ornamented two of the walls, topped with gold heads of Bacchus. The carpets had been woven with a coat of arms.

  On two gilt console tables stood pairs of bronze and ormolu candelabra, their tall wax candles throwing a clear light over the room.

  A pair of armchairs with Egyptian heads supporting the armrests, possibly made by the Royal upholsterers, Morel and Seddon, flanked the fireplace, which was ornamented with an overmantel of Chinese Chippendale.

  Amanda and Richard sat down gingerly on two satinwood chairs near the door.

  “This is awful,” whispered Amanda. “I think I am going to be bullied to death. And what are we to do about the jewels?”

  “Well, at least we know where to bring them,” said Richard. “Let’s hope Hawksborough lives somewhere else. He looked at me so long and hard that night, Amanda, I could swear he could see right through my disguise.”

  “Listen!” said Amanda. “Mrs. Fitzgerald is talking about the robbery.”

  “No!” Aunt Matilda was exclaiming. “To think you, dear Maria, were being robbed by these ruffians, only shortly after I left you. I did not think it could possibly be you because I saw you at Hember Cross such a little while before and you said you were going to Bellingham.”

  “My son was staying at the inn as well, and we both went directly to Bellingham after you left, and we only stopped for a few moments to pick up Susan.”

  “What a terrible ordeal,” breathed Aunt Matilda. “You must have been monstrous frightened.”

  “I was so angry,” said Maria Fitzgerald pugnaciously, “that I could not feel frightened. But Hawksborough will get those highwaymen, sooner or later.”

  “Hawksborough?” asked Aunt Matilda.

  “My son,” snapped Mrs. Fitzgerald. “You always had a brain like a peahen, Matilda.”

  “Of course,” said Aunt Matilda, her face clearing. “Amanda told me that the excessively handsome man who took her in to supper was Lord Hawksborough. He was quite taken with her, you know. Then I thought… Hawksborough, where have I heard that name before? And then I remembered someone saying he was your son and just then I remembered a lady we used to know in the old days telling me she had heard you were recently widowed and resident at the inn, and so—”

  “And so you arrive looking for Mrs. Pitts. Really, Matilda, what have you got in that feather head of yours? When the highway robbery occurred, did not the whole countryside tell you that we had been robbed and tell you our name?”

  “There wasn’t much time,” pleaded Aunt Matilda, “and apart from Mrs. Jolly, who is really too worried about the health of her five children at the moment to think of much else, we didn’t really see anyone else, except, of course, Mrs. Jolly’s cousin, who has leased the house.”

  “And what is this, pray, about Hawksborough being ‘taken’ with Amanda?” demanded Mrs. Fitzgerald. “He told me he had a most boring time in the country, and I am sure I told him you and the Colbys were coming on a visit, and he did not mention he had met your daughter before. Furthermore, he has just become engaged to a most suitable female, Lady Mary Dane. He never ran after little girls as far as I can remember.”

  “So that puts you in your place, Amanda,” announced Susan Fitzgerald with a surprisingly attractive ripple of laughter.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald paid absolutely no heed to her daughter’s interruption. “You will have the honour of meeting Lady Mary later. She is staying with us at present.” The Colbys were to learn that Lady Mary stayed more at Berkeley Square than she did in her own home. “Mrs. Renfrew will now take you to your rooms. Susan, do you wish to go above with Amanda and become better acquainted?”

  “No.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald equably. She rang the bell and delivered them over to a stern matron in black bombazine.

  Richard stumbled awkwardly against a chair in his rush to hold the doors open for his aunt and Amanda, and Susan laughed again.

  They followed the housekeeper up the long curved staircase which led to the upper floors. On the second floor, the housekeeper ushered Aunt Matilda into one room, and then, walking a little farther along the corridor, pushed open another and indicated to Amanda that she had arrived at her room. Then with another little jerk of her head, the housekeeper signalled to Richard that he was to follow her.

  Amanda went inside and shut the door and leaned against it. If only Fox End had not been let to Mr. Cartwright-Browne! Otherwise she would have run away that very evening.

  She looked around the room with wide eyes.

  It was dominated by a heavy four-poster of the Queen Anne period with a wrought-cloth canopy. The hangings were of heavy cloth in green and gold. The bed was so high, a short flight of steps led up to it. Beside the bed stood a night commode. There was a tallboy, a writing bureau, a small chest of drawers, a dressing table draped with chintz, and a swing looking glass. There were also three chairs and a small toilet stand.

  Beside the bed was the inevitable tin rushlight canister pierced with holes.

  She moved slowly forward. A small fire of sea coal crackled busily on the shining hearth. The toilet table boasted both Joppa and Windsor soap.

  The dressing table was crowded with fascinating-looking bottles and tins. There was tooth powder, and face powder, and lip salves. A selection of choice perfumes had been neatly lined up as if for inspection—Spirit of Ambegris, Otto of Roses, Aqua Mellis, and Cordova Water. A set of tortoiseshell hairbrushes, obviously new, lay ready for use.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald is very patronising and domineering, thought Amanda, but our hostess has certainly spent a deal of money to make us comfortable.

  She sat down at the dressing table after removing her bonnet and pelisse.

  So Lord Hawksborough was to be married. And she, Amanda Colby, had made so little impression on him that he had not even remembered her name.

  I’m glad we took the jewels and I’m glad Richard took his wretched ring, Amanda thought fiercely. But all the old guilt for what they had done, memories of their terrible criminal deed, came back stronger than ever before, and all she wanted to do was to run as far away from London as possible.

  The door swung open and Susan strode in and threw a pile of clothes on the bed. “Mathers will be along to fix you up,” she said, and turned on her heel.

  “Stay!” cried Amanda. “Who is Mathers?”

  “My lady’s maid, of course,” snapped Susan. “Don’t you know anything?” And with that, she stumped out.

  What a horrible girl, thought Amanda. And I had so hoped for a friend.

  The maid, Mathers, then arrived. Amanda felt extremely embarrassed and awkward at having to reveal herself to anyone in such shabby underwear, but the maid was too well-trained to make any comment. She was so placid and silent, in fact, that Amanda began to relax and to enjoy being pinned and dressed and groomed.

  “There you are, Miss Colby,” said the maid an hour later, speaking for the first time. “I’ll send a footman to escort you downstairs. The family meets in the Green Drawing Room on the ground floor before dinner. They always use the state apartments whether they’ve got company or not.”

  She curtsied and left.

  Amanda walked slowly to the looking glass, praying for a transformation, hoping to see she had miraculously become a plump, well-rounded debutante with rosy cheeks and shining eyes.

  But her reflection told her that she still looked as if she did not belong in society.

  Her gown was very plain, being of a peculiarly dull violet color. Her hair had been braided into a small crown and threaded with silk violets with green silk leaves. Amanda gathered that the gown had been one of Susan’s and wondered at Mrs. Fitzgerald choosing such an aging color for her daughter.

  Amanda decided to use a little of the scent and picked up the glass bottle of Otto of Roses. Just then, a footman scratched at the door and announced he had come to escort her downstairs. Amanda nervously spilled some of th
e scent over her arm, and, with an exclamation of dismay, hurriedly pulled on her old white gloves, seized the gold silk stole Aunt Matilda had made for her, and followed the footman down the stairs.

  The Green Drawing Room was as vast as the Red. It was no longer green, having been redecorated in gold and red stripes. It was chilly, since the fire had only recently been lit. Amanda accepted a glass of wine from a footman and turned to look for Richard. He entered behind her, appearing much older and more assured then he had been earlier. He was wearing the suit of evening clothes he had worn to the ball, but his cravat was impeccably tied and his hair had been teased into artistic disorder.

  “You look very fine,” whispered Amanda.

  “Got Hawksborough’s valet sent to attend me. Oh, lor’, Amanda, Hawksborough lives here!”

  “Stop whispering!” shouted Susan Fitzgerald. “It’s rude.”