by Thea Devine
He would never forget screaming for his mother, crying and kicking, inconsolable; he had gone from the light to the dark and he hadn't understood, and Slote was not one for explaining. The nightmare of it, the sunken eyes of the children with whom he had shared the horror; the thin gruel that passed for food, the cold of the barracks where they slept in a cellar beneath a tavern under thin torn blankets; the days that passed where some of the boys remained in the cellar, scrounging around for food and warmth like rats; the sense of helplessness that could never be alleviated by tears or by the unending yearning for his mother.
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Where is mama, where is mama—sometimes, even as an adult, he felt a heartrending need for her that was always tempered and washed over by the knowledge that somehow she had let him go, that she hadn't wanted him enough to come find him. Not enough to save him from the terror of the unknown and the beatings and—later, when he understood it—the moment when those children turned into savage animals, ready to rip away a piece of bread or a piece of skin of anyone who got in their way.
He never consciously tried to remember these things; they came to him in lightning bolt flashes when he least expected it: little shards of memory that pierced him with the jagged edge of pain that he thought had been buried long and deep.
But he had inflicted pain as well, and he knew it. He had felt nothing but wariness after his months with Slote on that day he had tumbled down the Southam chimney and into the hearts of Lord and Lady Carradine.
Am I home? Grubby, ash-streaked, in rags, emaciated—what must he have looked like to them as he imperiously marched around their dining room, confiding that his house had pretty silver things just like the ones on the Southam breakfront.
And the pounding on the front door—it was like a gun booming from far away, the frantic Slote, determined to retrieve his property and make suitable excuses to the gentry.
And the fascinated Lady Carradine: pretty things like what?
Oh, mama has big silver things just like that where we eat every night. And shiny spoons and pretty plates, only . . . only—only—I don't know where my mama is . . . and he burst into tears just as Slote hurtled himself into the room with a string of apologies and cautions against the Carradines being taken in by anything the boy said.
He remembered . . .
They had been childless, desperate for a boy of their own, someone to love and to hand down a legacy of land and hope.
. . . And his mama had had such pretty things in their house . . .
The boy's a liar, mum. You know them boys; they would say
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anything to get out of a day's work. No appreciation for the likes of earning a living. We take good care of him, mum. You don’t want to get involved.
He's so thin, Lady Carradine said. Look at his eyes. How old are you, boy? What is your name?
He had to think a minute. He could still feel it, as an adult, seizing up his insides, as if his whole life depended upon what he told her. And he hadn't looked at Slote. He was sure Slote would find some way to interfere, he knew it intuitively, like when an animal knows to go in for the kill.
I'm Nicky. I think . . . I think . . . maybe—I used to be four—
Ahhh, he's older than that, mum. He's been around, he don’t know no other life, mum—
I do too, I do too—I want my mama, I want my mama . . .
It was that moment when he collapsed into tears again, the flow of them like an ocean within him that could never be stemmed, never be calmed—that he felt he could never be saved.
And in that instant, Lady Carradine said imperiously: Pay the man, Henry. The boy stays.
And in that moment, when he should have felt some keening gratitude that Slote was walking out the door without him, he felt nothing, he felt dead: the lady was not his mama, and he had been too young to understand what she had done. But she had been too wrapped up in her own need to foresee that he would not rush eagerly to embrace her or her husband—not then.
Not ever.
He remembered that all he had wanted in those first years had been his mama, and he remembered all the hopeful questions with which he had bombarded the lovely Lady Carradine: he called her the beautiful lady and she had loved that, but he had never called her mother and it broke her heart.
He was a fraud; he had never been a son and he had never returned their love, and still somehow he had earned a place in their lives and hearts they so willingly gave him.
He had never stopped looking for the woman who had never
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come to find him.
And he had never let any woman find her way through the labyrinth of his indifference.
The goddess would not be the first woman who got in his way, or the first he slapped down. But she would definitely be the last to provoke him so outrageously without just retribution.
******************
They dined en famille in the intimate breakfast room at the back of the house, his uncle Dunstan arriving one half hour late, as was his wont.
"You need a new trick, uncle mine. Fashionable tardiness becomes rather boring after a while," Nicholas said as he grasped his uncle's hand and motioned him to choose a chair.
Dunstan smiled faintly. "I am ever in your debt for apprising me of the situation, Nick, but since no one but you is back in town, I didn't think it mattered." He seated himself with no further ceremony and accepted a glass of port offered by a manservant. "On the other hand, I expected you to rusticate until April, at least."
Nicholas sipped slowly from his own glass. "I didn't go down to Southam after all. The company was too good in Brighton."
"And rife with opportunities, I warrant."
"I went down ten thousand pounds with no trouble at ail the first night. And a hundred to Jeremy on the side."
"Very good, Nick. Lord, I wish I could watch you in action."
"You will certainly have the chance, uncle. There has been a little crimp in our plans, and I'm wondering what you will think of it."
"It? Come, Nick, all goes well. The only possible hindrance is Charlotte Emeriin and you don't want to hear the on dit about her."
"She'll have the wind taken out of her sails soon enough anyway," Nick said thoughtfully. "I've brought a goddess back from Brighton who has an apparent claim upon our family."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Her well-meaning father, having gone off to find his for- 114
tune in India, made provisions for his only daughter and I am the agent of that trust. Oh, didn't you know, dear uncle? Well, it seems her mother died and there was some kind of uprising and her father was gone, and the poor girl was left to make her own way in the world. It was very fortunate that I came upon her at the Alices, recognized her name, and tried my damndest to covertly provide her with the money she needed."
"This is fascinating; go on, Nick. How much did you try to provide?"
Nicholas rubbed his chin. "I believe it was ten thousand pounds, uncle." He looked up as a servant began serving the soup. "Mulligatawny, in honor of my new protegιe."
"Excellent fare, nephew. Now, where were you? She was at the Alices, you say? Good God, Nick, you're talking about nothing more than a common strumpet. Are you in your right mind?"
"She's French, uncle—”
"Like three-quarters of the petticoats that roam those streets and play the tables. What on earth possessed you? A bit of muslin from the Alices pulled you down ten thousand, and you offer her carte blanche in London? She must have very winning ways, Nick. Where did you stash her? Sure not here?"
"God, no. I put her with Lucretia, but that may change. In any event, if I could continue—" He motioned to the servant who had doled out their soup that he might remove it, and a second servant entered bearing the fish course, a beautifully poached salmon with vegetables and condiments placed judiciously on the sideboard. The servant sliced and served the salmon and then withdrew.
Nicholas watched his uncle thoughtfully pick a
t his fish. "She's a termagant, if you must know, with not a damned grateful bone in her body. She's also very beautiful, and I have no doubt she'll be off my hands within a se'enight of making her debut—which will be at the Westerlys' card party in two weeks. But until then, her story bears looking into, and I wish you would."
"Of course she has a story," Dunstan said. "Marvelous salmon, Nick. Give cook my compliments. And remember, my
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boy, every woman has a story."
"This is a good one. Her father was English."
"I like it already. An English father and a gaming house demirep. Sounds scandalous to me."
"He abandoned them, she says; never came back. Left her mother to the mercy of the French court and the generosity of the ogre who now seeks to fill his coffers and his mistresses’ purses with ill-gotten gains in Portugal. The woman was killed when she made one demand too many. The daughter escaped somehow —I'm not particularly clear on that—by way of Italy. But the point, uncle . . . the point is—an English diplomat in France in 1780 or 90 . . . with a beautiful wife, an eager emperor ... a few francs here, a few promises there—would a man like that not sell his soul for the right price?
His uncle looked at him oddly, and Nicholas was struck, as he always was, by how different Dunstan was from the man he had called father. Dunstan was taller, darker, leaner; there was nothing comfortable about Dunstan. He was the exact opposite in every way of his brother Henry, and a man difficult to get close to.
Yet he had been the one to give solace when Henry died, and later, a sense of purpose when Nicholas thought there was none. Dunstan was the man he called upon for advice, as did prudent government officials who valued his wisdom and expertise, and he was the one to whom he confided his restlessness. But more than that, Dunstan was the man to whom he gave his allegiance as a family member and like a son.
And Dunstan said, "What is this man's name?"
"Charles Dalton."
"Never heard of him. Ah, here comes the meat."
And once again, the parade of servant entered, this time bearing platters of roast beef and sausages and ham, side dishes of macaroni and more vegetables, more than a man could eat in a week, let alone an evening.
"Never heard of him?" Nicholas murmured, pouring himself some more port.
"Let us talk reality, Nick —and do top off my glass, won't
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you?—that can't possibly be the man's real name. And very possibly, it isnt a real story. Just how desperate was this vestal of virtue to get to London?"
Nicholas didn't like that comment one bit, but Dunstan's bald common sense was one of the things he treasured about his uncle. Dunstan cut to the chase faster than any man he had ever known; and in truth, the huntress had been bold—unseemingly bold, come to that—in the manner in which she chose to proposition him.
It was beginning to look like she had trapped him and not the other way around. "She wanted to come," he admitted reluctantly.
"And you wanted her. Ah, Nick. You have shut yourself away from earthly pleasures for so long, it is perfectly understandable that someone somewhere was going to trip you up and haul you down. You don't need an excuse to bring the chit to London, boy. Get her out of Lucretia's, set her up, use her and lose her. Don't muck it up with tales out of the schoolroom about long-lost fathers and the French court. I believe you will find she is exactly what you thought she was, my boy—and all you need do is go ahead and enjoy her, with my blessings if—"
"Nothing will interfere with the program, uncle, if that is what you are questioning."
"Excellent, my boy. Better than excellent. The Emerlin is on the prowl this season and if you've got a bit of fluff on the side, so much the better. Lends itself to the story beautifully. Just make sure to give Charlotte the set-down she deserves. Her damned mama has been pestering me for a month about your plans and when you might return, and the fact that there's been some interest in other quarters. But then Annesley tells me that this year's product is much improved."
"I am consumed with curiosity, uncle. What kind of carrot is Lady Emerlin dangling?"
"The usual, which she knows couldn't buy you by half. But the Emerlin is something else. No more shrinking virgin, I'm told. She has acquired a new proportion, a little experience, a lot of wardrobe, a new hairstyle and a dash of brazenness to add to
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her fortune. She has become a diamond from the rough, and this is that year she is playing for keeps, my boy. You can be sure that mama cursed her from here to Shaftesbury for letting you slip through her fingers. She'll be looking to remedy that mistake, I would wager."
"I have no interest whatsoever, but rest assured I will take care," Nicholas assured him as the servants removed the meat course and laid out the dessert which consisted of platters of cheeses and fruits, cakes, coffee and brandy.
"A tot of brandy would suit me, Nick, and then I must go."
Nicholas poured and his uncle took the snifter and sipped appreciatively. "Excellent cellar, Nick. Up to Henry's best."
"You'll be at the Westerlys', I assume?"
"I don't know. Perhaps you ought not count on it. Something has come up."
"Well, we'll see each other soon, in any event. I will be very curious to see what you make of the goddess and her quest for this phantom she has saddled me with."
"It worries me a little, Nick. You have her flying too fast too far already; she's bound to take a hard fall, especially if you remove her from Lucretia's protection. Be careful, my boy—and don't be too naive. Women are so clever. You really were ripe for picking, you know," he added as Nicholas walked him to the door. "Ten thousand out, eh? Still and all, nephew, it's a good couple of days' work, and it won't be long before the gossips bring the whole of it to town. In that respect, you've done very well, very well indeed. Till next time, Nick."
"My pleasure, uncle."
But he felt no pleasure at all as he closed the door behind his uncle. The morning had begun wretchedly and ended on a decidedly negative note. But then, that was Dunstan's way. He took nothing at face value, and it was a trait that made him infinitely wise and more often than not smugly virtuous because he had been right.
Nevertheless, the goddess was his problem, whether her story were true or not. And at that moment, in spite of Dunstan's warnings, and because of her perfidy, he didn't even think he
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cared.
What she felt was ungrateful.
Lady Waynflete stood poised on the threshold of the parlor and her knowing eyes took in everything in one haughty censuring glance.
"Miss Bowman—"
"The carpet will clean," Jainee said helplessly. "A little cold water..."
"Yes, you would know of those things, wouldn't you? And my chocolate pot, dented beyond use . . ." She moved regally to the side of the door and pulled the bell rope. "Blexter will know what to do about this mess. However, he cannot help me with you."
"My lady ..."
"You will go upstairs and change so that at least when we converse I will not feel like I am talking to a piece of Haymarket ware, and then we will talk, although I have no idea what you could say to me that would excuse both your appearance and my floor."
Jainee did not know either, but she was thankful for the half hour's respite: she felt soiled and used, and more than that, she was fuming over Southam's tyranny over her mouth and her body.
It just wasn't fair; he had everything on his side—wealth, respectability, strength, experience—oh, yes, especially experience. A man with experience was a prize, but a woman was scorned. Nevertheless, she would give all the silver she had concealed in her trunk to gain a particle of the experience that would give her the advantage of a man like Southam.
Yes, he meant to initiate her into the experience, but that wasn't the same as her knowing and coming to him understanding exactly what to do and how to get the upper hand.
No, his experience she did not want. But how could she have
known that in Brighton? Or that she would be throwing chocolate pots at him less than three weeks later? The man was insufferable, and had made her position with Lady Waynflete as
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tenuous as silk.
She didn't know what she was going to do, or even what she might say to Lady Waynflete that would not aggravate the situation.
And that unbearable Jeremy Waynflete would just love to watch her fall from grace, she thought, as Marie buttoned and hooked her into a fresh dress without a single comment on the fact the kerseymere was ruined. But Marie would fix it; Marie did not need to be told.
"Mademoiselle is beautiful," Marie said in French, standing behind her as she smoothed down the wrinkles in the dress before a looking glass.
Jainee met her eyes in the glass. "Mademoiselle is in trouble, Marie. We must tread carefully here."
"We cannot go home," Marie said.
"No. And now I think we cannot go forward, either."
"Let Madame tell you."
Jainee pinched her cheeks to give them color. "That is wise advice, Marie. I thank you. Who knows but what she will say that chocolate is good for the carpet."
But Madame was not of a mind to talk about housekeeping. She held in her hand a letter written on thick cream-colored paper and she did not look happy. She was also well aware of when Jainee entered the parlor, but she chose not to acknowledge her immediately.
From where she sat on one of the angled brocaded sofas, she could just see Jainee's kid boots and the ruffled hem of her ever blue dress.
Southam's chit was a credit to her at least, she thought dourly, as she tried to align his desires with her own misgivings. Even Jeremy was up in the boughs over this; he wanted Southam's petticoat out of his mother's house and the sooner the better.
She reread Southam's sop to his conscience and the abominable way he had behaved this morning. Nicholas never minced words, but apologies were not his style either. All he would admit was that he had been tactless with Miss Bowman that morning and he regretted the end result: the assault on Lucretia's
