Free Miser of Mayfair by MC Beaton

engaged for the Season by the Plumtrees and Giles-Dentons to keep a watchful eye on their daughters.
    The acceptability, or lack of it, of Mr Pardon had been much discussed by both families on their arrival in London, but Mr Giles-Denton had clinched the matter by saying that Pardon was well-regarded by the
ton.
This was in fact true, because Mr Pardon’s more nefarious deeds had been discreetly performed in or near his mansion on the Scottish borders. Because he entertained lavishly, he was accounted no end of a good fellow.
    There was a fair sprinkling of titles in his mansion that evening. There was of course Mrs Leech, but neither Bessie nor Harriet allowed themselves to think about her because to do so might conjure up unladylike feelings.
    The musicale was over and the company were strolling about or sitting chatting or striking attitudes when Harriet heard Fiona’s name. It quite spoiled the attitude she had been rehearsing all day, which involved propping her chin on her plump hands and scowling out into space.
    Bessie, too, had been striking an attitude when that wretched name had spoiled it all. She was wearing a Turkish turban of bright blue, fringed with gold. Her gown was white-silver lame on gauze, the gauze sleeves revealing her sharp pointed elbows. Bessie’s attitude was to point one finger to the centre of her brow and look dewy-eyed, the dew in her eyes being a liberal application of belladonna.
    A certain Lady Disher voiced the dreaded name. ‘Who is this beautiful Fiona Sinclair everyone is raving about?’ she asked languidly. ‘Evidently she caused quite a sensation in the park this afternoon.’
    ‘Oh, we met
her
,’ said Harriet. ‘She was travelling by the mail when it broke down or something and she and her father were invited to take dinner by Mr Pardon in his home. She is nothing out of the common way. A marked Scotch accent, very bold, and badly dressed.’
    Mr Pardon, who was still smarting over the humiliation of kissing Mr Sinclair, said nothing.
    ‘But everyone – even Brummell – says she is divine. And all that money, too!’ enthused Lady Disher.
    ‘What money?’ demanded Mr Pardon sourly. ‘The old man hasn’t a feather to fly with.’
    ‘But he is a miser. Is it not thrilling? A veritable miser. One of his servants, the butler, I think, came upon him counting bags and bags of gold. He has a weak heart. In fact he had an attack in the park which nigh took him off to his Maker. ‘‘I will leave all my gold to you, Fiona,’’ he was heard to say. Of course, the gentlemen are going
wild.
Gold, more gold, and the face of an angel.
Nothing
could be more seductive. They were all – all the people who helped them home, that is – offered sour watered wine and stale cakes. ‘‘Divine,’’ says the great Brummell. ‘‘So good for the
tailleur
.’’’
    Everyone started to show interest in the Sinclairs, although Bessie and Harriet tried every way they could to diminish Fiona’s beauty and reputation.
    Lady Disher moved a little away from the nodding, gossiping heads. Mr Pardon followed her. He was suffering from a mixture of fury and humiliation. It was one thing to try to seduce a penniless girl of no particular family, but another to try to ravish an heiress. Sinclair could have taken him to court. He broke out in a light film of sweat at the thought.
    ‘Pity me,’ he said lightly. ‘I did not know I had a rich heiress under my roof.’
    ‘Why? Have you a need to marry well?’ laughed Lady Disher.
    ‘We all have a need to marry well,’ said Mr Pardon, thinking bitterly of the piles of unpaid bills stuffed in the pigeon holes of his bureau.
    ‘Then propose to her by all means! Mrs Leech is, after all, only the latest mistress on the scene. You have gracefully rid yourself of them before. Would that I were a man! I find myself at low ebb.’
    ‘What! I thought that gambling hell of yours made a fortune.’
    ‘Shhhh! My gambling hell, as you call it, is