by M C Beaton
The butler searched and searched until he was sure he had all the gold. Then he went inside, shut the door, and locked it.
What is she up to? wondered Rainbird. What can I do? Glad he was still wearing his old black velvet livery instead of his splendid new suit, he sat down under the trees and prepared to wait. If there was a scream or yell from the house, then he would be on hand to run to the rescue.
Fiona had remembered seeing a large desk in the library where Lord Harrington had entertained her. She waited a long time in the darkest corner of the hall after she had heard the butler lock up and retire.
The house was very quiet and still. The smell of sugar and vinegar from the gallipots made the warm air cloying and close. Finally Fiona moved again, feeling her way in the blackness of the hall towards where she knew the library to be. With infinite slowness and care, she gently opened the door.
She had taken the precaution of bringing a tinderbox with her and also a stub of wax candle. She started the laborious process of lighting the candle. She took off the lid of the flat round brass tinderbox and struck a piece of agate against a piece of steel. Any spark that fell on the tinder, which was of cotton rag, had to be blown and carefully tended until it became a red glow. Then a thin splint of wood, the end tipped with sulphur, was held over this incandescent bit of cotton, and, if you were lucky, it lit the first time. Fiona was not lucky, and it was a full twenty minutes before she was able to light the candle.
To her relief, she was in the right room. The candlelight flickered on the tortured face of the mangled deer. She crossed to the desk and carefully went through all the drawers. There were account books, business documents, and blueprints, but no personal letters at all.
Made bold by desperation, she decided they must be above stairs in his dressing room or bedchamber. She opened the library door and listened carefully for several moments. No sound at all.
She decided to keep the candle lit rather than risk colliding with someone in the dark. If she did meet some servant, she would need to pretend to be one of Lord Harrington’s doxies, and hope to escape because of the embarrassment that would cause. Her usual commonsense, which might have told her that Lord Harrington would hardly entertain doxies, if he had any, in his own home, had deserted her. But the servants were obviously all abed and Lord Harrington would surely not be home until the dawn.
The first floor boasted a drawing room, a saloon, and various small reception rooms. The bedrooms were obviously on the second floor. It was easy to tell which was Lord Harrington’s since it was the only one in use. His nightshirt was laid out on the bed and jewels spilled from the jewel box onto the toilet table.
She saw an escritoire in the corner of the bedroom and gently lifted the lid. Various letters were stuffed in pigeon-holes. Although they were personal letters, none related to her. In her worry and frantic haste, she began to be convinced he had documents concerning her and that he had hidden them somewhere. Her eyes fell on his jewel box. It was a large box of the kind with trays that lifted out. Jewels spilled about her as she lifted the top tray out—stickpins, diamond buttons, sapphire buckles, ruby and emerald rings.
She stooped to pick them up.
The door opened, and Lord Harrington stood on the threshold. There was a footman behind him, holding a branch of candles. The house was so thickly carpeted that Fiona had not been warned of their approach.
The earl looked at Fiona, kneeling in the circle of candlelight, her hands full of jewels. His face went hard and set. He turned to the footman, his large figure screening Fiona from the servant’s view. “Go away, Paul,” he said, “and inform the other servants I am not to be disturbed, no matter what you hear.”
He waited until the footman had left. Then he stepped into the room, locked the door, and put the key in his breeches pocket.
Outside in the square, Rainbird sat biting his nails. Lord Harrington’s arrival home had come as a shock. So Fiona did not have an assignation. She had crept into his house for some other reason. At first he had thought that the ruse with the gold had been so that Lord Harrington’s servants would not see her. Now Rainbird felt certain she had stolen quietly into the house like a thief to find something … or take something. Was she a thief? Uneasily Rainbird remembered her generous gifts of money, money she said she had come by gambling. Lord Harrington had stood on the step for ages chatting to his friend, Mr. Masters. He had not looked like a man who knew that a beautiful lady was awaiting him indoors.
On the other hand, worried Rainbird, taking another chew at his nails, perhaps Miss Fiona was trying that old trick of compromising the gentleman. He had seen the light of her candle in the upper room and had assumed she had gone into his lordship’s bedroom. Yet Rainbird knew in his heart that Fiona was pure and virginal. So she must be a thief. And if she were caught, the disgrace would be terrible.
A scream rent the air—a scream suddenly stifled.
Rainbird jumped to his feet and began to run. There must be some way into the house round the back.
Fiona crouched motionless on the floor. Her hood had fallen back. Her cloak was loosened and showed she was still wearing her ballgown. Her eyes were great black pools.
Lord Harrington shrugged off his coat, wrenched off his cravat, and proceeded to undo the buttons of his shirt.
“What are you doing?” asked Fiona through white lips.
“Getting ready to bed you,” he said, his calm, even voice more frightening than if he had screamed or yelled. He took his shirt off, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in a corner. “You do not want to appear in court and neither do I. You will pay for the jewels you have stolen with your body.”
“I have stolen nothing … nothing!” said Fiona, rising to her feet.
“Then why are you here?”
“I came …” faltered Fiona. “I came …”
He shrugged, walked forward, and hooked his hand into the bosom of her dress, jerking her against him. Fiona looked up into his eyes. They were blazing with fury and hate.
“No!” she screamed. “Oh, no!”
His mouth came down on hers, cutting off her scream of protest. His mouth was punishing and savage, his tongue, thrusting between her lips, probing and searching. The hand holding the bosom of her gown jerked downward. There was a rending sound and then Fiona felt her bare breasts crushed against his naked chest. The fact that she was still wearing her cloak open over her gown made her, paradoxically, feel doubly naked.
She wriggled to free herself, but the movement of her breasts was so erotic that he became deaf and blind to everything but the passion submerging him. With one Herculean effort, Fiona wrenched her mouth free.
“I came to find the papers,” she cried. “Only the papers. I could not find them anywhere and thought they might be under your jewels. In pity’s name, hear me!”
“What papers?” he demanded.
“You know about me,” whispered Fiona. “You know. I saw it in your face tonight. But I had to be sure. You could ruin me.”
Then there was a knock at the door, a loud, imperative knock. The earl frowned. His servants would not disobey his orders. “Who is it?” he called
“Rainbird, my lord,” came a loud voice. “Miss Sinclair’s butler come to take Miss Sinclair home.”
“The deuce,” said the earl savagely. He thrust Fiona away from him, feeling sick and ashamed. “Cover yourself,” he snapped. Fiona drew the folds of her cloak tightly about her.
Lord Harrington pulled on his shirt again and stuffed the tails into his breeches. Then he unlocked the door. “How did you get in?” he demanded.
Rainbird bowed. “You left the front door open, my lord. I thought I heard Miss Sinclair scream.”
Lord Harrington swung round and looked at Fiona, his eyes blazing. “You and your accomplice may leave,” he said. “I have no wish to bring scandal to my good name by taking you both to court.”
Rainbird stepped quickly round him and picked up the candle. “Come, Miss F
iona,” he said gently. “It is late.”
With bowed head, Fiona walked forward, past Rainbird, past Lord Harrington, to the door. Rainbird followed her with the candle.
Lord Harrington went after them to the landing and then leaned over, watching them both descending the stairs. Fiona suddenly stopped and looked up. “I brought that disgraceful scene on myself, my lord,” she said, her voice sad and gentle. “Do not reproach yourself. And Rainbird here, he knew nothing of it. He must have followed me through concern for my welfare. Ah, you, my lord, with your lands and title, will never know what it is to be poor and nameless.” She pulled her hood up about her head and continued on her way down.
Lord Harrington stayed where he was, stunned and shaken by conflicting emotions, watching the light glimmering and bobbing as she and Rainbird made their way downstairs. He heard the key turn in the street door. So he had not left it open. Rainbird must have found another way in. He turned and walked back to his room, opened the window, and leaned out so that he could watch her crossing the square.
“Miss Fiona,” Rainbird was saying urgently. “You look so white. Please tell me what happened.”
“I cannot, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona. “I never want to think of it or remember it again.”
“Your face is set and hard. You are become old,” fretted Rainbird, studying her face in the pale grey light of approaching dawn. “Smile for Rainbird.”
Their voices carried clear up to the earl as he stood at the window of his bedchamber.
“Did I ever tell you, Miss Fiona,” coaxed Rainbird, “that I used to perform at fairs when I was a boy? How merry I was! And how I made them laugh. I would play the mandolin, like Joseph, and I would dance.” He performed a mad, capering dance and then turned several cartwheels, doubling back to land neatly upright in front of Fiona. “Smile, Miss Fiona.”
“Oh, Mr. Rainbird,” said Fiona, beginning to tremble. “I am lost.” She threw herself into his arms and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Rainbird put an arm about her shoulders, and talking nonsense, coaxing and pleading, he led her out of the square.
The earl watched them until the two figures were swallowed up in the dark shadow cast by the black bulk of St. George’s Church. Then the square swam in front of him, and he found his eyes were full of tears. He knew now she had spoken the truth, knew it in the very marrow of his bones. She had merely been looking for evidence that he had found out all about her.
To the devil with his lands and his title and his pride, he thought, striking his fist into his palm. He would call on Sinclair in the morning and beg for Fiona’s hand in marriage. He would make her marry him. No other woman would do.
But he had nearly raped her. Would he really have gone so far? He had frightened her and abused her. The words she had said to him on the stair tormented him.
He lay awake for a long time, tossing and turning, wondering at what time of day that old toper, Sinclair, would awake. At last he fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed that he was trying to catch Fiona, who was always just in front of him among a colourful, shifting fairground crowd. Every time he nearly came up to her, she would dance away from him with Rainbird doing cartwheels at her side.
Chapter
Ten
It ain’t the ’unting as ’urts ’un, it’s the ’ammer, ’ammer, ’ammer along the ’ard ’igh road.
—Punch
“Why so fine, why so haggard, and why so early?” asked Mr. Toby Masters.
“I am going courting, Toby my friend.” The earl grinned. “In fact, congratulate me, although I fear that may be premature. I am going to beg Miss Sinclair to marry me. For that matter, what are you doing about so early yourself? It is only nine o’clock in the morning.
“As to that, it was about Miss Sinclair that I came to see you.”
“Never say you are going to try for her yourself!”
“No. Look, it’s like this.” Mr. Master’s fat face was creased with worry. “I couldn’t sleep. The heat was suffocating, so I decided to go for a ride in the park. I was coming back along Piccadilly about seven-ish when a closed carriage went past me travelling at a great rate. Up on the box, muffled up to the ears despite the heat—that was why I noticed him—was Sir Edward Kirby.”
The earl’s heart began to hammer against his ribs. “And … ?”
“And although the carriage blinds were down, as it drew abreast one of the blinds sprang up and there was Miss Fiona Sinclair.”
The earl sat down suddenly on a chair in the hall. Toby had come upon him just as he was leaving.
“You see,” said Mr. Masters awkwardly, “it came across me at that ball that you were head over heels in love with the girl. I thought she had perhaps a tendre for you. But,” burst out Mr. Masters, turning red, “there’s that damn pride of yours. I began to think only a dowager duchess would be considered good enough for you. When I saw Miss Sinclair … she looked so pale and hurt.”
“If I don’t get her back, if I don’t stop her,” said the earl grimly, “I will never forgive myself.” He jumped to his feet and shouted for his fastest racing curricle to be brought round. “I know they’ve gone to Gretna,” he cried. “Or at least I’m sure that’s where Sir Edward has told Miss Sinclair they are going.”
“I will come with you,” said Mr. Masters.
“No, Toby. Go instead to Clarges Street and tell that butler, Rainbird, what you have seen. I swear neither her servants nor her … father know of this.”
Mr. Masters hurried out and swung himself up on his horse with surprising ease, considering his bulk.
Rainbird heard him coming. It was unusual to hear someone riding hell for leather in the streets of the West End where none of the top ten thousand poked his nose out of doors until the afternoon. He did not know that, after he had seen the sobbing Fiona to her room, she had not slept, that she had waited until he had fallen into an exhausted sleep, and that she had crept from the house, carrying only one small trunk, and had made her way to Sir Edward Kirby’s lodgings in Jermyn Street.
Mr. Masters was breathless and sweating. Words came tumbling out of his mouth one after the other and Rainbird had to plead with him to take it slowly. When Rainbird grasped that Mr. Masters was saying that Fiona had eloped with Sir Edward, his shock was almost as great as the earl’s. He remembered how he had eventually managed to prise the whole story out of Fiona of what had happened in the Earl of Harrington’s house on that sad road home at dawn.
Rainbird had shaken his head dismally over the whole thing. It was quite clear to him that Miss Fiona was in love with the earl, but that the earl, like all the aristocrats that Rainbird had known, would never marry a girl with a doubtful background and would certainly never marry any young miss who had the temerity to break into his house in the small hours of the morning.
What if the earl had not known of Fiona’s background? What if there was no evidence? Then the earl would merely think her a common thief. To be found with your hands full of jewels and then say you had only been looking for papers—particularly if the earl did not have any such papers—looked very bad.
When he grasped from the heaving, sweating Mr. Masters that the Earl of Harrington had been on his way to Clarges Street to beg Mr. Sinclair to allow him to pay his addresses to Fiona, Rainbird’s heart gave a lurch. Fiona was somewhere on the Great North Road and everything that might have made her life happy had come too late.
“We’ll catch ’em,” said Rainbird. “Lord Harrington may miss them if Kirby goes off the main road. All of us will go and if … if Kirby’s done anything he should not, then he’ll be forced to take her to the nearest church and marry her.”
“I-I d-do not have a carriage,” stammered Mr. Masters, backing before the fury in Rainbird’s eyes, although that fury was not directed to him.
“We’ll hire one,” said Rainbird. “I have money. We’ll get the best.”
Old Mr. Sinclair snored upstairs in a drunken sleep as Number 67 Clarges Stre
et roared into life. Soon servants from the adjoining houses turned out to watch the goings-on at Number 67.
First a big, fat gentleman—Mr. Masters—arrived with a spanking open racing carriage, drawn by four matched bays. To the watchers’ surprise, all the servants from Number 67 began to pile in. “I’m not very good with a four-in-hand,” panted Mr. Masters, “and these tits are fresh.”
“I am,” said Rainbird curtly. He took the reins. Mr. Masters sat beside him. In the back were Mrs. Middleton, Alice, Jenny, Lizzie, and MacGregor—who was clutching a large blunderbuss. On the back strap stood Joseph and Dave.
“Hold tight!” called Rainbird. “I’m going to spring ’em.”
The watching servants sent up a ragged cheer as Mr. Masters and the entire staff of Number 67 raced round the corner into Piccadilly. Mrs. Middleton clutched her bonnet and let out a faint scream. Elated beyond words, Dave produced a yard of tin and blew a deafening blast.
“Don’t go charging through the turnpikes,” shouted Mr. Masters, holding on to his hat with one hand and the side of the box with his other. “We’ll need to keep asking if anyone has seen them.”
Mr. Percival Pardon crackled open the stiff parchment of a letter that had been brought into him with his morning chocolate.
It was from Sir Edward Kirby, he noticed from the seal. When was the man ever going to get on with it? Bessie Plumtree had discovered that a certain Mr. Benham, who she was sure was smitten by her charms to the point of marriage, had up and proposed to Fiona Sinclair and had been turned down and now stated his intention of taking his broken heart out of the country. She had turned up at Mr. Pardon’s the night before with her parents and had blamed him for doing nothing to stop Fiona from wrecking the hearts of all the eligible young men in London. Lady Disher, the sobbing Bessie had said, had promised them all that Mr. Pardon would arrange things. Then Lady Disher had called on Mr. Pardon, told him he was an idiot, and said that Sir Edward Kirby seemed to be falling in love with Fiona just like every other fool.
