Miser of Mayfair (14 page)

While Fiona continued to enrich herself in the houses of every rapacious female gambler in London, the Earl of Harrington passed the days before the Bascombe rout by trying not to think of Miss Fiona Sinclair. He had heard she was to attend the rout. Who had not? He persuaded himself that it was only idle curiousity that had caused him to send a request for information on the Sinclairs by the mail coach. But he could not help thinking he would probably have some intelligence in a week’s time since the Royal Mail only took a little more than forty-five hours to reach Edinburgh.

But when he finally dressed himself to go to the Bascombes’ rout at their mansion in Green Street he had to confess to himself that he
was
looking forward to seeing the unusual Miss Sinclair again. Any woman who was aware of what was going on in this country as well as abroad was out of the common way. But he was, nonetheless, confident that a further meeting with her would prove her to be as vapid and uninteresting as any other society female. He finished dressing just as his friend, Mr Toby Masters, strolled in.

‘Fine as a peacock.’ Mr Masters grinned, taking in all the glory of his lordship’s corbeau-coloured coat, silk knee breeches, clocked stockings, and diamond-buckled shoes. ‘Is this in honour of Miss Sinclair?’

‘Miss Sinclair is so vague and dreamy I doubt if she would notice if I appeared in the buff,’ said the earl. ‘I rescued her from deadly peril, you know.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few nights ago. She was standing in Hanover Square pretending to be a statue when a little rat of a man tried to snatch her reticule. I gave her wine and comfort.’

‘Lucky dog. You have stolen a match on all of us.’

‘Not in the slightest. Miss Fiona yawned in my face.’

‘A rare pearl! I met two of the oddest females at the Cunninghams t’other night – Miss Plumtree and Miss Giles-Denton. They said they knew you intimately.’

‘They were both at that dinner party of Pardon’s. Friday-faced chits both of ’em.’

‘You are too severe. Miss Plumtree was quite pleasant. A man of my girth and looks must of necessity find beauty among the lowliest flowers.’

‘You are a well set up and likeable fellow,’ said the earl, ‘and that should commend you to any lady of wit and discernment.’

‘Perhaps Miss Fiona will prove to be such a one.’

‘Perhaps. Although I think she is asleep most of the time.’

‘She is playing in deep waters, I have heard,’ said Mr Masters, watching with a pang of envy as the earl bent with one fluid athletic movement to brush a piece of lint from his silk stocking. ‘Seems she’s been fleecing the fleecers in the ladies’ gaming hells.’

‘She had been to Lady Disher’s, I believe,’ said the earl, forbearing to mention that the fair Fiona had been cheating at cards. He reminded himself he had no reason to be discreet. Toby did not gossip to anyone other than himself. But he had a feeling of loyalty towards Fiona, a loyalty that irritated him because he did not know why he should be so careful of her reputation with this, his closest friend. ‘In fact,’ went on the earl, ‘I believe her mysterious assailant to have been one of Disher’s servants.’ He leaned forward and studied the intricate pleats of his cravat in the mirror.

‘Come along, then,’ said Mr Masters impatiently. ‘You may introduce me to this fair charmer.’

The town house of Lord and Lady Bascombe was ablaze with lights as they approached it through the smoky blue dusk.

The two men had elected to walk the short distance to Green Street from Hanover Square. Outside the Bascombes’ mansion, coachmen cursed and shouted as they fought for places. Lights blazed from every window of the house, the curtains being drawn back as was the custom when a rout was held.

This rout, like all routs, was a hell of pushing and shoving on the crowded staircase to get to the rooms above. It was the fashion to invite many more guests than the house could comfortably hold. A rout was not a rout unless at least a dozen ladies fainted in the crush.

Both the earl and Mr Masters held firmly on to their hats, gloves, and canes, planning to deposit them behind some curtain on the first floor, long experience of routs having taught them that gentlemen were apt to help themselves to your accessories on the road out if they looked more expensive than their own.

In fact the whole of two-faced society paid only lip service to the ten commandments and committed adultery, stole, and cheated at cards, because, after all, it was only the eleventh commandment that mattered – Thou Shalt Not Get Found Out. Being found out was a heinous sin. Any lady or gentleman of breeding should know how to be discreet.

Mr Masters did not need to ask the earl to point out Miss Sinclair. The radiant beauty being monopolized by Mr George Brummell could be none other than she. Even the earl, who had thought himself inured to her good looks, caught his breath.

Her glossy black hair was dressed in one of the latest Grecian styles and worn without ornament. Her deceptively simple gown of green crêpe was moulded to her figure, the neck and sleeves edged with thin bands of old gold silk made from the last scraps of the bedroom curtains. Her gloves were new, being of white kid, wrinkled up to the elbow in the correct manner. Also new was the pierced and carved ivory fan she carried. The sticks and guards were in the rococo style. The double-painted paper leaf of the fan was burnished to give it a sheen – a style found only on French fans. In all, a most expensive trifle, thought the earl, and then wondered if some man had given it to her.

‘Brummell is a pest,’ muttered Mr Masters. ‘It’s always the young ones he goes after. The Prince of Wales won’t court ’em unless they’re old enough to be his grandmother, and Brummell will not look at any female turned twenty.’

The celebrated Beau Brummell was hailed as a very handsome man, but he was, in fact, merely pleasing in quite an ordinary way. His skin was very fair, and he had fine, light brown hair, curled and pomaded. His nose was flat, and had been flat for several years since a horse had kicked it. His figure was slim and his dress exquisite. He was an advocate of ‘very fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing,’ and he had done much to rid the air of ballrooms and routs of their heavy smells caused by last month’s underwear and last year’s bath.

Fiona was not saying anything to the beau, merely smiling sweetly and listening to everything he said with flattering interest.

‘How do we get rid of him?’ mumbled Mr Masters.

‘Easily,’ said Lord Harrington.

He walked forward and clapped the beau on the shoulder. ‘Lord Amber is making his noisy way up the staircase,’ said the earl. ‘Wants to see you, George. He won £500 from you t’other night at Brooks’s and he is clutching a sheaf of your vowels to his chest.’

Mr Brummell raised his eyebrows, which were plucked into a thin line. ‘Your servant, Miss Sinclair,’ he murmured.

He backed away with a slow, gliding movement – very odd – that made it look as if he were not moving at all, although he had disappeared into the throng in a matter of seconds.

‘Miss Sinclair, may I present Mr Masters,’ said the earl. ‘Mr Masters, Miss Sinclair.’

Mr Masters had very large blue eyes. They grew wider and wider as he stared open-mouthed at Fiona. Mr Sinclair was standing a few paces behind Fiona, glaring mulishly at the floor while Mr Pardon whispered in his ear. Lord Harrington found himself becoming irritated with his friend’s stunned admiration, with his very presence – in fact, with everyone in the room.

Fiona was of medium height, but Lord Harrington was just over six feet tall. The press of guests at his back thrust the earl towards Fiona. The nearness of her body and the way she looked up into his eyes unnerved him.

‘What do you think of our famous George Brummell?’ asked the earl. ‘Do you find his wit devastating?’

‘I do not find him very witty,’ said Fiona. ‘He has a certain quaint dry humour which makes what he says sound like wit, but very little of what he says bears repetition. Like some very light wines, it does not travel well. I fear him. I sense that underneath he is cold and hard and satirical.’

Mr Sinclair, who had been standing a few paces behind Fiona and had just shaken off Mr Pardon, came up behind Fiona just as she made this speech. The earl smiled and bowed. ‘My compliments on the beauty of your appearance, Miss Sinclair,’ he said. ‘Excuse me.’ He bowed again and left, towing the dazed Mr Masters after him.

‘What on earth did you say all that about Beau Brummell for?’ hissed Mr Sinclair. ‘I told you cleverness would give Harrington a disgust of you. Besides, I ain’t been in London very long, but one of the first things I learned was that it don’t do to criticize Brummell.’

Fiona turned and looked at him, her grey eyes completely devoid of expression. Then other courtiers crowded around, and she turned back to speak to them.

For the next half hour Mr Sinclair could find no fault with Fiona. She laughed, she talked of fans and fashions, she flattered with her eyes and enchanted with the grace of her body. Mr Sinclair rubbed his hands. Gentlemen would soon be calling on him to beg Fiona’s hand in marriage.

Then Mr Sinclair saw a familiar face. An old man had arrived. He was wearing an old-fashioned powdered wig and a gold-and-green-striped evening coat that belonged to a day of gaudier fashions. ‘Sir Andrew Strathkeith,’ exclaimed Mr Sinclair. He had met Sir Andrew at the Edinburgh High Court some ten years ago when Sir Andrew had been a spectator at a robbery case in which Mr Sinclair had successfully defended the robber.

They had repaired to the nearest tavern for a bottle of claret and had parted after a happy boozy hour exchanging vows of friendship. But somehow Mr Sinclair had never heard further from Sir Andrew and had not had the social courage to try to seek the knight out. Even now, although he was ostensibly of the same rank and privilege as these other guests, Mr Sinclair felt shy at approaching Sir Andrew. He looked across the room at him with a sort of longing.

Then Sir Andrew saw Mr Sinclair, and his old wrinkled face lit up. He waved his arm, and Mr Sinclair happily lumbered across the room, totally unaware that Mr Pardon had just accosted Fiona.

‘I was just renewing my acquaintance with your father,’ said Mr Pardon.

‘Your fondness for my father is very gratifying.’ Fiona smiled. ‘In fact, your demonstrations of affection towards him were quite overpowering.’

Mr Pardon flushed angrily. ‘I mistook the room.’

Fiona gave him a stupid look. ‘What room?’

‘I thought it was Mrs Leech’s room.’

Fiona looked bewildered. ‘I seem to have missed part of your conversation, Mr Pardon. You tell me you thought it was Mrs Leech’s room, but I thought we were talking about your affection for my father. What
do
you mean?’

The other men about Fiona looked amused as the normally poised and polished Mr Pardon blushed and stammered.

‘I will explain some other time,’ said Mr Pardon. He bowed and left. Fiona’s ripple of laughter followed him across the room.

Bitch, bitch,
bitch
, thought Mr Pardon. She
dares
to make a fool of me. Well, she will find me no mean adversary. She has fleeced the gambling ladies of London. All I need to do is stir them up a bit. And then let’s see what becomes of
you
, Miss Fiona Sinclair!

Why, you are pursing your brows, biting your lips, and lifting up your foot as if you would stamp it into the earth. I must say anger becomes you; you would make a charming Hotspur. Your everyday dining-out face is rather insipid: but I assure you my heart is in danger when you are in the heroics.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK,
CROTCHET CASTLE

‘Why did you drag me away?’ said the normally sunny Mr Masters crossly. ‘By George, she summed up Brummell very well and before we had even started a conversation, you took your leave.’

‘Then go back by all means,’ said Lord Harrington. ‘I was a trifle rude, I admit. But I suddenly felt I could not bear to waste time playing courtier to yet another beauty at yet another rout.’

Mr Masters looked at his friend strangely. ‘Well, I think it deuced odd of you to display such a heavy touch. For all you don’t rate the beauties very high, one would never usually know it to see you charm ’em.
I
am going back. It’s enough just to be allowed to look at her.’