by M. C. Beaton
“Hold hard, pretty maiden,” he cried. “I wouldst have thy jewels.”
“Oh, Joseph,” hissed Fiona, exasperated. “Do get on with it. This is not the Haymarket.”
Joseph’s eyes behind the slits of his mask looked hurt. “Then if you will not give me your jewels, I will take your life,” he shouted. He drew MacGregor’s prize carving knife from under the folds of his cloak and held it up where the flickering light of the parish lamp shone on its wicked edge.
“You’re supposed to stun me,” said Fiona. “Not knife me. Was ever a woman so plagued—”
“Hey!”
She broke off as a shout resounded down the street. Joseph saw the figure of a man hurtling towards him and dropped the knife with a squeak of terror. He tried to make his escape but the long cloak wound itself about his legs and he stretched his length on the road.
Lord Harrington was about to pounce on him. The earl had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he had seen a tall masked figure brandishing a knife in front of Fiona.
But before he could reach Fiona’s fallen assailant, she had thrown herself on him and wound her arms about his neck. She had a powerful grip and he struggled to disengage his arms.
“Let me be, Miss Sinclair,” he gasped. “I must catch that man.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw joseph struggle to his feet and glimpsed the figures of Rainbird, MacGregor, and Dave hurrying along on the other side at the edge of the park.
“My hero!” said Fiona, ruthlessly tightening her grip.
The earl looked down at her with a flash of suspicion in his eyes. Fiona pulled his head down and kissed him warmly.
And that was when the Earl of Harrington forgot about assailants and daggers and routs and anything else in the whole wide world but the reeling sensations caused by the warm, clinging softness of her mouth. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her legs against his legs. She smelled of soap and rose water.
He returned her kiss with blind, single-minded intensity, feeling himself lost and drowning and not ever wanting to rise to the surface of reality again.
When she finally, gently, freed her mouth and he twisted around, it was to find that her assailant had got clean away. It was as if he had dreamt the whole thing. Park Lane was deserted. A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the plane tree. There was a smell of dust mixed with the smell of whale oil from the parish lamp. He stared down at Fiona. She was still clasped in his arms, but her eyes were downcast and he felt her body tremble.
“You must forgive my wanton behaviour, my lord,” said Fiona in a husky voice. “My nerves were quite overset.”
He put her gently away from him. “We will pretend it never happened,” he said. “But tell me about the attack. It was like a stage play. For one brief moment I thought I was watching some sort of charade.”
“No,” said Fiona, achieving a realistic shiver. “It was real enough. He said he would kill me.”
“We had best return quickly to the Bascombes’ and have the servants sent out to see if they can find the fellow, although I do not think there is much hope now.”
“I do not want to go back,” said Fiona in a low voice. “I want to go home.”
“But your father … ?”
“Leave my father be,” said Fiona in a tired voice. “If you do not wish to escort me home …”
“But of course! I consider myself honoured. My carriage will be—”
“I would rather walk.”
“Very well,” he said, looking at her curiously. “I gather you do not want to go back to the Bascombes’ even to let me get my hat and gloves?”
“No.”
“But you have no shawl, no wrap.”
“The night is very warm.”
He drew her arm through his own and walked with her down Park Lane, studying her averted face, his mind racing. It was a dreadful thought, but it was almost as if she had thrown herself at him to stop him from catching her assailant. Perhaps he had been some rejected Scottish lover.
“Who gave you that fan?” he asked. It was not what he had meant to say to her but it was the first thing that came out of his mouth.
“I bought it, my lord.”
“Ah, then I have no reason to feel jealous. I was sure an admirer sent it to you.”
“It was very expensive,” said Fiona. “I do not think I would accept such an expensive gift from anyone.”
“You must have received many tokens of love.”
Fiona smiled but did not reply.
“But you must be used to that,” he went on. “Everyone is stunned by your beauty.”
“Strange to be considered beautiful,” said Fiona, half to herself, “after having thought I was ugly. Every morning I look in my glass expecting to see another face, another woman, but it is always just me. The same.”
“Where did you come by this mad idea that you are ugly? The orphanage?”
He felt her stiffen and then she said lightly, “I told you about the orphanage, did I not?”
“Only about some intellectual orphanage where they discussed the affairs of state. Did you do charitable work there?”
“Yes.” Fiona smiled. “But we must not talk of deep matters. We must talk of silly things. I am told that is what you prefer.”
“You were misinformed.”
“What do you look for in a lady?”
Her question reminded him sharply of the feel and taste of her lips. What man could desire more than that?
How quiet the streets were! Only one carriage drawn by a pair of matched bays clopped along Park Lane, and from one of the houses came the faint tinkling strains of a waltz. The air was sweet and warm.
He could not kiss her again, not unless he proposed marriage to her, and he could not do that. His name belonged not only to himself but to a long line of Harringtons, and he could not lightly stain it all through raging passion for this odd girl who, he was quite sure, had a closet simply rattling with skeletons.
“You have not answered my question, my lord.” Her voice with its enchanting Scottish lilt was low and teasing with a breaking husky note in it. He was aware of the softness of her arm against the broadcloth of his sleeve and of the way her bosom rose and fell.
They came under the light of another lamp at the corner of Piccadilly and Park Lane, and he stopped and turned her to face him, standing still and looking down at her.
Her lips looked slightly swollen, and her eyes were very large and dark. He would kiss her one more time to prove to himself that his senses had been cheating him. Just one more time.
She came trustingly into his arms as if she belonged there. His dark, hawklike face loomed over her, blotting out the light. And then his mouth descended on hers. This time it was worse … or better.
Now he knew what the poets meant. Now he knew what it was like to lose his very soul. He kissed her ferociously, groaning against her mouth, kissing her dizzy, kissing her breathless, kissing her until he felt he would die from frustration.
“Fiona,” he said raggedly. “Oh, Fiona, this will not do. I must not ruin your reputation, and it will surely be ruined if someone should see us. Let me take you home.”
She walked on in silence. He could feel her retreating from him, retreating behind that calm front she presented to the world.
“I-I should not have done that,” he stammered, and felt he was making matters worse. Although he had never before felt such scorching passion, he knew enough about it to understand it had a habit of burning out and leaving a man stranded on the bleak shores of marriage, facing a woman across the breakfast table who was nothing more than a boring stranger.
“You should not have said that,” said Fiona severely. “You have neither grace nor manners.”
“I apologise,” he said stiffly. “I was overset by the circumstances.”
“Worse and worse,” mocked Fiona. “Go, my lord, to the courtesans like Harriette Wilson. Go and buy love without responsibility. Perhaps it is all you a
re fit for.”
“Madam, I admit I behaved disgracefully,” he raged. “There is no need to taunt me.”
“Perhaps you should be taunted more often, my lord. At least it turns you into the appearance of a man of blood and sinew rather than … a tailor’s dummy.”
“God, that I had never met you, you witch.”
“You need not see me again,” pointed out Fiona with that same maddening calm. “Go away and find some lady with a long pedigree and a long nose and a mind as pedestrian as your own.”
“Thank you,” he shouted. “I will!”
“You may take yourself off,” said Fiona. “Oh, what fortune! Mr. Rainbird.”
The much-flustered butler had sent Joseph home with Dave and the enraged MacGregor, who was bemoaning the loss of his best knife. He had discreetly followed the couple, keeping always to the shadows on the park side of the road. They had turned into Piccadilly when he had heard their raised voices and had decided the time had come to intervene.
“I shall leave you, Miss Sinclair,” said Lord Harrington, “and return to the Bascombes’.”
“Ah, yes,” said Fiona. “What is more important in life than to recover one’s hat and stick? Tell my father I was overcome by the heat, if you please, my lord. Do not tell him I was attacked again. His heart is bad.”
“As bad as his daughter’s?” snapped the earl, receiving a fulminating glare from Rainbird. He turned on his heel and walked away.
“Oh, miss,” said Rainbird. “I am so sorry. I was late arriving and Joseph said Lord Harrington nearly caught him, and he had the vapours in the Park and would not calm down until MacGregor threatened to throw him into the Serpentine.”
“You all did very well, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona sadly. “I mismanaged the whole thing. I have behaved like a wanton and given Lord Harrington a disgust of me.”
“Miss Sinclair,” said Rainbird, not looking at her, “I saw you and his lordship a little while back, and he certainly did not look like a disgusted man.”
“Ah, Mr. Rainbird,” sighed Fiona. “No, don’t walk behind me. I must talk. I must talk to someone, or I will go mad. So I will talk to you, my Rainbird, and you will forget whatever I say to you and never refer to it again.”
“Yes, miss,” said Rainbird, looking at her curiously.
“I am not Mr. Sinclair’s daughter. I was his brother’s ward. Jamie Sinclair, the brother, was a sort of religious lecher. He took me from the orphanage and schooled me to be a lady. Although he was always correct, I sensed he could barely keep his hands off me, even when I was thirteen. I knew he wanted me for his wife. I was determined to stay with him for just as long as I could bear it. Fear of poverty made me bear it. Fear of being nameless again. Fear of cold and hunger. You know, Mr. Rainbird.”
“Oh, miss,” said Rainbird sadly. “I know.”
“When Mr. Jamie died and I was left to the protection of Mr. Sinclair, I did not mind. Mr. Sinclair is kind. He has no money. He is not a miser. We planned that to explain our lack of wealth and so that I should have as many suitors to choose from as possible.
“But on the road south, we were forced by a storm to seek hospitality at a house where Lord Harrington was also a stormbound guest. He was the first man who ever told me that I was a beauty whom I believed. Mr. Jamie had told me so many times I was ugly that I believed him. But Lord Harrington said it in such a cold, matter-of-fact way I was able to understand it at last. Also, his eyes did not stray from my face. He did not assault my body with his eyes the way men do. I wanted him, but I was still not sure.
“I guessed our host, Mr. Pardon, planned to attack me during the night because he considered me far beneath him in social station and was therefore sure I would cause no problems. I changed rooms with Mr. Sinclair. It amuses me to make people think I am vague and stupid. Mr. Sinclair believed me when I told him I did not like the colour of the bedchamber.
“I waited with a glass against the wall so that I could hear what was going on in the next room. Mr. Pardon came into Mr. Sinclair’s room and leapt on the bed, thinking I was in it.
“I thought I would rather die than have to marry some man like that with hot hands and hot eyes and hot breath. I decided I must have Lord Harrington.
“I dreamed about him for so long I persuaded myself that so fine and noble a man would not blame me for my poor background were his affections truly attached.
“But he is like all the rest,” said Fiona, striking her breast. “I dropped a hint about the orphanage, hoping hewould go out of his way to find out about me, dreaming that he would come and tell me it would not matter.
“Oh, Mr. Rainbird, I am so young and silly. I! I, who thought myself old and clever. Oh, Mr. Rainbird, my heart is breaking!”
Ugly sobs tore at her, and Rainbird caught her and turned her about and held her to him, rocking her against his breast and saying, “Shhh, Miss Fiona. There, there. Please do not cry. Rainbird will take care of you.”
Poor Rainbird was shattered. The cool and beautiful Miss Sinclair had disintegrated into a sobbing lost child. His heart was wrung with pity.
Fiona at last hiccupped and dried her eyes. “I should have been a servant and worked for you, Mr. Rainbird,” she said.
“No, miss,” said Rainbird seriously, “that would not do. Servants may not marry or they lose their jobs. You love Lord Harrington and I am sure he loves you. Who would not?”
“Lord Harrington has humiliated me,” said Fiona in a stifled voice. “To kiss me so, and not a word of love. I will never forgive him. Never!”
“If only I could help,” said Rainbird wretchedly, his mobile comedian’s face turning into a sad clown’s face.
“Ah, Mr. Rainbird, my outburst is over,” said Fiona. “Let us put on our masks again. We are home.”
“Yes, miss. I will never speak of this to a soul, Miss Fiona. Do you wish us to continue with our plans?”
“No, Mr. Rainbird. I will marry the first respectable man who asks me.”
“Wait a bit, miss. Just a little. The Season is only begun.”
“Perhaps.”
Rainbird went slowly down to the servants’ hall and ordered Jenny to take a hot posset up to Miss Fiona as the poor lady had the headache.
“I hope she is not furious with us for being late,” said MacGregor anxiously.
“No,” said Rainbird. “She is very pleased with us all.”
“Oooh, Mr. Rainbird, you looks as if you are about to cry,” said Lizzie.
Rainbird forced a smile. “No, Lizzie. I have the headache, too. It must be the heat.”
But Rainbird had the heart-ache. He felt like the father of a large and needy family. So many to love and care for, and now Miss Fiona added to them.
“If Miss Fiona wants Lord Harrington,” said Rainbird, loudly and fiercely and striking the table with his fist, “then, By George, she’ll have him, if I have to tie his lordship hand and foot!”
Chapter
Eight
Reflect. You have prejudices on the score of parentage. I have not conversed with you so often, without knowing what they are. Choose between them and me. I too have my own prejudices on the score of personal pride.
—Thomas Love Peacock, Crotchet Castle
It was exceeding unfortunate, in view of the sad events of the following two weeks, that Lord Harrington was gone from town and Sir Edward Kirby was not.
Sir Edward Kirby’s appearance on the scene was the result of a plot to ruin Fiona by the ladies of society. Not that any of them, with the exception of Lady Disher, ever put it into words, but the general consensus was that such as Fiona Sinclair deserved to be ruined.
Gambling hostesses felt their losses keenly. Unlike the respectable gentlemen’s clubs, their establishments were geared to fleecing and winning. But Fiona seemed to sidestep all their machinations and become richer by the day.
Matchmaking mamas were furious because all the eligible gentlemen could not see past the glare of Fiona’s beauty to the
ir own daughters lurking in the shadow of it. The expense of a Season was such that few could contemplate putting their daughters on the Marriage Market for yet another year.
Lord Harrington had written to the powerful patronesses of Almack’s before his departure, recommending they send vouchers to Miss Sinclair, but such was the general female enmity towards the girl that even those stern social rulers dared not allow her to cross the threshold of their famous assembly rooms in King Street.
It was Mr. Pardon who suggested to Lady Disher that Sir Edward Kirby might be interested in ruining Fiona for a certain sum.
Sir Edward Kirby had recently returned from abroad. He was a man of great charm, an inveterate gambler, and he had the morals of a tom cat. Many were the debutantes he was rumoured to have ruined, as his taste in women ran to young virgins. Any time he looked like being called to book for his crimes, he simply left the country.
Like all womanisers, he appeared genuinely to like women. Even girls warned against him fell like ninepins before his charm. He was not particularly good-looking, being only of average height and with rather thin hair, but he had a merry boyish countenance and twinkling blue eyes. He never seemed to age, and his charm of manner and dexterity in seduction improved with the years.
Although he enjoyed all the luxuries of life, like most hardened gamblers he was often plagued by duns.
Mr. Pardon invited him to dinner with Lady Disher and three of the other gambling-hell owners whom Fiona had made poorer. No one was quite so vulgar as directly to order Sir Edward Kirby to persuade Fiona to elope with him and to thereby trick her into losing her virginity, but such was implied with many nods and becks and wreathed smiles by the good daughters of faro, and it was left to Lady Disher to take him aside at the end of the evening and name a sum of money that made his boyish blue eyes twinkle like sapphires.
Sir Edward was prepared to meet with heavy competition, but fate played into his hands. Lord Harrington had decided to take himself off to his estates. There was a boundary dispute to settle and repairs to the tenants’ cottages to be seen to, discussion of new farming techniques with his estates manager, and a myriad of other jobs to be done, which were more than enough to persuade him to leave town.
