Rainbird's Revenge: A Novel of Regency England - Being the Sixth Volume of A House for the Season

by M. C. Beaton

  Rainbird’s Revenge

  A Novel of Regency England

  Being the Sixth Volume of A House for the Season

  M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney

  Copyright

  Rainbird’s Revenge

  Copyright © 1988 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: 9780795315060

  For Mr. Albert Sinclair

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter

  One

  For ennui is a growth of English root,

  Though nameless in our language:—we retort

  The fact for words, and let the French translate

  That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.

  —Lord Byron

  “What do you mean, fellow, by telling me there is no room to be had in this inn?” The landlord of The Bell glanced nervously up at the tall figure on the inn threshold.

  “Just like I said, sir. An assembly is being held here tonight, and folks have come from far and wide to attend it. All the rooms are taken, Mr—?”

  “John,” said the tall gentleman. “Mr. John. Double your price, landlord, if you find me a room. I shall wait in the tap while you go about arranging it.”

  He strode into the tap with his servant at his heels, leaving the landlord, Mr. Sykes, looking after him open-mouthed.

  “What was all that about?” asked his wife, coming up behind him.

  “Some gentleman called Mr. John demanding a room. Says he’ll pay double.”

  “Well, could be done,” said his wife cautiously. “There’s young Mr. Partridge and his friend, Mr. Clough. They’d rack up together at a pinch.”

  “Don’t like this Mr. John’s high-handedness, and that’s a fact,” said the landlord.

  “Money’s money,” said his practical wife. “You know the Assembly Committee won’t pay us anything till Martinmas.”

  “Very well,” said the landlord reluctantly. “But you go and tell him he can more than likely have a room. He’s in the tap. Something about him makes my flesh creep.”

  Mrs. Sykes straightened her cap and opened the door of the tap while her husband made his way upstairs.

  A few of the locals were looking sulky, as if they had just been ejected from their customary place, at two men who were seated in the best chairs in front of the fire.

  Mrs. Sykes was perfectly prepared to give the strangers a piece of her mind and tell them they were very lucky indeed if they could get a room, double fee or no double fee; but, at her approach, the taller of the two men rose to his feet, and the angry words died on her lips.

  A pair of ice-blue eyes in a tanned face looked down at her haughtily from above the snowy folds of an exquisitely tied cravat. His hair was the colour of burnished guineas. His mouth was firm and classically shaped. He exuded an air of wealth and power. Mrs. Sykes sank into a curtsy.

  “My husband has gone to see if two of our guests will agree to share a room,” she said. “That will leave a room free for you, sir and …?” She looked inquiringly at the smaller man.

  “For my servant,” said the tall man. “Thank you. You are most kind.” He smiled suddenly, a smile of dazzling sweetness that was suddenly at odds with his chilly grandeur.

  “And if your honour would care to grace our ball,” said Mrs. Sykes, feeling breathless after the impact of that smile, “I am sure the Assembly Committee would be most honoured.”

  The tall man surveyed her thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he said. “We shall see. Please let me know as soon as the room is ready.”

  Mrs. Sykes curtsied again and left.

  The two men sat down. “Well, Fergus,” said the tall man, “shall I visit this rustic ball?”

  “If it amuses your grace,” said his servant. “But why the masquerade? Why not tell the landlord you are the great and noble Duke of Pelham?”

  “Because I am tired of toad-eaters and fortune hunters,” said the duke lazily. “I wish a short holiday from the breed. You know that, Fergus. We have been together for many years now and through many battles. I allow you more licence than anyone else. But if I choose to remain incognito for this one evening, that is my affair.”

  A flicker of affection lit the duke’s eyes as he glanced at the disapproving lines of Fergus’s sunburned face: Fergus, once devoted batman, now valet, companion, and sometimes adviser.

  “But the servants at that accursed London house know your identity,” said Fergus.

  “Yes.”

  “I do not know why your grace should choose to spend the Season at Sixty-seven Clarges Street.”

  “Because, or had you forgot, my town house in Grosvenor Square is being redecorated, so I must reside in the lesser of my town properties.”

  “But your father killed himself there, your grace!”

  “We are but lately returned from the wars in the Peninsula, and yet you have managed to listen to gossip about me, Fergus.”

  “Is it not true?”

  “Yes. But I am not sentimental. Nor do I believe in ghosts. I knew little of my father, and the little I knew I did not like. Clarges Street will do very well. Perhaps the delights of the Season will remove some of this ennui that plagues me.”

  His servant looked at him slyly. “Or perhaps some beauty will take your interest.”

  The duke sighed. “Women are only interested in money,” he said. “They are mercenary to a fault.”

  “There might be some unspoiled and fresh country beauty at this ball,” said Fergus, chatting easily to his employer with the casual friendliness which had developed between master and servant during the bloody campaigns against Napoleon’s soldiers.

  “Women are spoilt from birth,” said the duke. “The subject bores me. Talk about something else.”

  Miss Jenny Sutherland looked at her own appearance in the glass with extreme satisfaction. It was a pity, she thought, not for the first time, that such beauty should be wasted on the country air. But her aunt, Lady Letitia Colville, who could have well afforded to have taken her to London for a Season, showed absolutely no signs of doing so.

  Jenny was pretty. Masses of soft dark hair framed adelicate face. She had large brown eyes with long black lashes, a short straight nose, and a perfect mouth. Her figure was soft and feminine and she had a tiny waist—not often shown to advantage in the latest styles, where the waist had moved up to somewhere just below the bosom.

  Her parents had died when she was six years old from the “French cold”—the name for influenza—the French being blamed for any illness, from a cold in the head to the pox. Her spinster aunt, Lady Letitia, had elected to bring her up. Personal beauty, rather than her aunt’s upbringing, had spoilt Jenny. She had become used to hearing from an early age from a doting governess how very beautiful she was, so that her aunt’s efforts at instilling some modesty in her brain had gone to waste.

  She was wearing a dress of s
ilver spider gauze over a white slip. A coronet of white silk flowers and silver ribbons nestled among her curls. Jenny knew she was in no danger of being a wallflower at the assembly that evening. At all previous assemblies she had been the belle of the ball.

  Her maid entered carrying a warm shawl, fan, and reticule. Jenny did not like the choice of fan and wanted to send the maid, Cooper, to look for another, but refrained from doing so, for Cooper would report even such a minor task to Lady Letitia, and Lady Letitia would promptly accuse Jenny of giving the servants unnecessary work.

  Carrying an oil-lamp, Cooper lit the way downstairs to the drawing room for Jenny. Lady Letitia was sitting by the drawing-room fire.

  She was a slim woman in her early forties. Her hair was thick and brown without a trace of grey and her small black eyes were sharp and sparkling. She had a neat, rather flat-chested figure, long white hands, and long, narrow feetencased in kid dancing slippers. She wore a velvet turban and a gown of crimson velvet fastened with gold frogs over an underdress of dull-green silk.

  She looked up as Jenny entered the room, wishing again that the girl were not quite so dazzlingly beautiful. Lady Letitia found herself hoping there would be some gentleman at the ball who would catch her flighty niece’s fancy—some gentleman who would have no interest in Jenny at all. What she needs, thought Lady Letitia, is a good set-down. It was not as if Jenny were cruel or unkind. It was merely that she had obviously become accustomed to thinking her beauty too great for any of the local gentry. In short, she was vain.

  Perhaps I should have taken her to London, mused Lady Letitia. There are many beauties there, and competition is just what she needs. But London is full of rakes and fribbles. Better with a country husband.

  “How do I look?” asked Jenny, pirouetting in front of her aunt.

  “Very suitable,” said Lady Letitia repressively.

  Jenny laughed. “I can never wring a compliment from you, dear Aunt.”

  “It is as well there is someone in the world who does not spoil you,” said Lady Letitia. “My pelisse, Cooper.”

  Lady Letitia lived in a large mansion outside the town of Barminster. It was a busy market town, being on the main road from Bristol to London. Although many London-bound strangers often stayed at The Bell, few ever graced the assemblies, being too tired from travelling to think of attending a local ball.

  After Jenny had left her shawl in an ante-room and joined her aunt in the hall outside the double doors that ledto the ballroom, she began to feel tremors of excitement, as if something momentous were about to happen.

  They were somewhat late, vain Jenny deliberately delaying her toilette so that she might make an appearance.

  “Good Gad,” muttered the Duke of Pelham as Jenny entered the room, followed by Lady Letitia.

  “There is your country beauty,” murmured Fergus from behind his master’s chair. “And what a beauty!”

  “I wonder if she is aware of her looks,” said the duke, still studying Jenny. But there was nothing in Jenny’s manner to betray her vanity, simply because Jenny had never ever had to compete with anyone.

  Lady Letitia’s sharp eyes immediately flew to where the Duke of Pelham was sitting. She raised her fan and whispered behind it to Mrs. Chudleigh, a member of the Assembly Committee, “Who is that devastatingly handsome stranger?”

  “No one of any importance, I can assure you,” said Mrs. Chudleigh. “A traveller called Mr. John.”

  Lady Letitia looked covertly across the room at the handsome, haughty face and murmured, “I am surprised to learn he is a plain ‘mister.’ I would say he is used to commanding a great number of people.”

  “Possibly,” said Mrs. Chudleigh with a superior titter. “His servant has put it about that his master was an army captain but recently sold out.”

  Jenny, who had been joined by several of her friends, soon learned the identity of the handsome stranger as well.

  “Mama says she will shoot me if I so much as look at a lowly captain,” giggled Miss Euphemia Vickers, one of Jenny’s friends. “But he is so handsome and has such an air.”

  As the dance progressed, a feeling of animosity towards the “captain” grew among the guests. For he did not dance. He merely looked curiously at the dancers like an entomologist examining the mating habits of a rare breed of insect.

  And then Mr. Sykes, the landlord, sidled up to Mrs. Chudleigh and whispered, “There is a Lord Paul Mannering but lately arrived and desirous to attend the ball.”

  “A lord!” cried Mrs. Chudleigh. “But of course he has our permission. In fact, I do not even need to consult the other members of the committee.”

  Mr. Sykes bowed and withdrew. Mrs. Chudleigh flew from one to the other to herald the arrival of this Lord Paul Mannering. Another member of the committee, who studied the Peerage as others might study their Bible, reported that Lord Paul was the youngest son of the old Duke of Inchkin, a widower, and a general in Wellington’s army.

  As the room buzzed with all this exciting gossip, the Duke of Pelham suddenly rose to his feet and made his way towards Jenny. She saw his coming with alarm. What if this Lord Paul should suddenly appear? It was the supper dance, and she would be tied to this Mr. John—a nobody. Before he could reach her, she slipped away through a group of guests and hid behind a pillar. The duke stood frowning. He was used to young ladies standing rooted to the spot, trembling with anticipation should he deign to approach them. He shrugged and returned to his seat.

  “It is the supper dance,” muttered Fergus.

  “I’ll take someone, anyone in, feed, and then go to bed,” yawned the duke. “It has been fun watching all these pleasant English people enjoying themselves, but now I am monstrous bored.”

  But he was not precisely bored. He was piqued and irritated by that young beauty who had fled before his advance. He put up his glass and surveyed the line of chaper-ones. In the past, he had often found one of their number a more entertaining companion to take to supper than any young miss. His eye fell on Lady Letitia and liked what it saw. He rose once more to his feet. At that moment, the doors to the assembly room opened, and Lord Paul Mannering, accompanied by a friend, walked in.

  There was a ripple of disappointment among the young ladies who had expected the youngest son of a duke to be … well, young. But this man was in his early forties at least. His raven-black hair showed traces of grey and his strong, harsh face was burnt dark brown by the sun.

  “Pelham!” he cried, his eyes lighting on the duke. “By all that’s holy, when did you return?”

  “Just before you, I think,” smiled the duke. “How did you get a room so easily?”

  “Wrote and booked in advance. May I introduce my friend,” said Lord Paul. “Pelham, this is Mr. Walker. James, may I present his grace, the Duke of Pelham.”

  Mrs. Chudleigh, who had been listening avidly to this exchange, nearly fainted with excitement. Feathers dipped and turbans nodded as she spread this startling news about the room. Jenny’s face flamed with mortification. A duke! And he had been about to ask her to dance.

  “Take your partners for the supper dance, please,” said the Master of Ceremonies for the third time—for with all this thrilling gossip, people had quite forgotten to take their places in the sets.

  “Now, let me find an agreeable lady,” said Lord Paul. “Ah, there is the very one.”

  Jenny, Standing beside Lady Letitia, who was seated, smiled and lazily waved her fan as she saw both men bearing down on her. Which should she choose? Why, the duke, of course. He was the younger and the higher in rank.

  Lord Paul bent over Lady Letitia. “Will you do me the honour, ma’am, of dancing with me?”

  Jenny let out a mortified little gasp, but there was worse to come.

  “I’ faith,” said the duke, “you have stolen a march on me, for I meant to ask this lady myself.”

  Lady Letitia looked up at both men in a dazed way.

  “But, Pelham,” said Lord Paul sweetly, “I asked
the lady first.”

  “So you did,” said the duke. “I must content myself with second-best.” He looked around the room. He was very tall and his eyes ranged over Jenny’s head.

  Then, with a resigned little sigh, he lowered them and said to Jenny, “Will you do me the honour, miss?”

  Jenny quickly agreed. It was infuriating to be classed as second-best, but then she consoled herself with the thought that both gentlemen had been overly gallant because of her aunt’s great years.

  There was little opportunity for conversation because it was a country dance, but Jenny did not expect her partners to do much more than to look at her with adoring eyes.

  It was brought home to her as she finally sat beside the duke at the supper table that it was not adoration in the eyes that looked into her own, but boredom.

  “Who is that stylish lady over there?” asked the duke, waving his gold quizzing glass in Lady Letitia’s direction.

  “That is my aunt, your grace.”

  “Does she possess a name?” he ask with a shade of irritation in his voice.

  “Yes, your grace. Lady Letitia Colville.”

  “Ah, the late Earl of Mallock’s daughter.”

  “Yes, your grace. My aunt was my late mother’s sister.”

  “And you are …?”

  “Miss Jenny Sutherland, your grace.”

  “How do you know my title?”

  “It was whispered about a moment ago,” said Jenny.

  He applied himself to his food. Jenny was uncomfortably aware of the duke’s servant, standing at attention behind his master’s chair. She looked across at her aunt. Whatever Lady Letitia had just said to Lord Paul was amusing that gentleman very much. Jenny saw that her own friends were covertly watching her and realised that this duke was demonstrating to all and sundry that he found the food on his plate much more intriguing than his partner.

  “Then if you are not a captain,” said Jenny, “you have not been in the wars.”