Miss Fiona's Fancy (The Royal Ambition Series Book 3) Page 7

  “She never has any free time. She’s always on duty, and in the servants’ hall, she does not sit near me.”

  “I’ll think of something, Angus,” promised Fiona. “Only don’t tell Papa!”

  When she got home, Fiona poured out her troubles to Christine, ending up with the added complication of Angus’s desire to have some time with the maid. To her surprise, Christine blushed rosily and looked pleased and gratified.

  “Don’t you see,” cried Christine, “we can now solve all problems! Lady Grant has been complaining of fatigue and wishes a quiet evening at home. Sir Edward, I am afraid, wishes to go to his club this evening.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Fiona. “I think he promised Mama he would not gamble.”

  “When did a gambler ever keep his promise?” said Christine. “But only listen, Miss Fiona. We will all go masked to the Pantheon—that is, you, me, and Angus. Angus and I will be there to protect you because I have heard these affairs can be somewhat scandalous. Also, I do not trust this marquess. Why are you so desperate to do what he wants?”

  “I may as well tell you, Christine,” said Fiona, “but you must not talk to anyone, even Angus.”

  “I promise. Go on.”

  So Fiona told her about the bet. “You see, Christine,” she ended, “Papa no longer needs the money, so I only have to get him to propose and then I shall have enough money to be truly independent.”

  “I fear you are as hardened a gambler as your father,” said Christine. “Women are never independent. Besides, I have heard talk of this marquess. He does not appear to be in the least interested in getting married. He is much older than you. I fear you will find he is having fun at your expense. Why not appeal to the three ladies with whom you made the bet? Tell them it was a joke.”

  “Oh, I could never do that!” said Fiona, shocked. “A wager is a wager.”

  “Very well. If we must go, we must go. I will sew masks for the three of us. Then this evening I shall tell Lady Grant you have the headache and I have given you something to make you sleep. I shall say I am not feeling well either. She is a kind mistress and will let me retire for the evening, particularly as she is not going out.”

  “Do we work you very hard, Christine?” asked Fiona. “Angus said you never have any free time.”

  “I like being busy,” said Christine comfortably. “I never thought to ask for free time, but,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “that was before I knew Angus was interested in me.”

  Fiona and Christine made silent and hurried preparations for the masquerade. The large shabby house near Hyde Park corner had a little-used staircase that led out into the garden. They planned to leave by that way and then out of the garden and into the street where they would hail a hack.

  Excited by the forthcoming adventure, Fiona spent a long time deciding what to wear and then at last settled on a white muslin gown with an overdress of gold gauze. Christine had fashioned a mask for Fiona out of gold velvet and had edged it with little gold beads. Fiona pressed the maid to borrow one of her dresses, but Christine said it would be better if she continued to look like Fiona’s maid so that the marquess would know Miss Grant had servants with her to protect her. In finer clothes, said Christine, the marquess might take her for a rakish friend. No respectable lady went to the Pantheon, said Christine, and surely this lord was a bad man to even suggest such a thing.

  But Fiona was too anxious to win that bet to start worrying about the Marquess of Cleveden’s morals. “I only want him to propose to me, Christine,” she protested. “I am not going to marry him.”

  Fiona was unable to have a bath. The water supply from the Thames, and New River, was only turned on three times a week to the houses of London and that evening did not fall on one of the three days. She contented herself with scrubbing herself down while standing in a bowl of water, which is all the kitchen would allow her from the precious supply they saved on “off” days for the more important things like cooking and brewing tea.

  Angus was waiting for them in the garden when they slipped out of the house, a fine cravat tied round his neck and the gleam of a gold-embroidered waistcoat Fiona recognized as one of her father’s under his cloak. Angus, at any rate, had no intention of looking like a servant.

  The normally languid piper seemed strung-up and talkative by the mere sight of Christine. How old was Angus? wondered Fiona. He must be nearly forty. And Christine was her own age, and yet Christine obviously did not consider the piper old.

  They walked in silence to Hyde Park corner where Angus hailed a hack. Once inside the smelly carriage, they donned their masks.

  Christine and Angus disappeared to be replaced by two sinister-looking strangers. They do not look like the people I know, thought Fiona. If I had said I would meet them at the ball, then I never would have recognized them. What if Cleveden does not recognize me?

  The press of carriages in Oxford Street was so great that they stopped the hack and got out to walk the short distance to the pillared portico of the Pantheon. Fiona had received some pin money from her father when he was in a generous mood after his last win. It was enough to pay the hack and pay their entrance fee of half a crown each, and yet leave enough to pay for refreshments when they got inside.

  They made their way to a box overlooking the floor. There were a great many people, all looking very fashionable. Fiona began to relax. It was all quite respectable. But a second look showed her that the ladies wore remarkably little even for this age of scanty fashions. The third look told her they were not ladies. There was a certain glittering boldness about the eyes behind the masks, a certain flaunting of bodies as they turned and twisted in the dance. No one was as yet openly misbehaving but Fiona was suddenly sure they would, before the night was out.

  And where was Cleveden? And how would he ever find her? The boxes were rapidly filling up with noisy groups of people. The dance floor was becoming more and more crowded.

  Angus Robertson closely questioned a tired and contemptuous waiter as to the cheapest thing they could order and settled for a bowl of punch.

  Fiona felt better after a few glasses of punch, not knowing quite how powerful the mixture was.

  Angus and Christine were sitting a little behind her, talking in low voices. Fiona wanted to ask them to sit beside her in the box so that she did not feel so exposed, but they were obviously so wrapped up in each other that she did not like to nip this obviously growing romance in the bud.

  Then Angus leaned forward and asked her permission to take Christine down to the floor for a dance. Fiona hesitated, not wanting to be left alone. But no one had pestered her or showed any intention of doing so. She agreed and watched Christine and Angus make their way down one of the many staircases from the ranks of boxes to the floor.

  Then she was besieged by men—men with glittering eyes behind their masks and loose mouths. Men who grew sulky and rude when she refused to dance.

  Suddenly one man, bolder than the rest, returned to the box, seized her roughly round the waist, and tried to drag her to her feet.

  “It’s no use playing Miss Prunes and Prisms with me,” he growled. “Ladies don’t come here.”

  Fiona slapped his masked face. “You’ll give me a kiss for that, you jade,” he said, returning to the attack. He was large and fat and sweating. He smelled abominably. Fiona cried for help but the people in the other boxes only looked highly amused and cheered her tormentor on to further efforts.

  And then a hand seized his collar and swung him around. Tall, furious, yellow eyes blazing, the Marquess of Cleveden said, “Be on your way, fellow, before I throw you out of this box onto the floor.”

  Fiona’s attacker was large, but he took one scared look at the marquess’s grim mouth and those terrible blazing eyes glowing behind a black mask, mumbled an apology, and escaped as fast as he could.

  “I am sorry I was delayed,” said the marquess, sitting down beside Fiona, who was vigorously fanning herself and forcing herself not to sc
ream at him for having been instrumental in getting her to come to such a place.

  The sitting at the House of Lords had gone on longer than the marquess had expected. He had rushed home and scrambled into his evening dress, wondering what had possessed him to think up such a mad escapade.

  He had finally and successfully given Fiona Grant a disgust of him, of that he was sure. Bet or no bet, he was sure she would never want to see him again.

  And then he noticed her eyes were shining with tears.

  “I am a monster,” he said. “How could I have done such a thing to you? But you were a widgeon to come.”

  “Then why did you ask me?”

  “To see how far you were prepared to go.”

  “I do not understand you, my lord.”

  “To see how far you were prepared to go in your pursuit of me.”

  “My lord!”

  “Dry your tears and listen to me, Fiona Grant. Will you tell me why you normally flirt and simper in that quite dreadful way when you see me? I judge you to be a tolerably strong-minded woman, not given to being missish.”

  Fiona took out a wisp of handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Then she sat with her head bowed, feeling this was the time to say something to charm him, but unable to think of anything.

  The marquess watched her carefully. So she would not trust him! But that was understandable. If you wish to marry a man, you don’t tell him it is only because you want to win a bet.

  He continued to study her thoughtfully, and as he looked at her, the noise and chatter of the Pantheon died away. He had a strange feeling of enchantment, a mixture of tenderness and humor. Fiona Grant would never bore him. She might lie to him, infuriate him, and drag him into incredible situations, but he was sure, although he barely knew her, that she would never be tedious.

  The Marquess of Cleveden leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. He was about to gamble seriously for the first time in his life. If he made a mistake, then it would be a mistake he would have to live with for the rest of his life. But if his instinct proved right, he might even have a glimpse of heaven.

  “Miss Fiona Grant,” said the Marquess of Cleveden, “will you marry me?”

  SEVEN

  Of course Fiona did not believe him. He was making fun of her. She looked about wildly for some sign of Angus and Christine. Where were they?

  She did not know that they had been fighting their way through the dancers to rescue her when they saw the arrival of the Marquess of Cleveden and witnessed him dealing with Fiona’s persecutor. Still, Christine would have pressed on, for she did not trust the marquess, but all the pushing and shoving had thrown her against Angus’s chest. He held her tightly and said, “I do love you, Christine,” and Christine promptly forgot about anything and everyone but the piper.

  “You have not answered my question, Miss Grant,” prompted the marquess.

  Fiona took a deep breath. She knew what she must do to end this ridiculous business. She must confess to her father, tell him of the bet, and then never have anything to do with this mocking, tormenting, dangerous marquess again. And having come to that decision, she felt quite light-headed with relief. She could be herself. No longer must she masquerade as a simpering miss.

  “I never answer stupid questions,” said Fiona. “I should never have come here. As soon as Angus and Christine return, I shall take my leave.”

  “So you did not come unaccompanied. Wise girl. But I do not jest. I want to marry you.”

  “Why?” asked Fiona bluntly.

  “You amuse me, Miss Grant.”

  “At least you are not swearing to undying love.”

  “No. But then I hardly know you.”

  “Amusement is not grounds enough for marriage.”

  “In my case, it is.”

  Fiona studied those odd eyes of his. “Are you really asking me to marry you?”

  “Yes, Miss Grant, I really am.”

  Fiona felt a rush of heady elation. He meant it! She had made a fantastic bet. And she had won! All she had to do was to make sure he announced the engagement, collect the money, and then cry off. It was not as if he were in love with her. Only amused. He would soon find some other lady to amuse him. Besides, a gentleman who played tricks like taking her for a drive in the worst part of London—for she had not believed his excuse—and then encouraging her to attend this affair surely deserved to have the tables turned on him.

  “Then, my lord,” she said, “I accept your offer.”

  “Why?”

  Fiona began to feel irritated. “What if I said I loved you?” she remarked.

  “Then I should not believe you.”

  “I have no dowry to speak of.”

  “That I do believe. But we are not at the moment discussing why I wish to marry you, I am waiting to hear why you have accepted my proposal.”

  Somehow, Fiona at last sensed that a conventional fluttering of the eyelashes and a slap on the wrist with a fan would not answer. She looked at him steadily and said, “Because it amuses me to do so.”

  “And that is the only reason?”

  No, thought Fiona, I stand to win £9,000. She looked away from him, wondering how to avoid telling him a direct lie. She had lied to him about Angus that day in the Park and it had been a nasty feeling. She became aware of the gross antics and some of the dancers. Her face flamed under her mask, and she said, “Oh, where is Angus? And Christine? I should never have come.”

  “And I should never have suggested such a thing,” he said ruefully. “Come. Let me take you out of here.”

  “But my servants!”

  “They are perfectly capable of finding their own way home.”

  At that moment, Angus and Christine came back into the box.

  “You are just in time to say good night to your mistress,” said the marquess.

  “Aye,” said Angus, “it is no place for a respectable female.”

  “But you may congratulate me,” said the marquess. “Miss Grant has promised to marry me.”

  Christine let out a sharp exclamation and Fiona threw her a warning look. ’Odso, thought the marquess. So the maid knows of the bet.

  Angus and Christine then offered their congratulations and said they could find their own way back to the Grant mansion.

  Fiona hesitated outside the Pantheon. “Perhaps it would be better, my lord, if I took a hack. That is how I came. Mama believes I am in bed.”

  “How did you leave home?”

  “By a little gate in the garden.”

  “Then I will take you near your home and you may return the way you came. I shall call on your father tomorrow.”

  When his carriage arrived, Fiona saw with relief it was an open one. She was shy at the thought of being closeted with him in a closed carriage. He had a tiger standing on the backstrap, so they were chaperoned in a way.

  The marquess tucked a rug about her and took off his mask before he picked up the reins. Fiona took off her own mask and tucked it in her reticule.

  “You have not asked me,” said the marquess, sounding amused, “when we are to be married.”

  “I assumed sometime next year perhaps,” said Fiona cautiously.

  “On the contrary, I assumed sometime before the end of the month.”

  Fiona’s hands began to shake and she tucked them under the rug. It did not matter, she reminded herself sternly. She would drop him as soon as the three girls paid up their bets.

  “It is all very quick,” she said. “No one surely gets married that quickly.”

  “It is easy to produce a special license. Can you think of any reason why we should wait, we who find each other so frightfully amusing?”

  “No, my lord,” said Fiona, wondering whether to tell her father after all or whether to simply disappear somewhere and live out the rest of her years a spinster.

  “Good. I like the idea of a quiet wedding. Does that appeal to you, my love?”

  “Yes,” said Fiona bleakly. She stole a glance
at him. His profile looked very strong, very masculine. But surely a man who proposed on a whim would accept a termination of the engagement just as lightly?

  She sat in silence, gnawing her bottom lip and worrying.

  At last she cried, “Stop! I shall get down here. Do not drive right up to the door.”

  He reined in his horses, called to his tiger to go to their heads, and then jumped down and went round to her side of the carriage. He held up his arms to help her down from the high perch.

  She jumped lightly down and he held her tightly against him.

  He put one hand at the nape of her neck. His lips began to descend.