M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, several Regency romance series and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.mcbeatonbooks.co.uk for more, or follow M. C. Beaton on Twitter: @mc_beaton.
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The Poor Relation
Lady Fortescue Steps Out • Miss Tonks Turns to Crime • Mrs Budley Falls from Grace Sir Philip’s Folly • Colonel Sandhurst to the Rescue • Back in Society
A House for the Season
The Miser of Mayfair • Plain Jane • The Wicked Godmother
Rake’s Progress • The Adventuress • Rainbird’s Revenge
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
Edwardian Murder Mysteries
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
Agatha Raisin
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers • Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble
Hamish Macbeth
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher • Death of Yesterday
The Skeleton in the Closet
Also available
The Agatha Raisin Companion
Penelope
M. C. Beaton
Constable & Robinson Ltd.
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First electronic edition published 2011
by RosettaBooks LLC, New York
This edition published in the UK by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1982
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-47210-129-7 (ebook)
Cover copyright © Constable & Robinson
For Harry Scott Gibbons
and Charles David Bravos Gibbons,
with love.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
MISS AUGUSTA HARVEY let out a long sigh of satisfaction which ended in a discreet belch. In front of her the waxed floor of the ballroom mirrored the feathers and silks and jewelry of the haut ton.
“I have arrived,” she said to her shivering companion, Miss Euphemia Stride. “I have indeed arrived. You have done well, Euphemia.”
And Miss Stride, a faded spinster in her fifties, felt she had indeed done well. It was not everyone who could secure an invitation to the Courtlands’ ball for the vulgar and pushing Augusta Harvey who had managed to alienate practically all of London society since her arrival in town a mere few weeks before.
Euphemia would hardly have dared risk society’s displeasure by thrusting such a mushroom as Miss Harvey on them had it not been for the generous bribe offered her by that lady. Even then she had not found the courage to inform the Courtlands of the name of the “friend” she was bringing to their ball. Perhaps it would not be so bad. Augusta looked quite the thing in a heavy crêpe evening gown with a vandyked hem and a fine row of pearls embellishing her fat neck. If only she would keep her mouth shut!
It was then, as Euphemia surveyed Miss Harvey’s gown, that she noticed the first disaster of the evening.
“My dear Augusta,” she whispered desperately, “you have straw clinging to your hem. Do but remove it before anyone sees.”
“Pooh! What does it matter?” said Miss Harvey, plucking off the offending straw. But with a sinking heart Miss Stride noticed several of the chaperones had already noticed the straw and were whispering together, turbans and feathers nodding. The damage was done. Straw on one’s skirt meant that one had arrived in a hack, which was exactly what the cheeseparing Augusta had done, instead of renting a carriage as Euphemia had earnestly advised.
In fact, reflected Miss Euphemia Stride bitterly, Augusta could well afford to keep her own carriage. Goodness knows, the way Augusta had gained her wealth was disgraceful and scandalous enough without attracting the added censure of society.
Augusta Harvey had been nurse and housekeeper to a wealthy mill owner whom she had bullied into an apoplexy. He had conveniently died from it, leaving her sole heir to his great fortune. His relatives had unsuccessfully tried to contest the will and had claimed that Augusta had poisoned the old man. But the triumphant Augusta had left them to their fury and had travelled to London to realise her lifelong ambition—to become a society lady.
But society had been strangely reluctant to allow her past their doors; Miss Stride had been the only one who would even take a bribe. And luckily for Augusta, the woman was a distant relative of the Courtlands, whose ball, two weeks before the official opening of the London Season, was held to be a great event.
Augusta’s gooseberry green eyes surveyed the ballroom. She had arrived late in order to make an entrance and had just realised that by so doing she had missed being received by her hostess. She accordingly urged the shrinking Euphemia to present her to Lady Courtland.
Miss Stride looked to right and left like a trapped animal, but since she desperately needed the money Augusta was to pay her, she stiffened her threadbare velvet spine and led Augusta towards where Lady Courtland was standing.
An extremely tall woman, the Lady looked down at Augusta’s crocodile smile with eyes that were as hard and sparkling as her diamonds. Miss Stride gave an apologetic cough and made the introductions. Lady Courtland haughtily held out one finger for Miss Harvey to shake. Augusta, however, seized Lady Courtland by the whole hand and wrung it fervently.
“So pleased,” she simpered awfully. “ ‘Tis so kind of your la’ship to invite me on this montrous genteel occasion.”
“I did not invite you,” snapped Lady Courtland. “I was under the impression that Miss Stride was bringing a friend.”
“And so she did, Lor’ bless her,” said Augusta, putting a fat arm round the cringing Euphemia Stride. “Me and Euphie is the dearest of friends.”
Now Miss Harvey was a prey to flatulence, and her embarrassing malady suddenly decided to overtake her. A sound worthy of Wellington’s artillery at Salamanca rattled from beneath her skirts and slowly raising a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, Lady Courtland turned and walked majestically away. Euphemia dragged Augusta to the side of the ballroom.
Miss Stride resolved to make the best of things. She would suffer the evening, take Augusta’s money, and never, never set eyes on that repellent woman again. But first she had to earn her money. She set herself to please by pointing out various notables. There was my Lord Alvanley and there was the Countess Lieven and that very handsome man was the Earl of Hestleton. And there was little Miss Parsey …
“Parseys are in trade. Merchants,” said Miss Harvey. “How did she get here?”
“Because,” explained Miss Stride, “Miss Parsey is engaged to young Lord Wellcombe and that makes a difference. One can often get entrée to the best families through marriage. Now if you were younger …” Miss Stride’s voice trailed off, and she allowed herself the luxury of a malicious titter.
“Well, I ain’t,” said Augusta slowly, “but Penelope is.”
“Who’s Penelope?”
“Niece of mine,” remarked Miss Augusta, staring at the dancing figures. “She’s working at some seminary in Bath as a governess. Beautiful girl. An orphan. Do you think she …?”
“Oh, of course! What a good idea!” exclaimed Euphemia Stride, who privately thought that Miss Harvey would need a great deal more than a beautiful niece to make even the smallest crack in the social world.
“I’ll see,” said Augusta. “I’ll see. Meanwhile I may as well move about and meet these grand folks.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” exclaimed Miss Stride in dismay.
“Why not?” said Miss Harvey. “You saw how civil Lady Courtland was with me.” And to Miss Stride’s horror she wandered off in the direction of the row of chaperones.
“How do,” said Augusta cheerfully, smiling her widest until her teeth seemed to stretch to her ears. “May I present myself? I am a great friend of Lady Courtland.”
The lady she had addressed sat looking up into Augusta’s glittering smile as if she could not believe her eyes. Now the Baroness Delsey was not a particularly aggressive or malicious woman, but the sight of the beaming Augusta was too much for her.
“Go away. Shooo!” said the Baroness, flapping her fan. “I declare, the Courtlands’ cook has come a-visiting!” The hard eyes of the row of chaperones bored into Augusta’s protruding green ones and even the thick-skinned Augusta felt obliged to retreat.
She swept through the double doors of the ballroom and stood irresolute in the hall. When Penelope was married to a Duke, why, then, they would sing a different tune. She realised with a start that in her mind she had already invited Penelope to London.
And to make up for some of the cost of bringing her niece to town, she would cut Euphemia’s fee by half, that she would! The woman should have organised things better.
Still smarting from humiliation, Augusta decided to indulge in her favorite hobby—that of poking her nose into every room and drawer in someone else’s house. The upper floors of the house were silent and deserted, every available servant having been pressed into service downstairs. Though the house was mainly early Georgian in design, it had had a good few bits and pieces of annexes tacked on since it was first built. It was much larger than even the imposing frontage on Grosvenor Square had led Miss Harvey to expect.
She pottered through bedroom and study, her nimble, podgy fingers slipping various little objects into her reticule, a snuffbox here, a fan there. She ambled along the silent corridors, occasionally cocking her great befeathered head for the footsteps of an approaching servant. Ambling into a private sitting room, she immediately noticed a pretty little enamelled snuffbox on an occasional table in front of a blazing fire and a silver tray with several decanters. She helped herself to the snuffbox and then to a goblet of brandy.
Despite the crackling fire and the decanters, the sitting room carried the musty, airless smell of disuse. Had probably not been used since the Courtlands’ ball last year, thought Augusta, and was now only put in readiness for some houseguest. She had just withdrawn the snuffbox from her now bulging reticule to assess its value when she heard the sound of voices in the corridor outside. Clutching the snuffbox, she looked round wildly and then espied a Chinese lacquered screen in the shadowy corner over by the fire. When the door swung open, she was safely behind it, trying to control her heavy breathing.
Two men entered the room. A cultured English voice spoke first.
“I’m glad of the money, demmit, but mark you, it don’t seem like treason to me, what with Boney safely locked up in Elba.”
“He will return, dear Charles,” replied a sibilant, mocking voice with a slight French accent. “In the meantime it is necessary to know the strength of the British forces. You have the list of the regiments in America and the West Indies, I believe.”
“Got them here,” said the English voice sulkily. “Now hand over the money. I don’t know what my brother would say an’ he should ever hear of this.”
“Your so dear brother, the Earl of Hestleton, would shoot you, dear Charles. Make sure you play our game and keep your mouth shut,” intoned the Frenchman with a certain amused indifference.
There was a rustling of paper and the clink of gold. Miss Harvey felt she would die from excitement. A spy! And brother to the Earl of Hestleton at that! Charles. Charles who? Miss Harvey’s mind rattled through the pages of the peerage. Viscount Charles Clairmont, that was it! Famous. Behind that screen lay the key to society. But wait a bit. The Hestleton family was famous for their wealth. Why should the Viscount need money?
As if in answer to her unspoken question, the Frenchman went on, “It was indeed lucky for me that you are such an inveterate gambler, dear Charles. Even Charles Fox at his worst could not lose so much money of an evening as you. And promising that stern brother of yours that you would never gamble again was quite silly; it sent you straight into our hands.”
“Damn you, you whoreson,” grated the Viscount. “If I thought there was any possibility of Napoleon ever escaping from Elba, I would shoot myself. Take your damned, curst, jeering face away. You’ve got what you want.”
“Until the next time,” mocked the Frenchman’s voice. “Au revoir.”
The sitting room door slammed.
Mis
s Harvey edged her large bulk round the screen.
Viscount Clairmont was sitting in front of the fire with his head buried in his hands.
She gave a genteel cough, and the young Viscount straightened up and stared at her in horror.
“Naughty boy!” crowed the apparition in front of him, roguishly wagging a fat finger.
He saw before him a fat woman dressed in green crêpe. She had protruding eyes and a wide mouth which seemed to stretch from ear to ear.
“Let me introduce myself,” she beamed. “I am Augusta Harvey and you, I take it, are Viscount Clairmont—a Bonapartiste spy.”
“Thank God it’s all over,” said Viscount Clairmont, getting wearily to his feet and pouring himself a glass of wine. “You may tell my brother what you will, madame.”
Miss Harvey kept on smiling. The youth in front of her was, she judged, about nineteen years old, although lines of dissipation had already left their mark on his thin, white face. And as her crafty eyes noticed the weak mouth and thin, trembling feminine hands, her smile stretched wider and wider.
“But your brother need never know,” she said softly.
He gave her a wild look of hope and then his face fell. He said in a flat voice, “I can’t pay you. You no doubt heard I am betraying my country to pay my gambling debts, madame.”
“Oh, I don’t want money,” purred Miss Harvey. “No, I’ve enough of that. But I need an entrée to your household—and your brother.”
“Why, in God’s name?”
“Because,” said Miss Harvey, coming close to him, “I need all your help. I am going to invite my little niece, Penelope, to London. I am going to bring her out. And you are going to do everything you can to help her marry your brother.”
The Viscount nearly dropped his glass. “Marry Roger? You must be mad! Roger will never marry. He’s five and thirty and has had every debutante and matchmaking mama chasing him since he was out of short coats.”
Miss Harvey looked baffled and then mutinous. “Your brother’s attitude toward marriage is quite well known. Yet you must do everything in your power to throw your brother and my Penelope together. Or I shall tell him of your spying activities.”
Penelope Page 1
