by Emily Larkin
“Yes.” They strode down Charles Street. Grosvenor Square opened out in front of them.
The earl halted.
Charlotte halted, too. She followed the direction of his gaze. Cosgrove’s townhouse was one of the larger edifices, its chimney stacks towering above the square. She couldn’t see anything to warrant the frown on his face. The steps were clean of refuse. The rows of elegant sash windows were unbroken. “Sir?”
“I have no wish to be penniless, Albin. I like my house, and my estates.”
She glanced at him, surprised by the harsh note in his voice.
“But I would give it all away and live in a peasant’s hovel before I’d have slaves.”
It was an extravagant statement, but the flatness of Cosgrove’s voice, the matching grimness of his face, made it believable.
Charlotte nodded, unsure what to say.
Cosgrove seemed to shake off his dark mood. He crossed the square briskly and climbed the steps two at a time. “Forget the accounts,” he said, as they entered, their footsteps ringing on the polished marble floor. “We’ll pay Barnaby a visit. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes. You may wait for me in the library.”
The butler, Fellowes, showed Charlotte where the library was. Unlike Monkwood’s butler, he smiled as he opened the door for her, an affable expression.
“Thank you.”
Monkwood’s library had been showy; Cosgrove’s was comfortable, with leather armchairs and scattered Turkish rugs. A large globe stood on one of the tables. Charlotte touched it with a finger, making it spin slowly, watching the continents come into view and then vanish. As the earl’s secretary, would she travel with him? Perhaps to the West Indies?
Do I really want to see slaves being flogged?
Charlotte grimaced, and turned away from the globe. An open door caught her eye. She crossed to it, her boots sinking silently in the thick rugs, and peered inside.
* * *
Marcus strode into the library. “Albin—” The sound issuing from the music room froze his words on his tongue.
The world seemed to lurch sideways.
Lavinia was alive. She was in the music room. She was playing the pianoforte.
Marcus shook his head sharply, breaking the spell. He crossed the library, halted in the doorway to the music room, and stared.
I’ll be damned.
Albin sat at the pianoforte. His hands moved over the keys, fluent, assured, effortless. He didn’t notice that he had an audience; he was focused utterly on the sheets of music in front of him.
Marcus leaned against the doorframe and listened. The piece was one he’d heard before; Lavinia had practiced it from time to time. Under her hands it had been pretty enough. It wasn’t pretty now. It filled the room, vibrating with life, with passion, with joy.
The music halted abruptly.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Albin scrambled up from the piano stool, a blush blooming on his face. “I should have asked your permission—”
“Nonsense. Play as often as you like.”
“Sir?” A footman entered the library. “The carriage is here.”
“Excellent. Come along, lad. Let’s be off.”
Albin obediently followed him. “Where does Sir Barnaby live?”
“Surrey.”
“Surrey? But—”
“We’ll stop at your lodgings on the way. Ah, Fellowes.” Marcus accepted his hat and gloves from the butler. “I expect to be gone no more than two days.”
“Very good, sir.”
Marcus stepped outside. His traveling chaise was drawn up at the foot of the steps, the Cosgrove crest gleaming on the door panels. He took a deep breath. Surrey.
He hated Surrey. Hated the memories.
Marcus forced himself to stride down the steps. “Where do you live?” he asked Albin.
“Uh . . . Montock Street, sir.”
“Montock Street,” Marcus told the coachman.
He climbed into the carriage. Albin scrambled in after him. The door swung shut.
The traveling chaise swayed gently as the footmen clambered into the rumble seat, then lurched forward. Towards Surrey. Where Barnaby had cuckolded him. Where Lavinia had killed herself—
“Is your valet not coming, sir?”
Marcus wrenched his attention back to Albin. “We’ll only be gone a night or two.” He settled back in his seat, stretching his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. “Leggatt likes to believe that I can’t function without him, but I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.” His gaze fell on Albin’s neckcloth, lopsided and somewhat wrinkled. “Unlike some of us.”
Albin raised a hand and fumbled with his neckcloth.
“Don’t. You’re making it worse.”
Albin flushed. He folded his hands on his lap. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
He looked so abashed that Marcus laughed. “Lad, what am I going to do with you?”
“You don’t have to do anything, sir,” Albin said earnestly.
No. He didn’t. And yet he felt a sense of responsibility towards the lad, an odd protectiveness.
Marcus pondered this as the carriage traversed Mayfair and entered the narrow warren of streets near the Thames. For all his twenty-five years, Albin was as green as an unbreeched babe. He needed someone to look out for him until he acquired some town bronze. A friend. Someone his own age. Did the lad know anyone in London? Am I his sole acquaintance?
The carriage halted. A moment later, the door opened. “Montock Street, sir,” one of his liveried footman said.
Albin scrambled down from the carriage. “I shan’t be more than five minutes, sir.”
Marcus climbed leisurely down and looked around. Montock Street was as shabby as a man down on his luck. The buildings were tattered and patched. Shutters hung askew and rubbish overflowed in the gutters.
Marcus frowned. Why on earth was Albin lodging in such a ramshackle neighborhood?
He crossed the street, avoiding the worst of the puddles, and followed Albin into his lodgings. The building reeked of onions and tallow and urine.
Albin’s room was halfway down the corridor. Marcus surveyed it from the doorway. The room was scarcely larger than a closet, with a bare wooden floor and a broken-paned window. Water stains and mold decorated the ceiling and walls. Albin knelt beside the narrow bed, stuffing a shirt into a valise.
Albin’s head jerked around. “Sir!” He stood hurriedly, his face reddening. “I didn’t expect— Uh . . . wouldn’t you prefer to wait in the carriage, sir?”
Marcus examined the room again, noting the flaking gray whitewash on the walls, the broken floorboard in the corner, the threadbare blankets and sagging mattress. A three-legged stool was crammed into the narrow space between the bed and the wall. On it were a pair of spectacles and the stub of a tallow candle. The only other furniture was a lopsided wooden chair on which Albin’s clothes were stacked. Several hooks had been hammered into the walls. From these a shirt, a wrinkled neckcloth, and a pair of stockings hung drying.
There was no fireplace. How did the lad keep warm?
I told him I’d rather live in a hovel than own slaves—and he’s actually living in one. “Why the devil are you lodging here?” Marcus demanded.
“It’s all I can afford, sir.”
“That’s easily remedied.” Marcus dug in his pocket and pulled out several folded banknotes. He peeled off two notes and held them out. “Here.”
Albin put his hands behind his back. “I haven’t earned—”
“Consider this an advance on your wages. You may update the ledger when we get back.”
Albin hesitated, and then took the banknotes. “Thank you, sir.”
“Bring everything with you.” The thought of Albin returning to this cramped, dismal little room was abhorrent. “You may stay at Grosvenor Square until you find better lodgings.”
“With you, sir?” Albin looked taken aback. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“Nonsense. You can’t wish to remain here
.”
Albin opened his mouth as if to disagree, and then shut it.
Stop mollycoddling him, Marcus told himself. “Lionel had good rooms in Chandlers Street,” he said briskly. “They may still be available.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Hurry up, lad. I’d like to reach Hazelbrook by nightfall.”
“Yes, sir.” Albin hauled a portmanteau from under the sagging bed. He grabbed the pile of clothes on the chair and crammed them into the portmanteau.
A piece of paper pinned to the wall caught Marcus’s attention. He stepped into the room for a closer look. It was a page ripped from a book, a drawing of a young man wearing a toga and holding a lyre. Beneath it was written: Orpheus.
“Good Lord.” He bent to examine it more closely. “What an extraordinary resemblance.”
“What? Oh!” Albin snatched the paper from the wall and crumpled it in his hands. “It’s nothing, sir.”
“May I see it?” Marcus held out his hand.
Albin hesitated, and then gave him the drawing.
Marcus smoothed the creases and studied it. Orpheus didn’t just resemble Albin, he looked exactly like Albin—the shape of his face, the arrangement of jaw and cheekbones and nose, the wide-set eyes. “Extraordinary. Where’s it from?”
“Swiffen’s Cyclopaedia.” Albin’s fingers made tiny plucking movements, as if he wanted to snatch the page from Marcus’s grip, but didn’t quite dare.
Marcus ignored his secretary and examined the drawing. The likeness was uncanny. Even the way Orpheus’s hair curled back from his brow was the same as Albin’s. He’d swear the lad had been the model for the drawing—but Swiffen’s Cyclopaedia had been published a good fifty years ago. “Extraordinary,” he said again, and relinquished the drawing to Albin.
Albin shoved the page into the portmanteau. He stripped the drying clothes from the hooks and thrust them in on top, closed it, and fastened the buckles.
“Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus picked up the valise.
Albin’s expression became horrified. “You can’t carry that, sir! You’re an earl!”
“My earldom does not make me incapable of carrying luggage.”
“But, sir—”
Marcus turned on his heel. He strode back down the malodorous corridor. Behind him, he heard Albin hurrying to catch up, puffing as he lugged the heavy portmanteau.
Chapter Twelve
Marcus stared out the carriage window. Dusk gathered behind the stands of yews and box trees. The village of Betchworth was behind them; another couple of miles and they’d be at Hazelbrook Hall. Where Lavinia had destroyed his marriage, where she’d ruined his oldest friendship, and where she’d managed to kill herself.
He felt a familiar clenching in his chest. He wanted to rap on the carriage roof and tell the coachman to stop, to turn the carriage around and go back to London.
Marcus glanced across the carriage. Albin wasn’t watching the Surrey landscape unfold. A deep frown furrowed his brow.
“A penny for your thoughts, lad.”
“What? Oh . . .” Albin blushed. “I was just . . . I was thinking about last night, sir, at Mrs. Henshaw’s.”
“Mrs. Henshaw’s? What about it?” Marcus stretched his legs out, clasped his hands behind his head, and prepared to be amused.
Albin hesitated, while the carriage lurched and swayed, then took a deep breath and said: “Sir, what was that woman doing to Mr. Langford?”
Marcus’s thought processes seemed to freeze for an instant, like a pendulum clock whose weights were jammed. “What?”
“The woman kneeling between Mr. Langford’s legs. What was she doing?”
Marcus lowered his hands and sat up straight. “Uh . . . she was . . . er, she was playing his pipe.”
Albin’s face creased with confusion. “What?”
“Playing his pipe. His silent flute.” And then, since the lad clearly didn’t understand, he gestured to his own groin. “His virile member.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Albin’s face. He reddened. “I beg your pardon, sir. I haven’t heard it called those names before.”
Marcus bit the inside of his cheek. “There are lots of different words for it,” he said, once he’d quelled the urge to laugh.
“There are, sir?” Curiosity was bright in Albin’s eyes. “What are they?”
The carriage slowed to a halt. Outside came the sound of voices as the last tollgate before Hazelbrook was negotiated.
Marcus pretended an interest in the proceedings. He turned his head and watched the gatekeeper exchange civilities with the coachman. Albin’s question rang in his ears.
He could snub the lad—but he had invited Albin’s confidence. This is your own fault, he told himself ruefully. You asked what was bothering him.
The carriage lurched forward again. Marcus turned back to Albin. “Other names? Let’s see . . . There’s prick and cock and Man Thomas and . . .” He racked his brain. “Hair splitter and arbor vitae.”
Albin nodded, his expression serious. His lips moved slightly, as if he was repeating the words.
“Which one do you use, sir?
I should have snubbed him. “Cock,” Marcus said, trying not to feel embarrassed.
Albin gave another serious nod.
Marcus crossed his legs and looked out the window, signaling the conversation was over, but Albin said: “So what was she doing, sir? The whore? Was she trying to play music on Langford’s cock?”
His brain gave him a ludicrous image of the whore blowing on Phillip’s penis and producing a tune. Marcus blinked. Albin didn’t really think—
He turned his head and stared at Albin.
Albin stared earnestly back at him.
He did think it.
Laughter bubbled up from Marcus’s chest and spilled out of his mouth. He tried to gulp it back, but it was unstoppable.
Albin flushed scarlet, not just his cheeks, but his forehead and throat and even his ears.
It was a full minute before Marcus mastered his amusement. “I beg your pardon,” he said, when he finally caught his breath. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “That was extremely ill-mannered of me.”
Albin shook his head. His cheeks were still deep pink with embarrassment.
“To answer your question, no, she was not trying to play music. She was . . . er, she was . . .” The last of his amusement drained away. How to explain this?
Marcus folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. He cleared his throat. “She was using her mouth and tongue to induce a pleasurable spasm.”
“Oh,” Albin said. From his blank expression, he clearly had no idea what a pleasurable spasm was.
Marcus scrutinized the lad for a moment. “Albin . . . have you ever been with a woman?”
Albin shook his head.
Marcus blinked. His twenty-five-year-old secretary was a virgin? We’ll have to do something about that, he started to say—and then shut his mouth, catching the words on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps Albin wanted to be a virgin? Perhaps he intended to enter marriage as unsullied as his eventual bride?
Marcus winced inwardly. What a terrible thought. “Albin, er . . . in my experience, it is helpful if a man has some skill in sexual matters before he marries.”
“It is, sir? Why?”
“Because otherwise the wedding night can be unpleasant for one’s bride.”
Albin’s brow creased. “Why, sir?”
Marcus tugged at his neckcloth. It felt rather tight. “Because women experience a degree of pain when they lose their virginity. A man skilled in sexual matters can ensure that she also feels some pleasure.” Lavinia had uttered mewing cries and wept in his arms, but her distress had quickly turned to passion and she’d reciprocated his lovemaking with an innocent enthusiasm that had made him love her all the more.
Or perhaps even that had been pretense. It wasn’t my skill at lovemaking; it was her ski
ll at simulating pleasure.
“Oh,” Albin said, frowning. “I didn’t know it hurt. For women, I mean.”
Marcus nodded and prepared to change the subject.
“But only the first time? After that it’s pleasurable?”
“Er . . . no, I believe it’s not always pleasurable for women. Unless the man knows what he’s doing. And cares enough to do it.”
Albin’s head tilted sideways. “What do you mean, sir?”
“When one is with a professional, one naturally does not bother to, er . . .” Marcus tugged at his neckcloth again. “One has paid to receive pleasure, not to give it. Although, of course, a gentleman never hurts a woman he’s bedding, even if she is a whore.”
“But men try to give their wives pleasure?”
Marcus shrugged. “That depends upon the marriage.”
“How, sir?”
“With a love match, a husband naturally wishes to give his wife pleasure.”
“And if it’s not a love match, he doesn’t?”
Marcus shrugged again. “An intelligent man would endeavor to. A wife who enjoys the pleasures of the bed can greatly enhance a marriage.” In the early days of his marriage, with Lavinia eager in his bed, he’d thought himself the luckiest man in England.
Albin’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “It can, sir? Why?”
“Because sex is the greatest physical pleasure one experiences in life.”
Albin considered this answer, his lips pursed slightly in a frown. “Only for men? Or for women, too?”
“If the man knows what he’s doing, then yes, I believe it is extremely pleasurable for women, too.”
Albin nodded seriously.
“If you ever contemplate marriage, I suggest you gain some experience before the event.” Or your wedding night is likely to be a disaster.
“Experience? You mean with a prostitute?” Albin grimaced, an expression of revulsion.
“One from a respectable establishment,” Marcus hastened to say. “Not like Mrs. Henshaw’s. One that has clean girls.”
“Is that what you did, sir?”
Marcus stared at his secretary, torn between amusement and offense. I really should tell him it’s none of his business. But Albin was gazing at him with such earnest seriousness that he couldn’t. “Yes,” he said. “But they’d be above your touch, lad. Very expensive.”
