Lessons in Love (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 3)

by M C Beaton

  “Go,” he said softly. “You will soon be my wife and all our troubles will be over. Try not to think of anything else.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sir Percival Magnus was feeling frightened and unwell. Mr. Webster had taken him in hand, saying he needed “toughening.”

  The toughening process involved conducting the nervous fop to every brothel and den in London. In vain did Sir Percival protest. For a man about to rape a girl, he lacked the necessary guts, said Mr. Webster crudely. A few more lessons and he would be fit for the job.

  It certainly was a degrading education. The chief haunts to which Sir Percival was taken were the hells of Jermyn Street and the taverns of Covent Garden, frequented by the flash coves of the sporting world. Other rendezvous were the Royal Saloon in Piccadilly, the lobby of Drury Lane Theatre, and the Round Room of Covent Garden Theatre.

  The Royal Saloon’s busiest hours were between midnight and dawn. It was decorated in an eastern style. There was a main room, and along either side were curtained recesses for private parties. The balcony, decorated with trelliswork and palms, also had a series of these semiprivate boudoirs, and at the back were a billiard room and card rooms. The company included two parsons, one who owned a gaming room on the side. The other was a horse dealer. A large part of the peerage was present every night, taking lobster and inspecting the demireps and cyprians who were given the free use of the saloon. The general features of the place were drunkenness, “indecent caressing,” card sharping, dicing, and rooking of all kinds by the sharks and the women.

  But Sir Percival’s pet horror was the Brydges Street Saloon in Covent Garden. It was a similar type of place to the Royal Saloon but without the fine clothes and the glamor of fashion, and with a lower depth to the iniquities practiced in its private rooms. Ex-convicts were among the regulars, and fights were common. Mostly the fights started over competitions for the latest child prostitute, seducing female children being considered a good way to avoid the pox. The saloon served elaborate suppers and fine wines at excessive prices, and had private rooms for all purposes and tastes. It was run by an elderly madam with the assistance of her thugs and was variously dubbed The Hall of Infamy and Old Mother Damnable’s.

  It was after another evening at the Brydges Street Saloon that Sir Percival cried out that he had stood enough. He would rape Lucinda, he would rape a whole harem, anything, just so long as he did not have to visit another sink of vice.

  Harry Webster, feeling he had pushed him just far enough, then set about bribing the Countess of Lemmington’s servants to try to find the best time to attack.

  He reported to Sir Percival that the news was better than they could have hoped for. The servants, perhaps with a dim feeling that Alexander had met his fate by crossing the countess in some way, perhaps because they were genuinely honest, had refused Mr. Webster’s, bribes. But they had let fall that they were all, with the exception of one footman and one maid, to leave for the country. “What!” Mr. Webster had exclaimed. “Not even a cook left?”

  They had replied no, that my lady had said she would be dining out and the maid could prepare the tea.

  So Mr. Webster found they were all leaving on Wednesday. He did not know Lucinda was going with them.

  “Here’s what we’ll do, Percy,” he said. Sir Percival winced. “We’ll call round and force our way in. Easy to overpower one footman and one maid. No need to drug the old girl to keep things quiet. I’ll keep her downstairs at gunpoint and you force the maid upstairs and get her to show you Lucinda’s bedroom.”

  “After all the hell you have put me through,” said Sir Percival wearily, “I would have thought that raping the girl under her grandmother’s nose would be a small matter.”

  “No, you have to persuade her after the deed is done that she must tell her grandmother she’s marrying you willingly. Then no one will cut up nasty.”

  “What if the old countess takes us to court?”

  “They all hate scandal. She won’t. And if she tried, she wouldn’t live long enough to testify.”

  Sir Percival shuddered but felt he was now too steeped in sin to draw back. Furthermore, he was sure Mr. Webster would kill him in the nastiest way possible if he tried.

  Wednesday, which had seemed a comfortable way away, now rushed headlong upon him. Lucinda had settled his debts. He had a fairly generous income by ordinary standards, but a pittance in the eyes of the fashionable. He could have fled to the Continent and lived fairly comfortably. But greed was his master. He was as vain as a peacock. Any time he thought of backing out, visions of jewels and carriages rose before his eyes. He tried to convince himself that the whole affair was a little like going to the dentist. He never once stopped to think what life would be like married to an unwilling bride who was well endowed with caring relatives.

  For his part, Mr. Webster simply wanted the Sotheran money. His contempt for women was bottomless. What could one old lady and one naïve girl have to say in their defense? Should rumors of rape ever start circulating, most men in society would say the girl had been begging for it—and, in this, Mr. Webster was probably right.

  The bluestockings and other ladies of independent means could preach about the rights of women, but everyone with any sense knew they had no rights whatsoever.

  Meanwhile, the old countess was laying her own plans. Having discovered that champagne was a delightful stimulant and also effective at depressing any nasty little voices of conscience, she ordered it by the crate. Since her capacity for alcohol was enormous, Lucinda was only grateful that her grandmother seemed to have been endowed with a new lease of life. It was hard to entertain thoughts of murder when the old lady was so bright and affectionate.

  Lucinda thought resolutely of the marquess. Somehow, he would know what to do.

  Mr. Venables, hearing of the imminent departure of his “protector” and anxious not to be alone with the countess, who scared him, announced he would be leaving as well.

  The countess made no objections but surprised Lucinda by saying she wished to see Mr. Venables in private over “a religious matter.”

  Mr. Venables was middle-aged but had the trusting, ingenuous eyes of a child. He dressed soberly and combed his sparse gray hair neatly over his bald patch. He had a thin, weak face that belied a great deal of courage and strength of character.

  He gloomily attended the countess in her boudoir one day before Lucinda was due to depart for the country. Lucinda had gone out driving with Mr. Tommy Flanders. Mr. Flanders had been ordered by the marquess to take Lucinda out. Flanders did not know of the proposed elopement but gathered that his friend wished him to keep an eye on Lucinda.

  When Mr. Venables entered the countess’s boudoir, the old lady was sitting by the fire wearing an enormous cap. Despite the warmth of the day, the fire was crackling busily and the room was overwarm.

  “Sit down, Mr. Venables,” said the countess. “I wish to make my confession.”

  “Dear lady,” exclaimed Mr. Venables, “you should have warned me. I must change my dress.”

  “I have no need of the trappings of the church,” said the countess. “Sit down.”

  Sending up a silent prayer for courage, Mr. Venables sat down opposite her.

  “I have not long to live,” said the countess, “and I must talk to someone. What I tell you must never be repeated.”

  “Of course not, my lady,” said Mr. Venables firmly. “What is heard in the confessional remains between the priest and the confessor.”

  “Just so. Perhaps if I explain my ways to you, then God in heaven may understand. I killed the Earl of Sotheran.”

  Mr. Venables’s hands trembled and he clasped them firmly together. “Yes, my lady,” he said quietly. “Go on.”

  “And yet that is not the crime that weighs most heavily on my soul. I am ashamed because I feel I was instrumental in bringing about the death of Lucinda’s mother. The Earl of Sotheran was not my son. One of my kitchen maids died giving birth to an illegitima
te baby. I knew it was unlikely I should have any more children, although I had presented my husband with the heir. He agreed we should take the baby and bring it up as our own. Giles was always an ill-favored child, but he was quick and courageous and even as a young man found favor at court. There was always a streak of madness in him that touched a chord in the heart of poor King George. He was made an earl when he was still quite a young man. My husband and I felt our care of the boy had been justified. Giles never knew he was not our son. At the last, before I killed him, I appealed to him as his mother. I tried my best. In any case, after receiving his peerage, he took to drinking deep, gambling, and wenching. His health and his brains began to deteriorate.

  “A friend of mine had a daughter, Sarah, who had been in love with a young redcoat. Before she and her soldier could get married, he was killed in battle. It was discovered Sarah was pregnant. A husband had to be found for her. Sarah was a gentle, beautiful, sensitive girl. But I thought that Giles would reform were he married. I approached him and suggested Sarah. To my surprise, he agreed. I did not know until later that he had immediately gone to her parents and exacted a vast sum of money from them. So they were wed, and a brutal time poor Sarah had of it. She might have lived, for she had her soldier’s child inside her to comfort her, but her short life with Giles was such hell, I am sure she was glad to escape into death. She did not live very long. Lucinda asked me if Giles were really her father, and I replied that of course he was. She must never know she is illegitimate. If I had left Sarah alone, she would have survived her shame. But there you are. Something broke in my head that day I went to Partletts, meaning to take Lucinda away. And so I killed him.”

  Mr. Venables forced himself to say nothing although his mind was reeling. The heat of the room and the dominating force of the old countess’s personality combined with her terrible confession were all making him feel faint.

  “I had an idea the butler, Gotobed, had seen me and so I bought him a pig farm, hoping—had he seen me—he would understand I was paying for his silence. But he was greedy.” The countess sighed. “He came here and I killed him, then got Alexander, our new butler, to dispose of the body.”

  She reached beside her chair, picked up a bottle of champagne, and filled a pewter tankard to the brim. Then she drained it off, sighed, and dabbed at her withered lips with a wisp of lace handkerchief.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Alexander. Well, he came to me for more money and I knew that was only the beginning, and at all costs Lucinda must not be upset. So I killed him. We were out in Lord Barnstable’s barge, and I pushed him over.”

  Mr. Venables could feel a delicious sensation of relief spreading throughout his whole body. And to think he had believed one word of this fantastic story. This very old lady had barely the strength to cross the road unaided. She most certainly could not have killed anyone.

  Patiently, he settled back in his chair to hear her out. For Lady Lucinda’s sake, he would keep the old lady quiet and not disturb her with any protests.

  “I have nearly cleared up everything,” the countess was saying. “There is only one outstanding problem. Sunningburgh. He must die. You do understand that, Mr. Venables, do you not?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady.”

  “Sensible man. Ah, yes, you see under the terms of the Earl of Sotheran’s will, Lucinda can only marry the Marquess of Sunningburgh. If she marries anyone else, the money goes immediately to a distant relative, Harry Webster. Webster is a lecher and a fool. He is remarkably like Giles. I do not like Sunningburgh. You remember he kidnapped Lucinda?”

  “That was a Captain Mark Chamfrey.”

  “He is now the Marquess of Sunningburgh. The wicked flourish like the green bay tree. But he must go. I shall kill him tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Now, there are a few minor sins I should like to clear up. Have some champagne.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Mr. Venables, who was beginning to enjoy himself. He had heard confessions from the senile before and could only marvel at their powers of invention.

  The countess talked for about another hour, stopping from time to time to ring for more champagne.

  At last she finished and looked affectionately at the curate. She took a large diamond ring from her finger and handed it to him.

  “I could not accept anything so valuable,” gasped Mr. Venables.

  “Oh, take it, man.”

  Mr. Venables looked in awe at the large sparkling ring. Then he thought of all the clothes and food it would buy for the poor of the parish. He thanked her and tucked it away in his pocket. He would say prayers that very day for this poor, demented old lady.

  Feeling very spry and refreshed, the old countess called for her carriage and asked to be driven to her bank where she drew out a huge sum of money. Then she went to the jewelers and bought all of the finest stones she could see, had them put in a large wash leather bag, and fastened it under her skirts and petticoats to a belt around her waist. From there, she went to her lawyers and added a codicil to her will to say that any jewels found on her body after her death should go to Lady Lucinda Esmond.

  Sir Percival was busy as well. He was determined to make every preparation to ensure he could rise to the occasion. It was not every day one actually planned to rape someone. There was a firm belief that the breath of young girls did much to prolong life and to stiffen up the sinews and every other flagging part of the anatomy that needed stiffening.

  So the worried fop hung about the environs of a young ladies’ seminary, breathing deeply. The principal of the seminary, alarmed to see an exquisite young man gasping outside her academy, suspected all sorts of dark and terrible things and called the constable. Fortunately for Sir Percival, the constable also believed in the efficacy of a maiden’s breath and so he joined Sir Percival in his deep-breathing exercises. The constable said he was sure it was doing him a power of good, but Sir Percival only felt weaker and more worried then ever.

  He took himself over to the City. A bottle of Balsamic Corroborant, that well-known aphrodisiac, would no doubt do the trick.

  He turned into a dark apothecary’s shop, grateful to find it deserted except for a scruffy young man who was cleaning the shelves.

  Sir Percival asked for the aphrodisiac in a hushed whisper. His manner was so deferential and so respectful that Jerry Biggs, the shop boy, felt his chest swell with pride. His master, the apothecary, had stepped out to the local tavern, the George and Vulture, telling his boy to inform any customers that he would be back within the hour. Jerry knew nothing of his master’s work, being employed to clean the shop, take down and put up the heavy shutters, and make the deliveries. But he had watched his master at work many times. His master, Mr. Bundle, was a sour man who often said his clients would take any muck, and that any muck would work, too, provided said client believed in it.

  On the spur of the moment, Jerry decided to make himself some money in Mr. Bundle’s absence.

  “Certainly, my lord,” he said, elevating Sir Percival up the ranks of the peerage.

  He dived into the back shop, found a clean bottle, and proceeded to fill it with a mixture of all the prettiest-colored potions he could see. Then he took it out to Sir Percival and demanded a guinea.

  “A guinea!” exclaimed Sir Percival. “Your advertisement in the Morning Post says five shillings.”

  Jerry thought quickly. “Ah, but the price has gone up because it’s now”—he winked horribly—”double the strength.”

  “Oh, in that case,” said Sir Percival, reluctantly producing two seven-shilling pieces, a crown, and a florin, “I suppose it’s worth it.”

  “May the Good Lord strike me dead if it ain’t.” said Jerry, and Sir Percival took the bottle and left, feeling more confident that he had done for some time.

  On the following morning, the Marquess of Sunningburgh was preparing to leave. It would have been pleasant, he reflected, to have taken Tommy along t
o be brideman, but it was safer to leave his friend in ignorance. The Dowager Countess of Lemmington might yet decide on mass murder after she learned of the wedding. He could not think of how to stop her but decided to marry Lucinda first and then tackle the old lady with what he knew in private afterward.

  His butler came in and delivered a letter. The marquess broke the seal and crackled open the parchment, frightened that Lucinda might have had second thoughts. It was from the Dowager Countess of Lemmington.

  “My lord,” she had written, “I wish you to present yourself at our home in Berkeley Square at eleven o’clock this evening. You will learn something to your advantage.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. She had obviously no suspicion he meant to follow Lucinda to the country. He wrote a reply, accepting her invitation. That way, she would remain convinced, if she had any lingering doubt, that he was still in town.

  He set out in his racing curricle at quarter past ten, hoping that Lucinda’s carriage was already in the lead, not daring to call at Berkeley Square to make sure in case the old countess should see him and become suspicious.

  He caught up with the old countess’s cumbersome traveling carriage, in which Lucinda was traveling, on the outskirts of London. Despite the exclamations of surprise and protests from her lady’s maid, Lucinda joined the marquess in his carriage.

  Lucinda welcomed the marquess as if this meeting were the most ordinary thing in the world. She remarked calmly that it was another fine day as she settled down beside him in his carriage. He looked at her placid face and felt a qualm of unease. Lucinda, he felt, had refused to absorb any of the horror in which she had been living, keeping it at bay by assuring herself it all did not matter. Soon the horror would break like a wave in her mind, of that he was sure.

  He could only thank God they had got away safely and that when Lucinda faced reality, he would be on hand to comfort her.

  The Countess of Lemmington was beginning to feel tired. She fortified herself with more champagne, called the remaining footman and maid, and told the gratified pair to take themselves off to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens and to stay there all night. She answered their unspoken questions by dropping one withered eyelid and saying she was going to entertain a beau. She then gave them a pound each. The maid and footman argued a little outside as to whether to go or not. It was not often they each had a whole pound to spend and to save it seemed the more prudent policy. But James, the footman, said to Martha, the maid, he was sure the old lady was a witch and would surely find out if they didn’t go and do exactly as instructed. The maid agreed but remarked it was marvelous that such an old lady could still attract a man.