Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  Madame was addressing the blonde gentleman, her voice oozing obsequiousness but her hand was now resting heavily on Faith’s shoulder. With ominous pressure.

  “As always, Madame.” He bowed deeply

  “We are always honoured by your visits. Don’t forget that there are always fresh girls to give satisfaction.”

  Faith exhaled in fright and pulled away but Madame held her so that she had to suffer the touch of Lord Harkom’s hand upon her cheek as he said, “Indeed, and I see you have another one I’ve not laid eyes upon. What a beauty. Perhaps I won’t leave so early, after all.”

  The air died in Faith’s lungs. She thought she would faint upon the spot.

  But then Madame was drawing her back from the brink, a protective arm about Faith’s shoulders as she said, “Alas, this one is very new and quite untried. She needs more training.”

  “I am very good at that, you know.” He was pawing her again, his fingertips brushing her face as he looked hungrily at her décolletage. “My, but she is strikingly lovely. Yes, I am definitely interested.” His smile was for Madame Chambon, now, and Faith could see Madame yielding as he purred, “We’ve always come to an agreement, before, Madame. I’m sure this will be no exception.”

  “I’m not ready!” Faith pulled away, her bosom heaving, and felt the eyes of everyone in the room upon her.

  She couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Standing upon the threshold, she clutched at her neckline but found no comforting sheathing fabric, only bare skin. Bare skin that Lord Harkom, a stranger, soon would run his hands over as he sampled her wares at Madame Chambon’s behest.

  Had Madame given up on her so quickly?

  “You can’t make me, Madame!” she cried, her voice shaking. “I’m saving myself for Mr Westaway!”

  “Mr Westaway doesn’t want you, Faith.” There was a low, warning note in Madame’s tone which Faith knew she should heed. Madame would not thank her to make a scene in front of everyone but perhaps Madame had drunk too much brandy and forgotten that Faith was ‘special’.

  “If Mr Westaway doesn’t want you, Faith, then you’re no longer any use to Mrs Gedge.” Madame stepped close to Faith and gripped her chin as she said, lowering her voice “Which means you’re mine now.”

  Faith wrenched herself backwards. She felt Charity’s hands upon her shoulders to steady her. “I won’t be sold like … an animal!” Her voice was shrill. She’d never heard the note before. For so long she’d taken for granted the fact that she did not have to sell her body like the other girls did. Seducing only one man would be her allotted task. A young, handsome man. A young man whom she thought she could like meaning she could fulfil her role with ease and no conscience.

  But now her fate was like that of all the girls here.

  “And where will you go, Faith?” There was a note of relish in Madame Chambon’s. Perhaps she was now enjoying the fact that there were others to witness Faith being pulled down to their level. The fact that Madame Chambon did not distinguish, after all. A girl was only useful – and therefore would be housed and fed – if she brought gain to the ruthless brothel owner.

  A terrible blackness consumed Faith’s ability to think more than cursorily about the truth. There was nowhere else she could go. She was deluding herself to think there would be a welcome for her in the brutish household in which she’d grown up, the dilapidated cottage that housed her family in lieu of her father’s obligation to the farmer for whom he worked.

  She had no friends. No relatives. Well, none upon whose mercy she could throw herself.

  “Perhaps I should hand you over to the magistrate or the police as Mrs Gedge wanted to do before she brought you here.”

  “I am not a thief.” Faith enunciated the words carefully but with more bitterness than the fear with which she’d imbued the words when Mrs Gedge had found her in Miss Constancia’s room admiring the young woman’s bracelet the young woman had promised her.

  She brought her hands up to cover her face, to block out the terrible images and whereas her fourteen-year-old self had wept piteously as she’d defended herself, Faith now intoned, bleakly, “I was given the bracelet, Madame.”

  “Well, that’s not what Mrs Gedge told me and unless you want to go to the police or out onto the streets where it’s dark and raining, I think Charity should take you upstairs to prepare yourself while Lord Harkom and I have a little chat.”

  Numb with shock, Faith allowed herself to be led to her bedchamber.

  She’d assumed Charity would silently do Madame’s bidding and find appropriate clothing, dress her hair, but once the door had closed behind them, Charity leaned against the edge of Faith’s dressing table and just stared, white-faced, at Faith who sat on the bed.

  “I don’t know what you can do,” she whispered.

  Faith bowed her head and stared at her shoes that peeped from beneath the satin folds of her skirts. She felt dirty and shameful in her tawdry gown and wished she could be back in her simple, unadorned polonaise feeling special and full of hope and… almost free.

  “I’ll run away!” Faith raised her head and saw her hopelessness reflected in Charity’s eyes. “What else can I do?”

  “It’s dark and dangerous out there, Faith.” Charity pressed her lips together. “Where would you find shelter? I don’t know anyone who could help you. No, stop!”

  For Faith had risen as if about to carry out her determination.

  “You don’t know how vulnerable you are, alone on the streets. Someone will get to you and it’ll be a lot worse than…staying here.”

  Faith sat down again. She saw the hopeless slump of Charity’s shoulders in the looking glass and asked, “What can I expect?”

  Charity was silent a moment, as if preparing her answer. “Like you, Faith, I was—until recently—a virgin though I did my apprenticeship. Just hope Lord Harkom will be gentle tonight. Knowing that you’re a virgin, that is.”

  “So they’re not all the same?”

  Charity laughed. “Of course not! Lord, Faith, you really do know nothing! Some come here looking to cure their loneliness. They’re the ones you want.”

  “And the others? What’s the worst …so I’m prepared?”

  “Those that come here are looking for someone to blame for their disappointments. They want to feel powerful and so they use us. A shadow crossed Charity’s face. “But then there are the surprises.” For a moment she was animated, and a look of such youthful hope crossed her face that Faith forgot her own terrors for a moment as she asked, “What are you saying, Charity?”

  “Just that I’ve met a young man and…I’m in love.” Her smile broadened. “We’re in love.”

  “Faith! Are you ready?”

  The girls jumped at the sound of Madame’s voice from behind the door and leapt to their feet as she thrust herself unceremoniously into the room, furious when she saw that Faith was still in her old dress.

  “Lord Harkom has agreed to far more than I’d expected and he’ll not take kindly to being kept waiting!” she snarled, gripping Faith’s shoulder and shaking her. “Get out of this room, Charity, and tend to your customers if you want a roof over your head and food in your belly.”

  For that’s what have it boiled down to. Life’s barest necessities in return for the only labour the girls at Madame Chambon’s were trained in.

  Lord Harkom was visibly impatient by the time Faith appeared.

  Her hopes that he might deal more kindly to her on account of her inexperience were swept away when he began to circle her like a dog, sniffing out his next adventure, the moment she entered the room.

  “Madame swears you’re a virgin and I’ll find out soon enough if she’s lying.” He put out one pale-fingered, long thin hand and toyed with the ringlet that lay upon Faith’s shoulder. “Well, that’s real enough,” he commented when Faith gave a soft cry of pain and indignation after he tugged it. “It’ll be interesting to see if all of you is real. Madame knows I’m not one for artifice. It mak
es me very ill-tempered.”

  He had the petulant look of an indulged, overgrown schoolboy. His fair hair flopped over his forehead and he had a habit of tossing back his head as if he were a prime piece of horseflesh showing off his prowess amongst a herd of mares.

  Faith could suffer this kind of pawing for only so long and when he cupped her face in his hands as if he might kiss her, she leapt backwards. “What are you doing, my lord?”

  “I’ve bought you for the night. I can do whatever I want.” His nostrils flared.

  Faith’s back was against the wall while the door was behind Lord Harkom. She was trapped. She shook her head. “No, my lord, you can not! You are rude and full of deceit if you think that!”

  She got no further for suddenly his face was thrust towards her, mottled with anger, his hands on her shoulders. Her throat was dry and she suddenly felt entirely unable to move. Would anyone come if she screamed?

  Not Madame, that was certain.

  “No one speaks to me like that, you little strumpet! No one! Certainly not someone whom I’m paying for a night of pleasure.” He fisted his hand as he insinuated it into her bodice, pummelling the tender flesh of her breasts pushed up above her corset.

  Faith winced.

  “Do you realise how fortunate you are that I of all people should have the breaking in of you?”

  “I’d rather die!”

  Her defiance seemed only to inflame him more. With a sharp tug, he ripped the silk of her cuirasse, pulling her towards him as he seized a hank of her hair.

  Faith wept with pain as she lashed out with both hands, her fingernails scoring his stubble dusted cheeks.

  “Harlot!” Whore!” His words blasted into her head as he threw himself on top of her, the bed behind her breaking her fall. A minor comfort she thought disjointedly as he hiked up her skirts.

  Chapter 7

  For so long had Crispin been staring at the open book in front of him, or rather, the honey bees hovering above the honeysuckle outside his study window, that he’d entered a different time zone. A more pleasant time zone. He’d swapped politics and diplomacy for a panorama featuring a beautiful sunset, which had him deliberating on the palette for the pale pinks that splashed through the darkening blue. Except that the blue kept metamorphosing into the blue of a neat, simple, figure-hugging dress worn by an exquisitely beautiful young girl with rippling golden hair.

  A young woman bringing beauty to life in all its guises. A young woman he was itching to paint. That was, in truth, what was making him feel alive at this moment. Not two weeks on the French Riviera.

  “I’m glad to see you applying yourself so diligently, Crispin.”

  He turned at the sound of his father’s voice, gravelly and now, unusually, softened by approval. Crispin had long sought to win his pater’s regard. Since Crispin had been appointed third secretary with his diplomatic prospects now all but assured, provided he didn’t disgrace himself, the relationship between the two of them had greatly improved.

  “With less than four weeks before I leave, I want to be as well versed in continental politics as possible.” Crispin smiled, looking up from his books and gesturing for his father to take a seat upon the leather sofa at right angles to him. “I think I shall enjoy it though I’ll miss you and Boxer, naturally.”

  “Is that all you’ll miss? Your father and your dog? There’s not a young lady who has captured your interest?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on, “I’m glad to hear it, Crispin, for you must focus your time and energies on your career for at least the next two years.”

  Crispin grimaced. “Is that a suggestion or a stricture, Papa? That I do not marry for two years?”

  His father’s expression softened to amusement as he idly picked up a book that was lying on the side table. “I’m not suggesting you deny yourself pleasure, my boy. Pleasure and marriage are not exclusive of each other.” He tapped the book, which happened to be on portraiture. “Once you’ve established your career you can paint as much as you like. I’m only guiding you, my boy. I’ve trodden the path you’re on now, and I have wisdom and experience which you do not have.”

  Crispin avoided his father’s look to stare over the potted palms through the window. When his father insisted on continuing his monologue in the same vein, he groaned inwardly. “Designing females who throw themselves at you in the hopes of a title are a different kettle of fish to females who are in the market for pleasure; happy with a transaction that’ll keep them in pretty clothes while you can let off some steam. It’s the way of the world, my boy.” He hesitated, caught Crispin’s eye for but a moment, then stared out of the window. “Whatever happened in the past, Crispin…you were not to blame.”

  “Perhaps not entirely, Father.”

  Lord Maxwell swung round. “How quickly society would have judged had the wrong information been…reported.”

  Crispin was not about to be drawn. “You made sure of that, Papa,” he muttered, rifling through the papers on his desk to distract himself and wishing his father would leave.

  “Would you have expected me to do other than what I did?” his father returned sharply, his craggy face stern. “See my only son’s name splashed across the newspapers together with whispers that you were a…” He shuddered, unable to say the word. “It would have ruined your career.”

  “I would have been cleared in an investigation, Father.”

  “Mud sticks, Crispin.”

  Crispin gave a taut smile. “But thanks to you, Father, my reputation remained pristine.”

  “By God, boy, I did what any father would do under the circumstances. A girl died. Tragic, of course. But the fault was hers. Alone!” His father made an effort to keep his anger in check. “So, tell me, Crispin, how will you spend the next three weeks preparing?”

  “Preparing to leave my homeland? I shall do little different to what I have been doing. I shall study hard.”

  “You need diversion.”

  “Perhaps I should pick up my paintbrushes again.”

  Lord Maxwell sighed. “And get drawn into a world from which you can only extricate yourself with the utmost effort when time is of the essence?” He sighed. “No, Crispin. Establish your career and then you can dabble in your paints if that’s what you wish. It’s not for me to ban you forever from an artistic pursuit I’d happily condone if you could control it, but…it’s an addiction with you, my boy. As dangerous as any bubble pipe, I fear.”

  “It’s a diversion. One I find enormously fulfilling. Isn’t that what you were advocating, Papa? A little diversion?”

  “I was thinking along the lines of the female variety.” Lord Maxwell cleared his throat. “A woman who can take away your cares for just a short while before you leave. If you need help in this area, I can recommend—”

  Crispin cut him off curtly. “I don’t need a woman, thank you.” He might have added that the last thing he’d enjoy was a woman he suspected of being in any degree intimate with his father. Crispin respected his father in so many regards, just not when it came to the way he relegated women to varying degrees of usefulness; Crispin’s late mother having been one of these: consort in public, mother of his children, and bearer of his heir. But when his father required pleasure, he consorted with an altogether different type of woman.

  It was not the way Crispin intended to live his life.

  With a sigh, Lord Maxwell made a move towards the door, his tone testy as if reading his son’s thoughts, “If plans for the French Riviera came to nothing, I certainly don’t advocate you mouldering here, in this musty townhouse, entirely alone with your books.”

  Crispin straightened, suddenly alive as a thread of possibility pierced his brain. “I don’t intend to, Father. You’re right. I’ve taken your words to heart, and I think I will head off to the country for a few days. Perhaps for some duck shooting. Perhaps to walk the peaks. Or, perhaps I’ll visit Aunt Angela and Uncle Barnabus for the next ten days. They said I was always welcome.”

&nb
sp; “They are away, although the house is yours, if you wish it for a change of scene, of course. They’ve always said that. And, if you have a predilection for horsey women or career spinsters and country Assembly balls, for I’m sure nothing has changed in that part of the Cotswolds in fifty years, then I’m sure it’ll do very nicely.”

  Crispin didn’t care that his father considered the idea with as much enthusiasm as a plate of cold porridge. If there was little probability of being visited there by him, then all to the good.

  His father farewelled him upon the threshold. “Not too much more studying tonight, Crispin. The light is poor and you need exercise. Perhaps a turn about Hyde Park would do you good.”

  Crispin shook his head. “No, there are a couple of other errands I need to do and the walk will do me good.”

  He joined his father on the front portico and stood for a moment upon the top step, staring at the setting sun. What palette could do justice to the pinks and golds that melded into each other? No longer did the French Riviera or a week of duck shooting hold any enticement for him.

  As he watched his father’s carriage disappear into the sunset, he frowned, wondering if his aunt who lived only two streets away, might know the address of Lady Vernon.

  Chapter 8

  How had it come to this?

  Faith’s terrified scream was muffled by Lord Harkom’s cynical laughter as he straddled her, pinning her arms above her head with one strong hand while the other gripped her thigh.

  He pinched her and she yelped; the wooden floor hard beneath her tailbone.

  “You don’t suppose your gracious madame is going to come to your aid when I’ve paid her such a hefty sum for the breaking in of you, do you?” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself now that he had mastery over her.

  His fingers crept higher up her thigh. Faith thought she was going to be ill. Was this what the sex act was all about? Mastery? Brutality? Power? The other girls were clear enough about their disdain for what was required of them. Some of them made a joke of the feigned pleasure gasps they’d perfected for earning themselves a tip.