by M. C. Beaton
Fiona took off her cloak and sat down by the fire. The room was very warm. It was dominated by a large modern bed that had the bedposts left bare and supporting an elaborately domed top. Thick yellow silk curtains hung at the window. The mantelpiece was of marble and, to the right of the fire, a mahogany tallboy soared up to the shadows of the ceiling. There was a bowl of rose petals on a satinwood dropside table, sending their delicate summer scent into the quiet, still air of the room.
“Now,” said Mr. Sinclair, “why did you call yourself my daughter?”
“I thought it … more fitting,” said Fiona after a pause.
“Well, so it is, so it is. It had not crossed my mind that as my ward people would wonder why you were not chaperoned, and with a predator like Pardon around, it is as well to observe the conventions. Make sure he does not get you alone.”
Fiona nodded, her eyes very large and limpid.
“What is your real name, Fiona. I assume my brother gave you his name.”
“Yes. I do not know my real name. The orphanage called me Fiona Ross because it was a Mr. Ross who found me.”
“Found you … where?”
“Outside St. Giles Church.”
“Then you should have gone to the Foundling Hospital.”
“I did. I was kept there until I was seven and then sent to the orphanage so that I might be trained as a servant. The Foundling Hospital called me Fiona. The orphanage added the Ross.”
“And why weren’t you sent out as a servant? It is unusual for the orphanage to keep you so long.”
“I was employed at the orphanage, cleaning and cooking. Mr. Sinclair took me home with him when I was thirteen.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Eighteen … I think.”
“So Jamie had ye all that time and never a word to me!”
Fiona said nothing.
Mr. Sinclair rose to his feet, went to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered out. “Rain,” he said with satisfaction. “The mail won’t wait here longer than necessary. We’d best fix ourselves for dinner as best we may. Leave the talking to me. I’ll apologise for our dress—say we’ve sent the bulk of our wardrobe on to London. Knock at my door in about ten minutes and I’ll take you down.”
Fiona nodded again. When he left, she was still sitting by the fire, gazing dreamily into the flames.
As Mr. Sinclair scrambled into a rusty black evening coat, which he had bought ten years before, and was now two sizes too small for him, he kept thinking of Fiona, sitting by the fire. The full enormity of what he was doing struck him like a hammer blow. How could he take such an innocent girl and put her up on the block of the marriage market like a cow at Smithfield?
He thought of the past few weeks, of how pleasant it had been to dress in clean linen and eat good food and sit in the evening in a shining apartment. Surely he could have managed somehow. He could have started up his law practise again, drunk less, worked hard. It was greedy folly to pin his hopes on one soft-headed girl.
He worried and worried, and the sight of Fiona when she knocked and entered his room jabbed his conscience afresh. She was wearing her other wool gown, which was of a dull crimson colour and old-fashioned cut. The sleeves were long and tight to the wrist, which at least made up for her lack of gloves.
To his surprise, she had piled the masses of her black hair up on top of her head, letting only a few stray curls dangle from the knot on top. She looked quite regal and Mr. Sinclair began to hope that her outstanding beauty would stop the members of the dinner party from noticing the poverty of her dress. Good God! They might think him a miser!
“You look very beautiful, Fiona,” he said, patting her arm before drawing it through his own.
She smiled at him, but there was a flicker of something in her large grey eyes that looked almost like cynicism. It was so fleeting, darting as it did like a gleaming fish in the shallows, that Mr. Sinclair thought he must have been mistaken.
A footman was waiting in the passage outside to escort them downstairs. The guests, he said, had already taken their places at table.
Pardon, thought Mr. Sinclair again. There was something about him not so long ago … something involving a servant girl found dead in odd circumstances.
The footman held open a door, and the noise of voices gusted out into the rich quiet of the house. Mr. Sinclair entered the dining room with Fiona on his arm. There was a sudden hush. He was aware of two rows of staring eyes, and his arm tightened on Fiona’s.
“I told you so,” said Mr. Pardon to the world at large. He walked forward. “Mr. Sinclair, you take the seat over there next to Mrs. Hudson. Miss Sinclair, beside Lord Harrington if you please.”
Mr. Sinclair groaned inwardly. He would have liked to have kept Fiona next to him.
He sat down next to a richly dressed buxom matron and prayed for a quick thaw so that the coach might be able to leave early in the morning.
There were twelve people including himself and Fiona. The men were beautifully tailored, and the women blazed with jewellery. Their eyes were hard and assessing. There was no way in which he was now going to find courage to apologise for his dress.
This, then, was the world into which he, Roderick Sinclair, planned to make his debut. He took only a small sip of excellent claret and left the rest in his glass. Had he drunk less, he might not be in this predicament. People such as these would never accept him, beautiful “daughter” or no. Mrs. Hudson had given him one cold, raking look and then had turned to the gentleman on her other side. The lady on his right had not even favoured him with so much as a glance.
He looked down the table to where Fiona sat next to the Earl of Harrington, and took small comfort from the fact that the earl in his way did not belong to this decadent company either.
He was a tall man in his thirties with a high-nosed handsome face. The exquisite line of his tailored coat and the snowy intricacy of his cravat made every other man look overdressed. He had a tanned face and hair as black as Fiona’s, only his eyes were like those of a hawk, a peculiar yellowish topaz. He was talking politely to Fiona in a bored sort of way.
Mr. Sinclair thanked God for small mercies. Lord Harrington was obviously the only man in the room who was completely unaffected by Fiona’s beauty. The rest were frankly goggling, and the ladies were sulking and bridling as they failed to claim the attention of their dinner partners.
Mr. Pardon’s eyes, thought Mr. Sinclair, were like two snails. It was as if they crawled all over Fiona’s body, leaving a slimy trail. Pardon had a lady on either side of him, but he never once took his eyes from Fiona’s face and figure. Mr. Sinclair could only be glad she was at the far end of the table.
With Mr. Rainbird leading the way, the small staff of 67 Clarges Street turned into Soho Square. Soon a small forest of candles was burning before the statue of the Virgin in St. Patrick’s Church.
“Hope this isn’t a waste of money,” muttered Joseph as they all shuffled out again after having said their prayers.
“How can you say that, Mr. Joseph?” cried Lizzie, much shocked. “It was God who sent us the tenants. I prayed for them, too, for Mr. Sinclair and his ward.”
“Why pray for them?” sniffed Joseph. “It’s us what needs the ’elp … help.”
“But I prayed for them to have a safe journey,” said Lizzie. “ ’Cos if any think happens to them, happen we won’t have a tenant after all.”
They all looked at Lizzie in surprise. “Mayhap we’d better say a prayer for them, too,” said Rainbird.
Rather self-consciously, they all shuffled back into the church.
* * *
“What are you thinking about?” demanded the Earl of Harrington sharply. He was not used to dealing with any lady who seemed as utterly uninterested in him as this hen-witted provincial.
“I was admiring the sideboard,” said Fiona.
“I have never been cast in the shade by a sideboard before,” said the earl.
“Yes,
it is certainly large enough.”
“Large enough for what?”
“To cast a shadow.”
“My dear Miss Sinclair, what I meant … never mind. What is so fascinating about that particular sideboard?”
“It is so efficient,” said Fiona dreamily. “There is one urn for drinking water and one for washing water. There is a warming cupboard and a cellarette and drawers for knives and forks, and …” Her eyes fell on the rows of chamberpots underneath, placed there for the convenience of the gentlemen after dinner.
“You are easily entertained, Miss Sinclair.”
“Yes, I am,” said Fiona simply. “But why are the knives and forks washed there, and not in the kitchen?”
“Because, no doubt, the kitchens are very far away.”
“Why?”
“Because one does not want the servants underfoot.”
“But the food gets cold if the kitchens are far away and the staff must work harder, so no one benefits.”
“In your own mansion,” said Lord Harrington tartly, “no doubt you have the kitchen in your drawing room.”
It almost looked as if Miss Sinclair were trying to stifle a laugh.
“When your mind was wholly on the sideboard, Miss Sinclair,” pursued Lord Harrington, “I asked you twice why you were travelling to London.”
“For the Season,” answered Fiona.
“Indeed!” His yellow gaze flicked down the table to where Mr. Sinclair sat with the candlelight illuminating the shine on his old black coat and then returned to Fiona in her old wool gown. “An expensive business, the Season,” he said meditatively.
“So I believe,” said Fiona. “But I shall marry someone very rich, so it won’t matter.”
“It is not so easy to marry someone rich unless you are rich yourself,” he said sharply. “The aristocracy are famous for making profitable marriages.”
“What makes you think we are not rich?” asked Fiona in surprise.
“My dear young lady, you force me to be impolite. You are not dressed in a manner to suggest you have any money at all.”
“That is what I told Papa,” said Fiona, watching with interest as the dessert was borne to the table. It was a model of a snow-capped mountain with the small figure of a man on top made out of angelica and blancmange. Its slopes were lapped by a sea of milk punch. “Papa says,” went on Fiona, “that a somewhat dowdy appearance might repel fortune hunters. Papa is monstrous afraid of fortune hunters.”
At that moment, Mr. Sinclair looked down the table, obviously wondering what his ward was talking about. Fiona threw him a dazzling smile.
“Of course,” went on Fiona blithely, “Papa is a very great miser, and I think he merely says all that about fortune hunters to excuse his penny pinching.”
“You are very frank, Miss Sinclair.”
Fiona looked at him wide-eyed. “Lord Harrington,” she said severely, “you would not wish me to lie.”
“My wishes should not concern you. But I would advise you to be more discreet in your conversation when you reach London.”
“Why?”
“It might give the gentlemen a disgust of you.”
“Well, they will probably have that it any case. I am quite ugly, you know.”
“Nonsense. You are the most beautiful woman I ever beheld.”
“How kind of you to say so. But your air of barely suppressed boredom gives the lie to your compliment.”
“I do not lie, Miss Sinclair.”
“Then why is the truth unfashionable for me and fashionable for you?”
The answer to that one was, “Because I am the Earl of Harrington and you are a Scottish nobody,” but Lord Harrington felt even the naive Miss Sinclair would consider him a complete coxcomb if he said it.
“I find it too difficult to explain at the moment. Tell me,” he said quickly, seeing another “why” forming on Fiona’s perfect mouth, “do you read much?”
“Not of late. I like reading poetry.”
“Ah, the romantic poets, no doubt.”
“Yes, I like poetry,” said Fiona as if he had not spoken. “Sometimes what I read seems very apt.” Her clear gaze flew to where Mr. Pardon was sitting at the other end of the table and she said softly, “ ‘This painted child of dirt that stinks and stings.’ ”
“Surely you do not refer to our host?”
“I think Mr. Pope was referring to Lord Hervey,” said Fiona seriously. “I do not think Mr. Pardon was alive at the time Mr. Pope wrote that.”
“No,” he agreed, looking at her curiously. “A fact, I am sure, of which you are well aware.”
“Of course,” laughed Fiona. “Did I not just say so?”
But Lord Harrington had been sure, just for one split second, that Miss Sinclair had cast the quotation in the direction of Mr. Pardon. He glanced down at her face. It was marred by a slightly stupid expression. Miss Sinclair was as hen-witted as she was beautiful. A pity. Yet she would not be short of admirers in London. He knew he was unusual in that he liked ladies, however young and pretty, to be intelligent.
She had attracted and held Lord Harrington’s attention too long to please the other ladies present. Two of them, Mrs. Hudson and a Lady Miles, were married. A third, Mrs. Jemima Leech, a widow, was Mr. Pardon’s current mistress, as highly painted and cold-eyed as he was himself. But the two remaining ladies were a Miss Giles-Denton and a Miss Plumtree. Miss Harriet Giles-Denton was a soft blonde whose features seemed to have been made out of marshmallow. Miss Bessie Plumtree was a small, wiry brunette with angry pointed elbows and an air of perpetual outrage on her pointed, sallow face. Both had gone into raptures at the unexpected arrival of Lord Harrington. They lived locally and were being chaperoned on their visit by Mrs. Hudson, who had assured their respective mamas that Mr. Pardon was good ton, no matter what anyone might say, and his friendship would benefit both girls during their coming Season.
Both Harriet and Bessie now remembered how warmly Lord Harrington had smiled on them before dinner, reading passion into every cool civility and damning Miss Fiona Sinclair as a very common, bold type of hussy. That she should have attracted the attentions of Mr. Pardon was not surprising. For Mrs. Hudson had warned them that Mr. Pardon was very wicked, but had added that unfortunately in society one must cultivate the wicked along with the good in order to ensure a firm foothold on the social ladder. It was surmised that Mrs. Leech was Mr. Pardon’s mistress, but Mrs. Hudson had told them that because he was a bachelor and because Mrs. Leech was not exactly living with him, there was nothing about that liaison to bring a blush t? the most modest cheek.
Until the arrival of Lord Harrington, the house party had seemed prodigiously dull to the two young hopeful debutantes, the only other marriageable man besides their host being an inarticulate army captain with large feet.
Both resolved to put Miss Sinclair well and truly in her place just as soon as they retired to the drawing room. Mr. Sinclair, morose over his untouched wine, read that resolve in their faces, saw the way they looked daggers at Fiona, and was determined to save his ward from embarrassment.
Lord Harrington had turned to talk to Lady Miles, feeling he had been paying Miss Sinclair more attention than was good for her. He sensed, rather than saw, that Fiona was happily engaged in entertaining the stammering captain. After some time, and when she showed no signs of wanting his conversation, Lord Harrington began to experience a feeling of pique.
“I do so detest provincials,” said Lady Miles sympathetically, seeing Lord Harrington’s attention beginning to stray in Fiona’s direction. “So naughty of Pardon to invite two such unsuitable persons to his table.”
“Mr. and Miss Sinclair are from Edinburgh … as you are yourself,” said the earl.
“Yes, but not in the same circle. I am going to London for the Season. Unthinkable that one should miss it.”
“The Sinclairs are also travelling to London for the Season.”
“Indeed! How presumptuous.”
&
nbsp; “Why is it presumption in them and not in yourself?”
“My dear Harrington. Your wits are wandering. Only look at the girl’s shabby gown! You cannot compare such as I with such as Miss Sinclair.”
“No,” agreed Lord Harrington equably. “Miss Sinclair is very beautiful.”
The covers were removed and the wreck of the mountain taken away. Decanters and bowls of fruit and nuts were put on the polished wood of the table.
“Miss Sinclair,” essayed Lord Harrington. “May I ask your direction in London?”
To his annoyance, she turned her attention from the captain with obvious reluctance.
“Clarges Street,” said Fiona. “Sixty-seven Clarges Street.”
“Who owns the house?”
“I do not know.”
“The Duke of Pelham has a house in Clarges Street which is said to be unlucky, and so his agent has been offering it at a very low rent. I hope that is not where you are bound.”
“In all probability, it is … Papa being such a miser,” said Fiona, sending another brilliant smile down the table to the morose Mr. Sinclair.
Mr. Sinclair saw Mrs. Leech rising to her feet as a sign that the ladies were to retire. He hurriedly struggled to his own. “Thank you,” he said to Mr. Pardon, “but I fear I and my daughter must retire early. No doubt we shall be making an early start of it in the morning.”
“Nonsense, Sinclair,” said Mr. Pardon with quick displeasure. “The night is young and we are desirous of your company.”
“I fear I must insist,” said Mr. Sinclair, executing a clumsy bow and heading purposefully down the table to where Fiona was sitting. He heard Mr. Pardon mutter, “Uncouth lout.”
Fiona rose gracefully at his approach, curtsied to the company, and followed him out of the dining room.
“Not a word until we get upstairs,” muttered Mr. Sinclair in her ear, well aware of the listening footmen.
Once in the Yellow Room, he demanded to know how she had fared with Lord Harrington.
“Very pleasantly,” said Fiona demurely.
“He was not overwarm in his attentions, I hope?”
Fiona wrinkled her brow as if thinking hard. The clocks ticked in the silence of the room. “No,” she said at last.
