Amanda Scott (6 page)

The street was much cleaner, the pedestrians fewer and generally better dressed. For a short distance, she saw shops with bowfront windows and glass doors, through which she saw intriguing articles of elegance and fashion. The shop fronts bore numbers now instead of signs swaying perilously over the walkways, and the stones of the street were flat, rather than rounded.

The houses here were built of stone, and new gutters lined each side of the street instead of a kennel down in the center. There were raised footways, and doorsteps no longer jutted into them. The greatest discomfort for the passengers now occurred when the coaches bumped over the raised causeways that served as pedestrian crossings at the intersections through which they passed.

It was dusk by the time the coaches drew to a halt before a large pedimented house on South Street near Tyburn Lane. Built of brown brick with carved stonework and midlevel windows dressed with pediments and balustrades, the house was elegant A pair of stone columns supported the broken pediment over the entrance, which contained an elaborate cartouche displaying a coat of arms. The house faced north and was five bays wide. Wrought-iron railings flanked seven stone steps leading to the entrance and set off the areaway steps from the flagway.

The countess regarded the house critically for a long moment without moving, then smiled through the open coach window at her husband, who had dismounted and handed his reins to a lackey.

“Like the looks of it, do you?” he said, strolling up to speak to her.

“Rothwell and Cousin Maggie chose well, sir,” she said.

Lady Agnes nodded fervently, leaning forward to say, “I do not mind telling you, Duncan, I had begun to believe I would never be able to think in this city. To imagine, I have dreamed for years of coming to London, and my first impression, with all that clatter and shriek, was that I should never dream again, of anything. But this street is quite peaceful, is it not, and that lane yonder does not seem to bear a great deal of traffic either. Indeed, with all those trees hanging over that brick wall on the other side, it looks more a country lane than anything in a great city.”

“That street is Tyburn Lane, ma’am,” the earl said, “and that brick wall is the boundary of Hyde Park. You may drive there if you take outriders with you. The park has a reputation for harboring footpads and their ilk, but otherwise it is said to be quite pleasant.” To Chuff, who had also relinquished his horse to a lackey, he said, “I believe Rothwell said that we can hunt in the park, too, lad, if we like.”

Chuff nodded, smiling at Pinkie. She could not tell what his first impression of London was, or even if he had yet decided what he thought. Chuff generally kept his thoughts to himself unless he felt obliged to reveal them.

Lady Agnes said, “I do think that one could be quite happy here, once one becomes accustomed—and meets people, of course. We must begin at once to prepare for that happy event, must we not? Surely members of the beau monde will begin to pay calls as soon as it becomes known that we are in residence here.”

“Aye, they will,” the earl said, opening the door and assisting his wife to the flagway. As she shook out her skirts, trying to smooth the worst of the wrinkles, he performed the same office for his mother while Chuff assisted Pinkie.

One of the footmen had run up to pound on the front door. Observing him with visible surprise, Lady Agnes said, “Do they not have proper brass knockers here in London, like they do in Edinburgh?”

The earl chuckled. “They do when the residents are at home, ma’am, but not when they are out of town. Our knocker will go up straightaway, I promise you.”

The door opened, and a slender middle-aged man in biscuit-colored breeches, a neat dark coat, and a powdered bag wig looked out and smiled when he saw them.

“Welcome, my lord, welcome,” he said. “Your baggage wagons arrived only an hour ago, but Lord Rothwell warned us to expect your arrival daily after the first of the month, so everything is quite in readiness for you. I am Peasley, sir, George Peasley. I have served at Rothwell London House in the capacity of underbutler for some years now, and his lordship was kind enough to suggest that I might serve as your butler here at Faircourt House. My wife, Bess, has been acting as our housekeeper—pending your arrival and approval, of course.”

“Aye, I know,” the earl said. “Rothwell suggested the arrangement when he wrote to tell me that he had hired Faircourt House on my behalf from the marquess. I’m sure that you and Mrs. Peasley will serve us well. He promised to provide me with a running footman, too, since none of my lads knows London at all.”

“Indeed, sir, you will find our Jeremy entirely satisfactory. Quite dependable, and I should know, sir, for he is my nephew and knows the city as well as I do.”

While he talked, Mr. Peasley had made gestures toward someone inside the house, and several men hastened into the street now to unload such baggage as the coaches carried, and to direct the outriders and men-at-arms around to the mews. Within minutes, the personal servants and the nursemaids and their charges had been whisked upstairs, and Balcardane and his party had passed through a grand marble entrance hall, up a wide marble stairway, into a splendid yellow-and-white saloon. The room boasted boldly modeled plaster decoration, coffered ceilings, modillioned cornices, pedimented doorcases, a floral carpet, and ornamented furnishings. A neatly dressed maid under Mr. Peasley’s direction began to serve refreshments as soon as the three ladies and the gentlemen were seated.

Pinkie had all she could do to conceal her awe. She had seen a number of noble homes in Edinburgh, and she had lived for the past decade in one or another of two sprawling Scottish castles, but she had never seen the equal of Faircourt House. From outside, the house had seemed elegant, to be sure, but it had been no more than well-arranged bricks, stonework, and iron. The marble entry with its tall columns, black and white marble floor, and swooping stairway had taken her breath away. The saloon, with its elegant furnishings, delicately gilded in what she would soon learn was “the French taste,” made her wish Mr. Peasley had shown them first to their bedchambers. She was certain that dust from the road still clung to her skirts and was even now depositing itself on the lovely blue damask upholstery.

After a sip from her cup, Lady Agnes exclaimed, “What very fine tea this is!”

Peasley said, “Lady Rothwell sent it, your ladyship. She expressed the hope that it would prove to your liking. The house contains a proper tea-drinking room, of course, but after your long journey, Mrs. Peasley and I thought you would prefer to relax in here for a time. Oh, but that reminds me, my lord,” he added, clapping a hand to his breast, then reaching inside his coat. “His lordship sent this message for you. I put it where I should not forget it, and here I’ve nearly gone and done so.”

The earl, who was taking a mug of ale from a tray the maid held out to him, accepted the letter with his free hand. He was looking for a place to set down the mug when one of his own footmen entered, observed his need, and quickly drew forth a side table for his use.

“Thanks, lad,” he said, setting down the mug, then breaking the seal on the letter. With a shrewd look at the footman, he added, “You got yourself sorted out right quickly, did you not?”

“Aye, my lord.” The young man glanced at the maid and the butler. “Fergus Owen thought ye’d be wishful to ha’ some of yer ain folk about, not meaning any disrespect to ye, Mr. Peasley.”

The earl said, “This is Dugald, Peasley. He is generally a dependable lad.”

“Indeed, my lord, he looks it,” Peasley said, regarding the tall, well-built young footman with approval.

Pinkie sipped her tea, resisting the impulse to get up and wander about the saloon. She would have liked to look more closely at the gilded pier glasses and mirrors, and the paintings on the walls, or just to look out the window to see what she could see. She noted that Lady Agnes was as fascinated as she was, and was not troubling herself to conceal the fact.

The dowager was a plump little woman in her late fifties with soft features and pale blue eyes. Her once mouse-brown hair had turned splendidly white with age, which she thought a great blessing, since she required no powdering to be in the mode. Her delight in her first trip to London was nearly palpable.

Catching Pinkie’s gaze, Lady Agnes said brightly, “This is a splendid room, is it not? I dare swear that I have never seen its equal. The marquess must have spent a vast amount of money buying all this gold furniture, don’t you agree?”

Pinkie nearly did agree, but when she saw Mary hide a smile, she said only, “It is quite a lovely room, ma’am, to be sure.”

The earl said, “That will be all for now, Peasley, thank you. Be so good as to send Fergus Owen to me when you find him. He is my house steward, and you will take your orders from him. I expect we shall need a few more servants, and I know he will welcome your advice on the subject.”

“Certainly, my lord, and thank you, sir.” Gesturing to the maidservant to follow him, the butler left the room.

“You may go, too, Dugald,” Duncan said to the footman. “You would be wise to take yourself belowstairs and learn quickly how things are done here. Many of their ways will doubtless be different from what they are at home.”

“Aye, sir, but what if ye need me? How will I know?”

“I am sure that someone will come if I pull that bell,” Duncan said, gesturing toward the bellpull by the fireplace. “I can send for you if I want you. You’ll be taking your orders from Peasley, you know, as well as from Fergus Owen.”

“Aye, Mr. Peasley seems fair enow.”

“You will have to wear powder here, Duncan,” Lady Agnes said abruptly when the lad had gone. “I daresay our menservants should wear it as well, just as Peasley does. Fergus won’t care much for that, I expect.”

“He’ll dislike it less than I will,” the earl said, scanning the letter in his hand. He looked at his wife with a smile. “Maggie wants us to dine with them tomorrow.”

“How could she know that we would arrive today?” Mary asked, surprised.

“She didn’t,” he replied. “Her letter says we are to come to dinner at four o’clock the day after we arrive, even if it’s a Sunday. We’ll test our new running footman by sending him to Rothwell House with our acceptance and our thanks.”

“I should think we would have heard from Argyll, as well,” Lady Agnes said petulantly. “Perhaps, however, the duke is put out because you accepted Rothwell’s assistance instead of his in finding this house. I do not say that Rothwell has chosen ill, for he did not This is quite adequate for our needs, but still, his grace may be displeased that you failed to seek his advice, Duncan, and that would never do.”

“Nay, then, ma’am, it would not,” Duncan agreed, “but I would never have been so daft as to ask him to serve as my house-finder. The duke is past the age mark now, and would not thank me for setting him such a tedious task, particularly when Rory had offered to see to it. Argyll likes him better than me, after all.”

“Perhaps, although I do not think his grace has ever really recovered from the shock of Rory’s—that is, to Rothwell’s—marriage. And as to being obliged to him, I am persuaded that Argyll’s son, John, would have served you quite as happily.”

“Colonel Campbell has other matters on his mind, ma’am, for his regimental duties keep him fully occupied,” Duncan murmured, his attention shifting to the letter in his hand again. “Maggie reminds us that she means to present Pinkie to the queen at a drawing room,” he said a moment later, drawing their attention again. He glanced up, adding with a wry smile, “Apparently, she and Rothwell mean to give a ball in her honor, as well, on Saturday, the eleventh of June; and you will be pleased to learn, ma’am, that they have invited the colonel and his lovely wife to attend.”

Mary said with a chuckle, “Just how do you know she is lovely, sir?”

He said sternly, “Do you doubt my faithfulness, madam?”

“No, sir, merely your clairvoyance.”

With a wry smile, he said, “I have seen her, although she was married to the Duke of Hamilton at the time. She and her sisters are all quite famous for their beauty, my love, although in my humble opinion, theirs fair pales beside your own.”

“Flatterer.” But the countess blushed rosily and looked pleased.

Lady Agnes, who had done her best from the isolation of the Highlands—with the willing assistance of a host of correspondents—to keep up with the gossip of the beau monde, said thoughtfully, “I’d quite forgotten that Elizabeth was so famous for her beauty. It’s been some time since those days, of course, and she’s been married to John Campbell for nigh onto six years now, but I daresay she still retains her captivating manners. She was one of the Gunning sisters, you see,” she added, clearly for Pinkie’s benefit, since no one else was paying her much heed. “Lud, but they
were
famous, years ago. Elizabeth became Duchess of Hamilton, and then Hamilton died and she married John Campbell. Now, if he succeeds his father, which he must do if Argyll does not outlive him—and sometimes one does think that Argyll means to live forever—But if John Campbell does succeed, she will have married two dukes, won’t she? I wonder if anyone else has ever done that.”

The earl and his countess, speaking quietly to each other, seemed still to be paying no heed to Lady Agnes, and Chuff had left his seat to gaze out one of two tall windows that Pinkie thought must overlook Hyde Park. Thus, she felt obliged to reply. “I’m sure I do not know if anyone has, ma’am. It is surely a great thing to have married
one
duke. Two seems a bit greedy, to my mind.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” Lady Agnes agreed, “and what’s more, she’s Irish. Her mother, Bridget Gunning, was no more than the housekeeper at Somerset House, after all, but about fifteen years ago Elizabeth and her sisters were the rage of London. They were said to be of such surpassing beauty as to drive sane men to madness. Her older sister married the Earl of Coventry. There is a younger one, too, although I do not believe she has chosen a husband yet.”

“Goodness me,” Pinkie said, “they sound like three Cinderellas.”