by Cari Hislop
“Must we dwell on death? I’ve had a gutful of it. You’re not dragging my ward all over Bath without me.”
Peter coughed away a smile, “Should we let him come?”
“I think he should stay home and soak his sore rump in a hot bath.”
“She isn’t going anywhere without me.” John’s heart climbed out of his stomach as Joan beamed adoring gratitude.
Peter sighed loudly as if disappointed, “Are you sure you want to c-come? Your rump…”
“Never mind my rump, I’m coming with you.”
“I’m so glad you’re coming Mr Smirke, you’ll be able to take the waters. They’ll help you feel better…”
“Bollix. That muck does nothing, but cause gripe.”
“Mrs Browne, my father’s old cook, swears by it. She says it can cure stones, runny noses, even the plague and she should know because she had a sister…”
“The c-carriage will be here in about thirty minutes Miss Lark. You d-don’t have t-time for Mrs Browne’s sister or John’s kisses.”
“Thirty minutes…I can’t wear this horrid black thing.” Joan picked up a piece of toast and ran from the room leaving John feeling abandoned and ill used.
“Thanks for ruining my day Pests. You’re worse than the dead.” His brothers slapped each other on the shoulders and walked away laughing.
Chapter 15
A gentle rain pattered against the expansive steaming windows of the Pump Room as the haut ton in damp wool and wet leather swarmed through the large room with faith in the healing power of gossip. Wintering regulars had escaped London and secluded country estates to join Bath’s social circus. The great and the good sipped warm mineral water from pewter cups exchanging old scandals in hopes of discovering new ones to ease the tedium.
At six foot and five inches, Mr Robert Nielson had to lower an ear towards his female companion to catch every breathy whisper as his calm smile masked his lusty thoughts. Her husband was away serving King and country and the lady was clearly in a mood for company. Robert’s blood was starting to simmer. He had two whole hours before a prearranged rendezvous with a young widow. His eyes were focused on his companion’s beribboned décolletage peeking out from her unbuttoned pelisse when his mind took in the word Smirke and his eyes snapped up at the woman’s face. “Did you say Smirke?”
“La Robert, I thought you always listened to a lady. Isn’t that Mr John Smirke with the wide eyed child on his arm just inside the doors? He looks like the devil in that red. He’s sure to clear the room. Perhaps we should lead the way and continue this conversation somewhere more intimate?”
“My ears hang on your every word my Lady.” Robert gracefully raised the offered hand to his lips. “If you’ll allow me to boldly suggest a possible destination; I own a house on Quiet Street where I can promise an effusion of wrapt attention.”
“La Robert, my curiosity drives me to find some peace and quiet.”
“Tell the footman your name is Florabella and he’ll let you in. I will follow the scent of tuberoses after several agonising minutes.” The woman elegantly curtseyed and floated away with anticipation unaware that her charms were already half forgotten. Robert Nielson’s calm smile didn’t waver as his eyes fixed on John Smirke’s sour expression. The girl on Smirke’s arm looked like a Meissen shepherdess who’d lost her sheep and was about to lose her virtue. The blonde woman in lavender striped silk couldn’t possibly be the much maligned Miss Joan Lark. No sane man would leave such a peach in the care of a heartless villain. Whoever she was she was in need of being rescued and there was nothing Robert enjoyed more than saving a damsel in distress. The fact the damsel usually agreed to rest afterwards in his bed was almost irrelevant.
Robert eyed the older Smirke brothers with veiled contempt. James Smirke was infamously stupid. There was no other logical explanation for his refusal to believe his younger brother capable of wickedness or his choice of wife. No intelligent man would have saddled himself with the penniless Agnes. Robert shuddered with horror at the thought of bedding his beautiful cousin. She was a diamond; stunning and hard with a tongue sharp enough to shave a man’s face. The fact she resembled his mother made the thought that much more revolting. The eldest Smirke, the stammering Lord Adderbury, stood out for being a tall, dark, handsome man barely capable of speaking to anyone outside his immediate family. Robert had never spoken to the eldest Smirke, but any man who looked on John Smirke with that pleased fatherly expression couldn’t be a threat.
Robert watched the laughing child pull the scowling villain towards the water fountain and then turned away to swagger out of the Pump Room into the rain. With any luck the week ahead would offer an opportunity to punch Smirke’s teeth down his throat. Robert took a deep breath of wet air and contemplated future pleasures.
***
Joan pressed the full cup of mineral water into John’s hands, “Drink it for me Mr Smirke…”
“I’d rather drink a tureen of turnip soup and I hate turnips.”
James put a friendly arm around his brother’s shoulders, “Your wedding day will sap your vigour John. Take my advice and have three cups of the stuff. You’ll need it!”
Peter winked at James, “He’d d-drink thirty c-cups if he knew how much vigour one innocent bride c-can sap.”
John’s glare drew more amused laughter from his brothers. “What is this, a Smirke conspiracy? I refuse to drown myself so George can inherit my life.”
“You need to drink some water Mr Smirke…it’ll make you feel better.”
“Having my innards twisted with gripe will not make me feel better.”
Joan pursed her lips in thought, “You own a pair of duelling pistols don’t you Mr Smirke?”
“Yes of course and don’t even think to ask me to teach you to load or shoot them. I’ve eaten my last piece of lead, God willing.”
“Our John is being outrageously modest. He owns one of the finest pair of Mortimers in England, but they’re not as valuable as his Griffens.”
“My Griffens aren’t duelling pistols. Where are you going? Miss Lark…” She ignored him, but stopped a few feet away. He sighed with relief until she spoke.
“Excuse me. May I have your attention please?” The words bounced off the opposite walls into the ears of the ton desperate for entertainment. “My guardian, Mr John Smirke, would like to wager his duelling pistols that no man here can out drink him at the King’s pump.” A stunned silence erupted into shouts of delight as a horde of young men rushed forward.
“What if we lose?”
“Mr Smirke walks away with improved health and his Mortimers. Who wishes to accept the challenge?” The room quickly gathered around the pumps to get a good view. Some of the young men waved their arms and others shoved others out of the way to get noticed. Joan eyed the crowd for someone who looked kind. She felt tingles over her skin as she met the intense gaze of a man who looked like an elegant footman. “You in the bottle green coat…no not you, the one in the old fashioned periwig.”
“King Midas? He doesn’t need a free pair of pistols.”
“…the devil’s own luck…he doesn’t need anything but a sense of humour. They say he tried to buy one, but they were sold out.” The man with long white hair curled and set like a wig ignored the rude comments and stepped forward. “You know he’ll win them, the rich bastard always wins.”
“Comes from having more money than God…”
Peter looked down at his pale baby brother, “You should have drunk that c-cup.”
“Do you have any more pointless advice?”
“Mentally locate the c-closest chamber p-pot. You’re going to need it.”
John’s rage at being made a public laughing stock was replaced by resentment as the crowd surged around the two opponents while Joan energetically laid out ten cups of water on each side of the gushing pump spout.
The white haired man politely lifted his hat. “Adderbury, James… Smirke.”
“Lovelace.” The na
me slithered out from between John’s clenched teeth. “What could you possibly want with a pair of pistols? I thought shooting people was against your golden principles?”
“Last I heard, there is no law against self preservation. Mayhem aside, you appear to be losing your noxious touch Mr Smirke. Your challenge is rather insipid compared to your usual wagers. Allow me to rectify the situation by raising the stakes.” The crowd erupted in curious speculation, but quickly hushed to hear the details. “Twenty-five thousand pounds against the girl’s wardship.”
Ignoring echoes of loud gasps, Peter whispered in his brother’s ear, “Unless you love the girl, this would be an excellent opportunity to acquire a small fortune for Charles. He’s so quiet he gets overlooked by all the old c-curmudgeons with money.” Joan spun around dumb struck, darting horrified glances between her guardian in red and his challenger in green.
“No.” John’s tight little word lit up the crowd with delight. The dishonourable John Smirke had just made an honourable action of distinct foolishness. The man could only be in love. The crowd roared with pleasure and egged the contestants on.
Loveless pursed his lips as he cast his eyes at the innocent girl in the clutches of a devil, “Fifty thousand.”
“Miss Lark is not for sale.” Joan visibly expelled her breath in relief. She’d never imagined anyone could have so much money, let alone throw it away on a silly challenge.
“Seventy-five thousand.” The crowd gasped in shock as wagers were quickly made on Smirke’s answer as Joan’s lower lip started to tremble. Her impulsive scheme to get her beloved villain to drink a cup of water was turning into a nightmare.
Peter bent over and hissed into his brother’s ear, “Unless you are absolutely ppositive without a shadow of a d-doubt that you’re in love with Joan; now would b-be an economically advantageous time to find her a new guardian. Lovelace is a good man; she’ll be perfectly safe. He may even marry her himself. Seventy-five thousand p-pounds would secure the family c-coffers for the century.”
“I don’t care about the family coffers; sell one of your brats if you’re desperate for money, Miss Lark is mine.”
Midas Lovelace glanced at the pretty wide eyed child and back to the sneering Smirke, “No woman deserves to be chained to you by a legal document drawn up by a madman; one hundred thousand pounds.”
John’s fury boiled over as he stamped his umbrella and snarled with impotent rage as the crowd roared with laughter. His instinctive response to demand satisfaction was forgotten as a Joan flung herself at him; the brim of her bonnet bashing against his lips. “Please don’t take the money Mr Smirke; I’ll be good. I’ll never, never try to make you drink from the King’s fountain ever again.”
Sucking on his sore lips John put his right arm around Joan’s middle and held her close relishing the rare site of Lovelace stunned by jealous disbelief. “Miss Lark is shortly to achieve her desire to become my wife. Drink that muck for my pistols or step aside and let someone else win a belly-ache.” Shouts of approval mingled with gasps of disbelief as money exchanged hands in the crowd.
“Shall I fetch you a cup Mr Smirke?”
John wiped several large tears off Joan’s cheek with his gloved finger. “It seems you must.” John grimaced as he took the cup. “When next you wish to trounce me Miss Lark, try a more private method such as purchasing a poodle.”
He was just about to raise the cup to his sore lips when Miss Lark stood on tip toes and whispered into his ear, “You’re a hundred thousand times more beautiful than when I left the breakfast table.”
Drawn into smiling cornflowers, John forgot he was angry as his heart pleasurably shouldered him in the chest, “I’m glad to hear it. It’ll give me some comfort as I lay dying from a burst bladder. King Midas isn’t walking away with my Mortimers.” John tipped back the cup and drained it, his face clearly displaying his disgust. He handed the upside down cup to Joan and watched his opponent drain his cup and lick his lips as if he’d enjoyed it.
“The next cup is yours Mr Smirke.”
“Obviously. Miss Lark another cup…” John lifted the cup and sighed out loud before gulping it down and wiping his lips on his right sleeve. Lovelace drained his second cup and raised a white eyebrow in a silent challenge. The crowd roared as new wagers were taken as to which man would first rush away in need of a chamber pot. Time dripped by as the standing cups were slowly emptied and the group of bystanders grew as word spread out of the building and down the street.
John listened to water slosh about in his stomach as he waddled from one foot to the other as he tried to pretend he didn’t want to run away to release the pressure on his bladder. The only consolation was seeing Lovelace doing a similar dance.
“Hand me another cup Miss Lark.”
“But Mr Smirke, you’ve had thirteen cups.”
“I’m drinking the muck, you should be pleased.”
“I only wanted you to drink one cup…you’re drinking water like a madman and he’s no better.”
“Hand me a cup before I explode and lose my pistols.” John gulped down the warm water, shifting from one foot to the other as his opponent hesitated. “Drink the muck or throw down your cup in defeat.”
Lovelace hesitated, “Did you know the French have been known to do this to prisoners to gain confessions of guilt? Perhaps you’d like to confess that I’m going to win your pistols?”
“Over my exploded bladder.” John poured another cup of foul liquid down his throat, but struggled to keep it down.
The hair on his neck stood on end announcing the dead were near, “Take care you don’t drown yourself John Sebastian. Accidentally committing suicide to retain a pair of pistols won’t win you a certificate of intelligence at the eternal bar of justice.” John groaned as his stomach sloshed with the movement involved in locating the pretty Probationary Agent at his elbow. “Let him have the Mortimers. One more duel and you’ll be crying for your Mamma from another dark corner of hell.” John’s snarl earned him the laughter of the dead as well as the living. “Your little Lark is quite a handful. If my wife had routed me with a trick like that I’d have spent all her money on a new suit. You’ll certainly never be bored with Joan. You may not be sane, but you’ll be alive…unless you drown yourself.” John looked at the full cup in Joan’s hand and then at his opponent shifting from one foot to the other. He gagged on his pride and let out a gargled sigh. The prospect of bedding Joan far outweighed any pleasure in owning a pair of stupid pistols. The Pump rooms went silent as they waited.
“You win Lovelace. I’ll send to London for the pair…tell James where to send them.” The crowd cheered as Joan smiled with relief. “Peter…help me to a chamber pot before I wet myself and die of shame. James, keep Miss Lark safe until I get back. If anything happens to her…”
“She’ll be fine, go.” John shuffled away agonised by his bursting bladder, sore backside and fear that he’d return to find his Joan had been kidnapped.
Chapter 16
Agnes Smirke sat secretly amused as her husband crawled around on his hands and knees, his laughing daughters imperiously demanding their horse gallop faster. The gold pattern on green silk walls glowed in the wavering candlelight like an elegant backdrop cloth for a theatrical display of Bedlam. “That’s enough horsing around, come have your tea before it gets cold. James…”
“One more time round the track and we’ll stable for the night.”
“No Papa horse, you have to ride ten more times.”
“Yes, ten more times. Gee up Papa horse!”
“Your Papa horse is going to end up with a broken back with you two riding him. Come have your bread and butter before your cousins’ return and devour the tray. Joan, wake up my brother and ask him if he’s going to eat again today. Joan dropped her embroidery as she turned to admire the trim figure in red and gold lying on the chaise-longue in his white stocking feet, his slack lips moving in his sleep.
