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Chapter One
7 Mayfair Square, London. 1823.
I want to orient you, to give you the clearest possible picture of your magnificent surroundings. And who better than this renowned ghost to accomplish the task, I ask you?
Allow me to introduce myself. I am the late Sir Septimus Spivey, noted architect knighted for his extraordinary designs, his innovative contributions to the face of this fair city, and his selfless pursuit of excellence for King and country. I am also the visionary artist behind the conception of 7 Mayfair Square.
This most beautiful house in England was built for my descendants, not, no, no, no, never...
Forgive me if I pause. Even when one has no blood to boil, extreme agitation can still rattle this or that.
It is absolutely not on for my great-granddaughter, Lady Hester Bingham, to continue taking paying guests (her so-called protegés) into my home.
I digress, but have not forgotten what I promised to do for you. It is difficult to remain focused when there is so much activity all about one. I must remember to tell you the latest about my would-be nemesis, Shakespeare. If you don't recall the name, don't bother to look him up. Not worth it. He's been here—you know, beyond—much longer than I have and I fear he is becoming buffle-headed in his extreme age. One tries to be generous, despite the fellow's taunts. I digress again. More of Shakespeare later.
My chosen resting place is in one of the magnificently carved newel posts at the foot of the stairs at Number 7, and on those occasions when I must travel elsewhere, I do not leave it gladly. Unfortunately, in additionto the inconvenience of dealing with the annoyances here, I am also required to continue training as a member of the Passed Over. Gliding, flying, entering without breaking— or opening—and so on. Attending Angel School is a particular trial to me, although I believe I have impressed some of my teachers. But, and most tedious, I cannot avoid mingling with certain others who fancy themselves worthy, or even superior acquaintances. So it is that Shakespeare wafts into my space from time to time. Do you know that he calls me "That ghost in a post?" Of all the unforgivable... Later.
Back to Number 7. Across an expanse of perfect black and white marble tiles in the foyer, I face the front door. All the better to see who comes and goes.
To my right (your left if you're entering the house—which you are unlikely to be invited to do) are the rooms known as 7A. This is where the current object of my undivided attention lives, one Latimer More, successful Importer of Rarities and Oddities. Which probably means he's nothing but a purveyor of cheap foreign rubbish. He is, in fact (and I shudder at the thought) the disinherited son of a Cornish China Clay Merchant. That's right—a tradesman's brat. No matter how much blunt he's managed to winkle out of unsuspecting clients with deep pockets and shallow brains, without extraordinary intervention Latimer is not and never can be a Person of Importance. Regardless of his purported handsomeness and his pleasing presence that makes the ladies twitter, presently the ton is beyond his reach and what else matters, I ask you—what else?
I should mention that Latimer's sister, Finch, was the focus of one of my more successful missions. She used to live here with her brother but I managed to marry her off to a neighbor, Ross, Viscount Kilrood. Although they return from Scotland to Number 8 on occasion, and despite their free use of this house, there is no question of the Viscountess resuming residence at Number 7. Too bad the rest of that plan didn't work, the part in which Latimer would go to live with the Kilroods. Was that so much to ask?
I'll come back to Latimer More. To my left (your right if you're still in the same place) are rooms that were woefully neglected for years. Now they are expensively transformed but much too dull for my taste. Hester's nephew, Sir Hunter Lloyd, and his wife Sibyl—together with their squalling offspring—use these spaces when they are in residence. They have also commandeered most of the second floor, including a handsome library and a small but exquisite music room, although the quarters called 7B where Sibyl Smiles and her sister Meg lived before their marriages, remain much as they were.
How did I manage to mention 7B so calmly when I am about to embark on an exhausting mission to make sure it remains empty? Strength of character and will prevailed.
Hester occupies half of the third floor numbered—don't complain to me about confusion—Number 7. I must confess to a certain softening of my heart, the region that was my heart, that is, when I contemplate the lady. But after all, we share blood and she is, if moon-minded, a generous woman. The rest of the floor belongs—no, is used—by Hunter and Sibyl, and, may the saints preserve me, a foundling child of barely seven years, Birdie. Hester wants to adopt her, but I have other plans.
Note that, although Sibyl married just as I had decided she should and no longer lives at 7B, I did not succeed in removing her from the house.
My, my, I grow fatigued by my efforts to educate you—and to enlist your help. Please, dear friends, I fear there is an exasperating road ahead and I pray you will become my extra eyes and ears. I don't need your mouths unless I ask you to speak.
I forgot the servants' quarters over the back wing of the house. Easily done, given their lack of importance. Below stairs, the kitchens, pantry, dairy, and the rest of the essential facilities are well proportioned. Tucked into the L-shape behind the building is a garden that is both charming and productive. In mews beyond the back gate lie stables with coachmen's quarters above.
The entire household staff at Number 7 is a disgrace and should be let go at once. I'll say no more on that subject.
Now, to my problem. I have mentioned these "protegés" of Hester's. You now know that for several years I have struggled to get rid of them. My gentle heart would never allow me to do other than provide for their happiness at the same time, but I'm beginning to think that my softness works against me. I have had little fortune in getting rid of any of them permanently. They multiply rather than divide. Or they divide, then multiply and stay—or leave and come back—or waft in and out. Oh, fie, I am beside myself.
Might as well tell the truth of it: these intruders are lodgers and this is little more than a high-class boarding-house. The shame would be the death of me, if one was able to manage that more than once.
Enough self-pity, even though I have every right to complain. Despite the thoughtless, selfish disregard for the dignity of my home, and despite repeatedly foiled attempts to correct the travesty, I am prepared to carry on until my will prevails. To this end I have another plan. As with my former efforts, there will be a marriage—possibly two—and with the inevitable success of my brilliant plan, this time I shall all but rid the premises of unwanted strangers. I have decided to tolerate Hunter and his family. After all, there is at least some distant relationship there.
First things first. When Meg Smiles married Count Etranger she also gained Princess Desirée, the count's insupportably forward young half sister. This impudent European royal has set her cap at, of all men, Adam Chillworth who lives in the attic at Number 7. I'm embarrassed to so much as mention that his address is 7C. Chillworth is a great, glowering north-countryman who fancies himself an artist. His being allowed to paint the princess—several times—by her careless brother has only encouraged the girl's tendre for Chillworth. That is a marriage I could never pull off. But, despite his common beginnings, Latimer More has the makings of a pseudo-gentleman, the manner and so forth. Seems to me that he could be groomed to at least appear polished. Etranger is bound to be overcome with relief to have his sister saved from the stained fingers, the big, stained fingers, of an uncultured dauber, especially if some of that intervention I mentioned is exerted with the ton.
Wonderful, you say? Get on with it, man, you say?
Well, don't order me about. What I haven't told you is that Latimer is besotted with one of Sibyl's stray friends, one Jenny McBride, a Scot (naturally) who is a milliner's assistant in a shop on Bond Street. You don't think that's so terrible? Well, the frightful possibilities make me feel faint.
Jenny McBride is a pauper and an orphan. She is shabby beyond belief. Shabby and scrawny, with imputdent green eyes. And those eyes, their inviting expression, have Latimer going forth to Bond Street each day where he makes a cake of hmself by prentending to encounter her by accident. And his sleeplessness, the set of his jaw, the determination with which he pursues her, are all too familiar. He intends to have her. And I know what his first step will likely be, only it's not going to happen.
Excerpted from The Orphan by Stella Cameron. Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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