The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  Harry was gone when she awoke, along with any evidence of his makeshift bed. The fireplace poker was back where it belonged, too, and his robe was draped over the foot of the bed. Was that a studied effect for any servant who might enter, or had Harry taken it off in the night? That naked image was not conducive to falling back asleep, despite the early hour, the silence in the halls.

  Simone pulled the robe up to touch its fabric, to rub it against her cheek, to sniff for his scent. She held it close. Hers for this week, anyway. She’d collect more memories of being Noma Royale, royalty among the princesses of pleasure, with Harry as her consort. She jumped out of bed to find him.

  Ladies of the night, it seemed, were expected to sleep most of the morning, for no one came with fresh coals or hot wash water or a cup of chocolate. Simone was used to rising early, breakfasting with the servants, to have time to herself before dealing with the children in her care, but she was not sure of the protocol of a house party for philanderers. Besides, her new garments fastened in the back, over corsets that required a maid to pull on the strings. Nor could she manage a hair style elegant enough for this company, not without Sarah’s deft fingers and hot curling irons.

  The young maid finally answered the bell pull, coming with a jug of hot water and rubbing her eyes. She was quiet for once, with no new hints about the competition or the plans for the day. She answered Simone’s questions in monosyllables, between yawns, until Simone gave up trying. She only hoped the girl wasn’t exhausted from a strenuous night, but it was not her place to lecture, not with the indentation of Harry’s head still on the pillows.

  Only a handful of gentlemen were having breakfast when Simone finally followed the smell of coffee and bacon to the morning room. Harry was not one of them, so Simone would have withdrawn, but five men of various ages, social standings, and sobriety leaped to their feet. They all offered to fill her plate, her cup, her morning hours.

  Harry? You don’t need that paltry fellow, one told her.

  Another had a mistress and a wife. He had enough females, the cad.

  A third would-be Lothario kept his lover in an unheated garret. He could not afford Simone, were she for sale.

  The fourth, Lord Comden, whose chérie amour was tres enciente, cheerfully announced that since Alice was up and suffering morning sickness, he was at Miss Royale’s convenience.

  Simone lost her appetite. She did accept a buttered sweet roll for herself and a few sugar cubes for the horses, thinking she would walk around to the stables to see if Harry was there. She wanted to have a few words with Daniel, too, if he was back from the village. She also wanted to get a better look at Harry’s stallion.

  Before she left the morning room, she asked, “Does anyone know what activity is planned for today?”

  “We were supposed to have the maze competition, but it’s been raining off and on. The women won’t want to dirty their hems.” The banking magnate raised his quizzing glass to inspect Simone’s skirts, or her ankles.

  Simone hadn’t noticed the weather. She did notice the leers.

  “Nearly everyone has a map of the place anyway,” Lord Martindale whined, since he’d paid double what everyone else had, and all for nothing. “Claire and Gorham will come up with something else.”

  Simone took one look out the front door of Griffin Woods Manor and decided not to walk to the stables after all. She could barely see the woods the estate was named for, through the heavy downpour. She’d take a tour of the old building’s public rooms instead, in hopes of finding Harry and some hidden talent for her evening performance.

  She wondered who had furnished Griffin Woods, the marquis, his wife, or Claire Hope, who seemed at home here. The Egyptian Room must have been Claire’s, with its ornate, dramatic colors that set off the raven-haired woman perfectly. A sewing room that overlooked the rear gardens was definitely the marchioness’s. The worn, comfortable furniture, the faded brocades, the many windows to let in the light were not Claire’s style at all. Nor was it her portrait hanging over the mantel. A maid polishing the door knobs informed Simone that the brown-haired woman in the painting was Lady Gorham herself, as she used to look. She had not been to this house in years, and no wonder why, the servant added in a low mutter.

  Lady Gorham looked familiar to Simone, which was impossible. She knew few titled ladies from her years of employment, and this one had to be somewhat older now, different looking. She was neither a handsome woman nor a happy one, judging by the frown lines around her thin mouth. Or perhaps the artist had not done her justice. He’d done well capturing her interests, with a tambour frame by her side and a kitten playing with some yarn at her feet. Lady Gorham was undoubtably an excellent needlewoman. Simone could tell by the embroidered doilies on every surface, the flower-stitched seat covers, the framed tapestries throughout the room. She doubted Claire ever used the chamber, not with her lover’s wife’s portrait and fancywork still in it.

  Simone continued on her tour until she found the billiards room where Sir John Foley and Captain Entwhistle were playing. And drinking, although the clocks had not chimed ten yet. Both offered to teach Simone to play. She knew enough about the game to understand that instruction involved the tutor’s arms around the pupil, which was totally improper. That was also most likely the reason the two men almost came to blows over who got to show Simone the proper grip.

  “Oh, Harry said he’d teach me,” she told them before leaving the room. She realized she shouldn’t be wandering around by herself, not in a nest of hornets, but she did not want to go back to her room. A glance told her the rain continued, so that eliminated a walk, a ride, a tour of the gardens. She peeked back into the breakfast room to see if any women had come down, but they must all be taking trays in their rooms, if they were awake at all. A different set of men rose at the sight of her, but they expressed the same interest, the same innuendoes. A footman did suggest she try the ballroom for Mr. Harmon.

  What in the world could Harry be doing in the ballroom in the morning? If he wanted to practice for the dancing, he should have waited for her.

  She had to ask two more servants for directions to the vast chamber in a far wing, with closed doors and family portraits along the corridors. She could hear the noise before reaching the ballroom, and it was not music. Swords were clashing, men were grunting, others cheering.

  Harry and Gorham were fencing while several others, including the valet, Metlock, watched at a distance. They wore masks to protect their faces, but Simone would know Harry anywhere. She could not believe he could compress his lean, muscular body into Major Harrison’s bent frame, or that she had not seen through his pretense. He was a master at disguise, though, and a master at swordwork, it appeared.

  Lord Gorham was older than Harry and less well-formed, but even Simone could tell he was well trained. He was also graceful and patient, although his breath was more labored than Harry’s. Harry was far more agile and active, quicker on his feet, more aggressive in his moves.

  They had buttons on the swords, but fought with the intensity of a duel to the death. Attack, feint, parry, advance, retreat. The spectators called out encouragement and, as their number increased, wagers. Simone felt faint. She knew the masks and the padded canvas jackets offered some protection, but she also knew a slip, a miscalculation, an accidental loss of the sword’s cap could be catastrophic.

  And Harry suddenly seemed to be doing more retreating than advancing.

  “Don’t fret, Miss Royale, Harry’s just toying with Gorham now, wearing him down.”

  She had not noticed Sir Chauncey taking a position at her side, and would not take her eyes off the duelists to acknowledge his presence. He patted her hand. “He’s one of the finest fencers in the land, our Harry.”

  Now he did get her attention. “Oh, have you known him long?”

  “Schoolmates, you know. Excellent fellow. Not good enough for you, my dear. I, on the other hand—” One of his snaked around her waist.

  Harry
flipped the sword out of Gorham’s grip and had his own blade at Sir Chauncey’s throat before Simone could step away from the bosky knight.

  “I heard that,” Harry said, glaring at his one-time friend.

  “I forgot what excellent hearing you have, old chap. No harm meant. Shall we drink on it?”

  “We’ll have a match. You used to be good with a blade. You’re younger than Gorham”—who was wiping sweat off his face and panting—“so you’ll be a better challenge.”

  “Me? I mean I? Sorry, Harry, but I am out of practice. Too thirsty work for me, you know.”

  “I know you are drinking yourself to death and I won’t have it. Here.” He picked up Gorham’s sword and tossed it. Sir Chauncey had to catch it or have the thing slice his pantaloons, if not his foot.

  “I’ll be damned,” Sir Chauncey said, fastening on the mask Metlock handed him.

  “Not on my watch. En garde.”

  Surprisingly, it turned out to be another good match, almost even. Gorham shouted encouragement to Sir Chauncey, and put his money on him. Simone wondered if it was good form for her to place a wager too. Here was a way to earn extra money, since she had no chance at the talent contest or the billiards games. She had a few of Major Harrison’s coins in her pocket.

  Three men offered to take her bet. They’d match her coins if Harry won, but they wanted her to stake a kiss, an address in London, a walk in the woods when the weather cleared if he lost.

  Harry knocked Sir Chauncey’s sword aside, set the buttoned point to the man’s throat, then walked to Simone’s side. “I heard that, too.” He tossed the mask and sword to Metlock and put his arm around her. “Mine,” although he did not have to say it in words. “The next time, bare swords.”

  The men disappeared. Harry kissed her, his lips tasting a bit salty from his exertion, but his tongue thrusting and parrying in a different challenge. Simone knew he was simply performing for the lingering servants and any gentlemen with second thoughts. Act or not, her knees went weak. Who knew fencing could be so arousing?

  Metlock cleared his throat and Harry released her. “Your coat, sir,” the valet reminded both of them, holding out Harry’s superfine. “And you’ll be wanting breakfast after the, ah, exercise.”

  Simone blushed, but Harry winked as he let the valet fit him into his coat. “Old fussbudget,” he whispered in her ear as they left the ballroom. “But I am hungry. Care for a tray in our room?”

  That was too dangerous, and not for show. Simone looked around to make sure they were alone then said, “Lord James Danforth was making outrageous wagers, tossing money around as if he had no cares in the world.”

  “I already sent a message to London. We know his father, the duke, is not well to pass, and refused to pay the gudgeon’s gaming debts. Lord James grows more interesting as a suspect. Keep listening. What else did you learn this morning?”

  That his kisses were like a drug she wanted more of? No, he must have meant about the company. “I discovered that not a one of the men is faithful to the female he brought with him.”

  “I am not surprised,” he said when they entered the breakfast room. “They are not faithful to their wives or betrotheds either. That doesn’t mean they are disloyal to their country.”

  Simone waited until he pulled a seat out for her at the far end of the table, where no one could overhear, or interfere. “Do you think that is right?”

  Harry took a cup of coffee from a servant, and waited until the man left to bring toast and eggs and ham slices. “The light-skirts understand. They’d be just as disloyal if someone offered more money, a bigger house, a fancier carriage.”

  “No, I meant is it right for a man to take a vow and then break it?”

  “Hell, no,” Harry said around a forkful of kippers. “No lies, remember.”

  “You came close to breaking your promise last night.”

  “Not nearly, sweetheart. I was too tired.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lord Gorham’s mistress was disgruntled. In fact, her compressed lips looked like Gorham’s wife’s in the portrait. Not only was Claire denied her guaranteed singing prize, but her plans for winning the maze event this afternoon were washed away by the incessant rain.

  On top of that, the former slave girl made an appearance at luncheon. Not only was Sandaree younger than Claire, but she was exquisite, a shimmering houri, a creature of myth in baggy saffron trousers and a gilt-embroidered gossamer vest. She was as graceful as the tiny bells that chimed in her ears, as exotic as the henna-dyed patterns on her hands, as sultry as the kohl-rimmed eyes she kept modestly lowered.

  Sir James Danforth preened beside her. The other men forgot to eat, watching her delicate movements. Gorham watched her, too, until Claire stuck her fork in his leg, under the table.

  Worst of all in Claire’s eyes, Gorham declared the afternoon competition to be a sewing contest to spite his wife, who was bound to hear of it in the gossip columns. Claire wished she’d used her knife.

  The men intended to spend the afternoon settling details of the competition and their wagers, and inspecting Gorham’s wine cellars. Which meant they’d be too castaway to enjoy the lavish dinner she’d planned.

  The women gathered in the marchioness’s sewing room where stacks of linen squares were set out, along with needles, scissors, and thread. The female who hemmed the most handkerchiefs before dinner would be declared the winner, if the stitches were neat and the knots secure enough for use by the parish poor. Simone was surprised by such a worthwhile venture among pleasure-seekers not known for charity or caring for the less fortunate.

  Once the women were assembled with the proper supplies, it was obvious that Captain Entwhistle’s Daisy was a sure winner. She’d come to London to be a seamstress, after all, and would have earned a decent wage at it if she had not fallen into bad company. Five of the other courtesans set their needles aside, choosing to work at their coming performances, their wardrobes, or their beauty sleep, rather than expend a futile effort among females. Claire stood, too, although she wasn’t conceding defeat.

  “I refuse to sit in this room with that woman.” She pointed to Lady Gorham’s portrait. “If not for her, I’d be set here for life, where I belong. The old cow insists he sets me aside. After twelve years! I’ll take my sewing to my chambers, instead of sitting in this shabby place that’s nothing but a monument to the ugly witch.”

  Simone loved the old-fashioned room that reminded her of her old home, her mother’s constant mending and sewing to keep them all well-dressed if not up to the current fashions. She picked up another square to hem. She could not give the needy much money; the least she could do was produce handkerchiefs for them.

  Sandaree started to leave. In newly learned English, she explained that women in her calling were never taught to sew.

  Simone invited her to stay, to tell them about her country, her customs. “That will make our task go faster.”

  The foreign girl did, sensing Simone’s honest interest. She haltingly explained how she was born to a concubine and reared in a palace, with no other goal or function than to please which ever man bought her, or was given her as a gift. She had studied the pillow books, learned to sing and dance and prepare tempting tidbits and scented massage oils, how to make herself beautiful and how to make any man feel like a prince.

  Her training worked well, too well. The rajah preferred her to his first wife, second wife, and head concubine. Similar to Claire’s situation, they demanded her banished. The rajah had to listen if he wanted peace in his harem, and not his favorite’s outright murder. So he sold her to a British nabob who was returning to England.

  “But there is no such thing as slavery here.”

  “They call it indenture, I think. But it is the same. I still have no home, no funds, no saying when I dance or when I sit in the garden. Here I have no friends, no future, either. At the palace, I would have been retired to train young girls or help with the prince’s children. Here? I di
d not please my owner. I was traded to Lord James Danforth, but he is not easy to please either, not like the rajah. English gentlemen do not appreciate my training. They have no—how is it said?, no subtlety. No time. Sex is for the dark, for the relief, for the man.”

  “Isn’t it always?” Daisy looked up from her stitching to ask.

  Simone did not wish to hear the answer. She said, “Then leave.”

  “I cannot. Lord James repaid my master the price of my passage.”

  “But he cannot own you!”

  “I have nothing of my own. Not my clothes or jewels. I am like one of your English wives. Is that not how it is in your country?”

  Husbands did have omnipotence over their wives, their money, their children. Being a beloved concubine in a palace might be better than being a rich man’s wife, yet the latter was still the dream of every woman in the room.

  Sandaree shook her head. “Married women are slaves by another name: Chattel.”

  “Not all marriages are like that,” Simone insisted. “Not all men hold themselves so superior. My mother was happy. My father gave up his world for her.”

  Four of the women never knew their fathers. Two others ran away from theirs. Daisy’s mother worked harder than any servant to keep her family fed and her house clean, going without so her husband could visit the pub. No one but Simone knew of a marriage where the partners were equal, where a woman did not trade her independence for security, respectability, permanence. And children.

  Pregnant Alice Morrow wiped her eyes on one of the new handkerchiefs.

  They all concluded that life was hard for a woman, no matter her station.

  “À vrai dire,” Mr. Gallop’s French mistress said, then translated for the other women, including Mimi Granceaux, who wasn’t French at all. “To tell the truth.”

  That women suffered was no secret to any of them, but Sandaree’s situation was worse than most. The needles paused while the sewers contemplated solutions for her.

  Mimi forgot her accent to insist: “If you win, that Danforth lordling cannot keep your winnings. You take them right to a bank to hold for you.”