Fiona’s reticule.
Fiona held on like grim death.
Seamus, for it was he, raised his fist to strike her, but Joseph seized him by the collar. Seamus twisted about and punched Joseph on the nose. Joseph burst into tears, clutching his face and wailing. It all had taken a matter of seconds. As Seamus moved to attack Fiona again, he heard the pounding of feet and saw Lord Harrington bearing down on him.
Seamus took one scared look at the blazing yellow light of rage in Lord Harrington’s eyes, at his clenched fists, and at the breadth of his shoulders and ran as hard as he could out of the square. He heard Lord Harrington pounding after him and flew into a tavern in Oxford Street, crashed through to the back premises, out into the area at the back, over a wall, and down a twisting network of alleys, only pausing for breath when he no longer heard the sound of pursuit after him.
Lord Harrington, having lost Seamus, returned almost as quickly to Hanover Square. Joseph was propped up against the railings and Fiona was ineffectually trying to staunch the flow of blood from the footman’s nose with a wisp of lace handkerchief.
‘I do not know why you ladies carry such ridiculous little things,’ said Lord Harrington, producing his own handkerchief. ‘It is not my handkerchief,’ said Fiona, taking the serviceable one that Lord Harrington was holding out. ‘It is Joseph’s.’
‘Ooooh, I’m dyin’,’ wailed Joseph.
‘Come along,’ said the earl sharply. ‘My servants will clean you up. Stand up straight, man, and walk or I will take my boot to your backside.’
Joseph sulkily straightened up and followed Fiona and the earl.
‘And you, Miss Sinclair,’ said the earl, ‘may have some refreshment while you wait for this milksop of a servant to be fit to accompany you home.’
‘Do not be hard on Joseph,’ said Fiona. ‘Oh! My basket.’
The earl twisted about and saw the basket Joseph had been carrying lying under the lilac tree. It seemed easier to go back and fetch it himself rather than try to get the spineless Joseph to do it.
Once indoors, and with Joseph sobbing his way down to the kitchens, Fiona looked about her with interest. It was much larger than Number 67 Clarges Street, having rooms on either side of a magnificent staircase. In fact, it was unusually large, most of the aristocracy being still reluctant to spend much on a London home, as all their interest went on their mansions and lands in the country. Most lived in town only for the Season, with perhaps an occasional jaunt during the Little Season in September.
The earl led the way through a shadowy hall over black-and-white polished tiles and showed Fiona into a library. It was a large, gloomy, book-lined room. The walls were ornamented with some dark landscapes badly in need of cleaning. There were also some gory pictures of the hunt. In one, slavering hell-hounds were dismantling a fox, and, in another, a wild-eyed deer was being mangled about the throat by what appeared to be the same pack. Two portraits of high-nosed gentlemen in powdered wigs had been hung in the darkest corner of the room as if the gentlemen were in disgrace. Small windows at the end of the room looked out onto a weedy garden.
There was no fire in the hearth and no poker, tongs, or shovel, as they had probably been put away for the summer and wrapped in paper before being liberally rubbed with goose grease. The fire basket was made of Britannia metal, so highly burnished that it looked as if a burning coal had never sullied its brilliance.
The earl rang a bell by the fireplace, and, when his butler appeared – not a weasly man like Seamus or attractive and intelligent like Rainbird, but fat and pompous – the earl said curtly, ‘Fetch Mrs Grimes.’
The butler bowed and withdrew and, in a very short time, a housekeeper appeared, crackling with starch.
‘Take a seat by the door, Mrs Grimes,’ commanded the earl, and, to the hovering butler, ‘Fetch wine and
Fiona held on like grim death.
Seamus, for it was he, raised his fist to strike her, but Joseph seized him by the collar. Seamus twisted about and punched Joseph on the nose. Joseph burst into tears, clutching his face and wailing. It all had taken a matter of seconds. As Seamus moved to attack Fiona again, he heard the pounding of feet and saw Lord Harrington bearing down on him.
Seamus took one scared look at the blazing yellow light of rage in Lord Harrington’s eyes, at his clenched fists, and at the breadth of his shoulders and ran as hard as he could out of the square. He heard Lord Harrington pounding after him and flew into a tavern in Oxford Street, crashed through to the back premises, out into the area at the back, over a wall, and down a twisting network of alleys, only pausing for breath when he no longer heard the sound of pursuit after him.
Lord Harrington, having lost Seamus, returned almost as quickly to Hanover Square. Joseph was propped up against the railings and Fiona was ineffectually trying to staunch the flow of blood from the footman’s nose with a wisp of lace handkerchief.
‘I do not know why you ladies carry such ridiculous little things,’ said Lord Harrington, producing his own handkerchief. ‘It is not my handkerchief,’ said Fiona, taking the serviceable one that Lord Harrington was holding out. ‘It is Joseph’s.’
‘Ooooh, I’m dyin’,’ wailed Joseph.
‘Come along,’ said the earl sharply. ‘My servants will clean you up. Stand up straight, man, and walk or I will take my boot to your backside.’
Joseph sulkily straightened up and followed Fiona and the earl.
‘And you, Miss Sinclair,’ said the earl, ‘may have some refreshment while you wait for this milksop of a servant to be fit to accompany you home.’
‘Do not be hard on Joseph,’ said Fiona. ‘Oh! My basket.’
The earl twisted about and saw the basket Joseph had been carrying lying under the lilac tree. It seemed easier to go back and fetch it himself rather than try to get the spineless Joseph to do it.
Once indoors, and with Joseph sobbing his way down to the kitchens, Fiona looked about her with interest. It was much larger than Number 67 Clarges Street, having rooms on either side of a magnificent staircase. In fact, it was unusually large, most of the aristocracy being still reluctant to spend much on a London home, as all their interest went on their mansions and lands in the country. Most lived in town only for the Season, with perhaps an occasional jaunt during the Little Season in September.
The earl led the way through a shadowy hall over black-and-white polished tiles and showed Fiona into a library. It was a large, gloomy, book-lined room. The walls were ornamented with some dark landscapes badly in need of cleaning. There were also some gory pictures of the hunt. In one, slavering hell-hounds were dismantling a fox, and, in another, a wild-eyed deer was being mangled about the throat by what appeared to be the same pack. Two portraits of high-nosed gentlemen in powdered wigs had been hung in the darkest corner of the room as if the gentlemen were in disgrace. Small windows at the end of the room looked out onto a weedy garden.
There was no fire in the hearth and no poker, tongs, or shovel, as they had probably been put away for the summer and wrapped in paper before being liberally rubbed with goose grease. The fire basket was made of Britannia metal, so highly burnished that it looked as if a burning coal had never sullied its brilliance.
The earl rang a bell by the fireplace, and, when his butler appeared – not a weasly man like Seamus or attractive and intelligent like Rainbird, but fat and pompous – the earl said curtly, ‘Fetch Mrs Grimes.’
The butler bowed and withdrew and, in a very short time, a housekeeper appeared, crackling with starch.
‘Take a seat by the door, Mrs Grimes,’ commanded the earl, and, to the hovering butler, ‘Fetch wine and
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