B006O3T9DG EBOK (58 page)

Rubbing elbows with men whose aprons bore the stench of death did nothing to improve his attractiveness to the gentle sex. Indeed, ladies did not inhabit Gowell Street. That was what he missed most from his former life. He liked lovely-scented, enchantingly-coiffed, and divinely-demure ladies, not foul-breathed harlots with stinking quims and coarse ways. He could have any woman in that particular demimonde ten different ways, but the thought of such wretches made his stomach heave. Perhaps his unusual distaste for low women sprang from that little fray with the two little marmots. The recollection of the foul sluts was enough to put a man off lady-tail for good. Had it not been for ever-faithful Henrietta Younge, he might not have engaged in sexual congress whatsoever.

The dregs hanging about King’s Bench were an improvement on those infesting the
Fortune of War
. He had conjured himself a fine life on the periphery of the law. Little by little, he rose in financial status. Time came about, however, for an improvement in his occupational environment.

———

Taken as a whole, his recuperation was remarkable, both tangibly and spiritually.

Well-schooled in many vices, becoming the local pimp had been a natural progression into moral corruption. His other sins were singular, a seduction here, a murder there; they had all served a specific purpose. To his mind, he was never a procurer. He did not lure customers; he merely served as a protector for a cut of the strumpet’s sales. Moreover, he did not admit to body-snatching. He never put a hand on a dead body. He only brokered those transactions. His turn in various court facilitations exposed him to the legal profession’s pettifoggers and prevaricators.

As all his various endeavours claimed the same trajectory, it was natural that his next step was into politics. (Granted, a leap from prostitution and grave-robbing into the political arena was more of a lateral move than a step up, still he made it with extraordinary ease.)

Always sniffing out ready money, he began to investigate political clubs. The Strand was crawling with outraged petitioners for reform, but none of them could obtain a consensus. Various shouting matches ensued—one evening was capped off by a stoning of the Prince Regent’s carriage.

Suddenly, his ambition was reinvigorated. As easy as crossing New Oxford Street, he left the hawkers, harlots, and immigrants behind, ready to play the cards of decent folk again. For most, working both sides of the road was no easy feat. He knew, however, that the intricacies of such manoeuvring often involved little more than sporting a good pair of boots, well-attended side-whiskers, and the proper accent.

Thus equipped, he prowled the better boot shops and haberdashers surrounding Bond Street until opportunity presented itself. In less than the time it took to have his boots polished, he was befriended by a bored and semi-respectable lord.

He introduced himself humbly, “Alistair R. Thomas at your service.”

Garrulous Lord Orloff had been the harbinger of an abrupt alteration in his situation. It foretold of an introduction into the finest sitting rooms in town. In doing so, he had become a trusted member of both sides of the political curtain. In no time, Sir Henry Howgrave became his newest and dearest friend.

When at last he won the honour of leading Lady Howgrave from speech to speech, he revelled in her company. There was no finer lady in all of London, much less evident within easy reach of tiresome lecture halls. Through dedicating hours upon hours to her amusement, he learnt that all was not well in the House of Howgrave. Clearly, each had been the other’s trophy. Of the two, quite obviously Howgrave made the better bargain. It was clear that Lady Howgrave had come to that unhappy conclusion as well. Indeed, upon occasion she was very nearly morose.

She had good reason to be. One would only need to be in Howgrave’s company an hour ere he would make the most lascivious comments regarding his wife’s connubial attributes. Few men in politics could claim to be a gentleman. (It was not a profession that
always called to the honest and the just.) However, Howgrave’s remarks and vocabulary would have made a seafarer blush. Had Alistair not been so eagre to ingratiate himself to the man, he would have been happy to slap him across the cheek with his gloves.

Despite being married to a swine, Lady Howgrave literally radiated allurement. Some way, somehow, she managed to remain unwitting (or, in truth, in avoidance) of his own romantic overtures. The farther beyond his reach she was, the more eagre he became to climb the catacombs of her womanhood. The awful truth—that she was immune to his amorous leanings—was a brutal blow. A lesser man might have given up all passionate ambitions.

She rewarded his devotion with nothing but her friendship.

Of course, he made certain lovely Juliette learnt of her husband’s despicable blabbering about her conjugal attributes. It was painful, but gave her leave to seek comfort in the embrace of a more discrete lover. Regrettably, he could not convince her to come to him.

Despite this setback (and during the brief lulls between orchestrating rioting factions), he re-dedicated himself to her. He had all but given up the seduction when, in a burst of candour, she told him of her plan to escape her husband. That was a bit of a surprise, but the desire was hardly astonishing. As he believed abetting unhappy wives the obligation of any true gentleman (they were always so very, very grateful), he steered their conversations towards intrigue and compromise. Beyond her fetching perfume, the danger was intoxicating. She only offered the details of her plan in halting fits and starts. Wine, intoxicant of the gods, helped her tell him everything.

Under the limpid glow of empty glasses and wilted candles, it looked as if his appeal for her to share her confidences would finally bear fruit. He poured her another glass of wine and did not have to make a pretence of being a great ally to whatever venture she was to undertake.

“Your husband is an ogre,” he said. “I am at your service. What can I do to assist you?”

“No,
mon ami
,” she demurred. “It is a great secret. I must not speak of it.”

She did, however, speak of it. Secrecy, she had insisted, was essential; as a former lover was to come to her rescue. When he learnt the gentleman was not only rich, but married as well, he knew all was not lost. He encouraged her to write to her lover in the hopes of identifying him by offering to post her letter. She did not allow that. Foiled, but not defeated, he did not give up. He was determined to unearth, and thus, interfere with her machinations.

Night after night, he prodded her, “Who is this lover? Someone of your circle? A soldier? Is it Wellington?”

He laughed. She laughed, but she did not tell him his name.

“I cannot tell,” she whispered.

“It is Wellington!” he invoked a faux gasp.

It was vital he learn the identity of her former lover beyond serving his own desire. For was her husband to learn of any of it, he would inflict the ultimate punishment. This would not come to pass by his own hand, of course. (Howgrave would have his lickspittles tend to the dirty business.) That would be a shame. Not that Alistair truly cared for Juliette. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman. His interest, however, was one of self-preservation. Was she taken to bed, or made her escape under his watch, Howgrave would certainly blame him.

Was he culpable, it was only fair that he have the pleasure of bedding her. For him to succeed, this gentleman-saviour had to be unearthed and besmirched beforehand.

Tickling her, he bid, “Is this knight in shining armour a man of my acquaintance?”

“I think not,” she said. Her words were slightly slurred.

“Is he a man of the first circles?”

“Do not ask me of him, I beg you. He is a man of honour.”

“If he is so honourable, why has he not yet saved you?”

“He is the best of men, but Darcy is seldom in town. Our plans are....”

Her head dropped forward, Alistair was uncertain if she had fallen asleep. He grasped her shoulder and shook her. She roused.

“Darcy?” he repeated. “Of Derbyshire?”

“You
do
know Darcy,” she cooed, then slipped back into her dreams.

Had he spoken then, a simpering note would have insinuated itself into his voice—one long-buried. Instead, he spoke only to himself.

“Darcy, eh?” he marvelled.

“Well, slap my ass and call me George Wickham.”

Chapter 78

Horse Holiday

Sally Frances Arbuthnot’s life was absolutely topsy-turvy.

Although she had learnt to keep her past penchants to herself, she was beside herself with excitement that they would all go to London. Indeed, she was unable to hide her delight. This was not because she missed the sickly yellow haze that passed for air and the cinereous film that covered every person, dog, or building—for she did not. Point of fact, the fresh air of the country had begun to grow on her.

The truth was far too simple.

Lady Millhouse had promised that she would take her to see an Italian opera at the Drury Lane Theatre.

“Tis just a repertory company, dear girl, but they give it quite a go!” her ladyship did enthuse.

Sally did not need the encouragement, for she had always longed to see a proper opera. All she had witnessed were street performances and puppets. She was well nigh giddy even before Lady Millhouse proposed that she be taken to a dress shop to purchase a frock to wear to the theatre.

“I would call my seamstress, but there just isn’t the time.
Coccinelle
near Green Park is quite fashionable. Mademoiselle Fisher shall add lace and ribbons to the finest silk....”

“Yes,” agreed Lord Millhouse. “My dear wife shall have you dressed to make a maypole blush!”

To look as pretty as a maypole was handsome indeed! Sally knew not what to admire the most. Her mind seized upon the possibility of silk stockings and that thought gifted her a sense of anticipation beyond any she had ever before experienced. It was so intense that, had she been a puppy, she would have waggled her tail. The Millhouse revelled in the part they played in bringing her such joy.

To poverty born and workhouse bred, Sally never fancied her chances of being doted on by anyone, much less favoured by persons of such vast means. She could not help but feel happy, but still a bit discomfited by the attention. Whilst in town, she prayed that she would not see anyone from the Dials. They would call her a sham—and a sham she was. In truth, she was just a girl from the slums and always would be. No amount of scent and soap could make her a quality lady. That did not mean she would not go to the opera. No amount of taunting would stop her from going. She simply would not allow herself airs (even in silk stockings).

As they took their leave from Pennyswope, Sally reminded herself they would not be long in London. So long as she kept to the Millhouses coach and house, there would be little chance she would be see by any of her previous acquaintances

Such petty fears were put aside the moment they arrived at Newmarket. The crowd was enormous and the excitement was infectious. It was such an invigorating place that Sally knew not where to look first.

Purchasing rotational stock for the mines was as much an excuse to come to town as a mission. Lady Millhouse was a great admirer of the thoroughbred races. They were to tarry there and then on to London. Because of the Millhouse’s enthusiasm for the three year-old fillies, they led her off to observe several of those contests before tending to business or fun. Their favourite placed a poor third, but Lady Millhouse was undaunted.

She asked her husband, “Dearest, do you recall in the year ’14, when Byerley took the field for three year-olds! Was that not a year!”