Excerpt of The Orphan by Stella Cameron

From the Publisher The Orphan

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.