by Edith Layton
When the young Duke was let out of lessons early one afternoon in his tenth year, he had run away from his protesting governess and raced unthinking into his mama’s gilded rooms to tell her of his progress in his studies. Paused in the doorway, he had seen for the first time how very much she required personal attention, and also how exactly a man and a woman could find uses for each other. The governess had held his head for an hour until he could retch no more. But he never mentioned the matter to his lovely mama again, and she had never asked him if he thought she was pretty in the head groom’s arms, or if he had admired the paleness of her face against the head groom’s dark groin. She had avoided him after that. And he had been sent willingly away to school.
She avoided him further, in his sixteenth year, when he had begun to show the promise of a radiant manhood even more spectacular than her blooming womanhood had been, when she discovered that the rash that had plagued her for years was, in fact, the French pox. Then she had taken herself off to foreign quacks, and spas and resorts, forcing herself to drink the foul concoctions, be immersed in evil-smelling baths, and have strange scented unguents rubbed into her skin, to alleviate the spread of the disease. In her son’s eighteenth year she had dosed herself, and had drunk one bottle of laudanum and was halfway through the second when the sleep she sought had finally mercifully come.
The young Duke of Torquay had learned, from an early age onward, the uses of strength, the necessity for keeping one’s own counsel, the importance of lacking affections, the frivolous nature of beautiful women, and the importance of living a life that held no surprises. There was only one lesson more that he felt the need of learning.
In his nineteenth year, when he took himself and his assorted servants off on a grand tour, he had made certain inquiries. One soft June night, in Paris, he had found himself in the ornately gilded, perfumed boudoir of a famous courtesan. She was not the first he had visited, nor was she, even then, nearly the first woman he had known. His astonishingly good looks and pleasing manners had already given him entree into many such rooms, redolent of perfumes, rooms so reminiscent of his departed Mama’s. And rooms that even his Mama wouldn’t have dared to enter.
The woman had proven her worth, proven the reliability of her growing reputation, and an hour later, when she had turned to look up into the sweet face of the boy who lay propped up on one elbow, toying with a strand of her dampened hair, she had cooed, “You are satisfied, mon Brave? It was all you expected?” And had been shocked when he had merely smiled and, in that hoarse voice that had intrigued her so, had replied in his perfect French, “No, ma cherie, no, not at all.”
“But this I cannot understand,” she had cried, shocked. “Where have I failed? Where have I offended?” He had merely laughed and shaken his head.
“No, you misunderstand,” he had said, staring at her intently. “What you do, you do very well. There may well be none better. But that is not what I came for.”
“Well,” she had said, much affronted, “if your taste runs to young boys, you have certainly come to the wrong place.”
“No,” he had laughed, “it is not that. Listen cherie, I came for something else, something very simple, that you have not given me. I have a small proposition to make to you,” he had begun.
“No, no, no,” she had cried violently. “If it is pain you want, you must go elsewhere.”
“Listen,” he had said seriously, “this is my request. You are famous for what you do, and, as I said, you do it very well indeed. But be honest, my little French amie,” (and here she smiled, for this little cockerel, with his spare white body, to call her lavish configurations “little” was very amusing, but pleasant), “all that you have done tonight, you have done for me. And it was well done. But, to be honest, cherie, I have done nothing for you but enrich your purse and continue your fame. You did all the work, my friend, I have only responded to your excellence. And that is what I have always done. And, with your clients, my dear, what you have always done. Tonight, however, I seek more. I want you to show me, to tell me, to instruct me, as to what I can do for you. How I can make those little sighs and groans reality, how I can please you.”
She had stared at him in incomprehension.
“Try to think,” he had said, a half smile playing about his lips, “of what you like your own lover to do for you…your pander, or your lady friend, I do not care to know. But only think of your own pleasure, and instruct me in the mysteries of your own body. That is what I require. I will pay well for this knowledge. And if you are a good teacher, I will learn quickly.”
The novelty of his request caught her interest, it was the first time—and she had long past forgotten all her first times—she had been offered such a challenge. And he was good looking enough, she thought, to make such a venture amusing.
At first, it had been a novelty for her, almost embarrassed as she patiently instructed him. When she finally showed him, almost as if he were a physician, where the ultimate seat of all her pleasures resided, she had felt a little foolish. But he had been such an eager, pleasant child about it. He had eventually laughed. “After all that, this? This little hidden part? This valiant little imitation is the answer?” And she had, as the long night went on, showed him all, all she knew, till near dawn, exhausted, she understood that there was nothing left to explain to him. He knew her body and her responses now almost better than she did.
Resting her head against his chest, she had whispered, “You have certainly learned quickly. But why did you wish to learn such things?”
“Because,” he had said, planting a kiss upon her dampened brow, “I did not know. Because, it is only good tactics to know your enemies’ weaknesses, and because,” and here he whispered so low that she was never quite sure that she had heard him correctly, “because such knowledge is power.”
She had bade him farewell in the morning, and because he had given her a night that she was not to forget for many years, she had implored him, “Only seek out clean girls, mon Brave, do not infect yourself, take care of yourself.” And he had answered quietly, “I always take care of myself, I lead a charmed life.”
Armed with all his various knowledges, he had gone on to lead a daring life. He had gone from excess to excess, and had never swerved from whatever course his talents led him surely to. He had never cared for any opinion but his own. Except perhaps, for the once, on the one occasion of the short-lived marriage he had undertaken. When he had achieved the age of twenty-seven, he had for the first time acted the way a gentleman of title and possessions was expected to. As he had decided that it would be well to ensure the succession, and provide an heir to the fortunes he enjoyed, he had offered for the leading debutante of the season.
She was a pretty enough little thing, he had felt, a bit giddy and light of mind, but during the two times he had conversed and danced with her, her airy little laugh and fine-boned face had pleased him. And her fortune and birth were of the highest available that season.
He had quickly discovered, during the brief months they had together, that there was no commonality of interests between them at all. If her perception was not nearly so lively as her flighty demeanor had led him to expect it might be, he had at least held out some hope that there might eventually be some common ground that they might find so that the union might not be as unendurable as he was fast finding it to be. But all his arts could not move her to a natural, easy communication with him. She seemed, instead, to fear him, avoid him, and merely endure his company.
With all his wide experience, he still could find no way to wrest any real pleasure from the rigid little body she so dutifully presented him with each night. Nor could he, despite his unusual spell of fidelity and concentration, bring her to any enjoyment of the art he had mastered so long ago.
The last night he had tried, he had slipped into her bedroom as usual, after she had dismissed her servants, and quietly approached the wide bed where she lay, wreathed in white lace. As he had gently drawn the
covers back, she had, for the first time, smiled as she greeted him. He had responded to that one gesture of friendship with ardor, but she had pushed him away and pouted. “Jason, my dear, that isn’t really necessary any longer.”
He had drawn away and asked, with a teasing note in his voice, “Why, have you found another diversion for these hours?”
“No,” she laughed with genuine joy, “but we really don’t have to…do that dreadful business any longer. I am with child already, you see.” He stood back from her. “Dreadful?” he had asked with genuine surprise.
“Well,” she had smiled, “but not when I understood that you must if you were to have an heir, then I could see that the thing was inevitable. But now that you have accomplished it, what would be the sense of it? I’m not one of your fancy pieces, Jason. There’s no pleasure in such degrading things for me. Oh yes, I do know about all those…females, and I do understand why you must seek them out…now, more than ever, I suppose I do understand. But pray understand that I do not mind, so long as you are circumspect about it. And you needn’t bother with me now that you are to have the heir you desired.”
He stood looking at her for a long moment, and then with that strange half smile he so often wore, the one which frightened her so, he had said, “Needn’t bother with you, my dear?” and had come closer to her. She shrieked and drew up her covers. “Jason!” she had gasped, “you forget, I am your wife! I am to bear your child. Do not attempt that vile business again! It has served its purpose. I am not to be disturbed in my mind, if the child is to be born aright!”
He had not disturbed her again. He had turned and left. He returned to her only when the child, a frail little girl that bore the stamp of her own face, had been born. He had stayed with her all during the time the child-bed fever had raged, and when it had taken her insubstantial body completely, he had stayed for her interment. Then, leaving the sickly child in the care of excellent wetnurses and staff, he had left again. And gone on to live his life as he had begun to live it before the mad notion of marriage had ever crossed his mind. He had gone on to excess, and the pursuit of self-satisfaction, and never again had cared for any other being’s opinion but his own. And this philosophy, he felt, in its own way, had given him whatever happiness he felt he had the right to expect in the world he had made.
But this night, as he rode back to his house, he was disturbed. He had set out to accomplish one thing, he had begun another. He had named the game, but he had not really wanted to play it. He found himself, as he had said, now both scorekeeper and judge, inventor of the rules and keeper of the tally. But still, he had not planned it.
He’d been so sure that he was right. That the wayward chit with the glorious face and seductive eyes, newly on the town with no title, or family, or bonds, would have leaped at the chance to be his newest paramour. He had sworn he had seen the desire in her first glance at him. And he had been certain of it in her rush of response to that first kiss. That is what had armed him to go on to the lengths he had. She should have come to him willingly, with laughter at his daring and anticipation of her adventure with him. Perhaps it was just some new game she played to pique his interest and raise her fee. He would welcome a new game. He was, in truth, very weary of the old ones. But possibly, just possibly, she was in earnest. She had cast that stranger, doubt, into his mind. And so he had gambled.
He had acted impetuously. He did not like to gamble, for in gambling there was always the possibility of losing. He would not lose. He could not, he thought fiercely, lose. This, then, was the final honor left, the final one he admitted to. He would not lose.
VII
St. John Basil St. Charles relaxed against the cushions of his carriage and felt at peace, for once, with his world. The hour was late, the wind outside was wickedly cutting, but here, snugged in his well-sprung conveyance, he was at ease, comforted, drained of tensions and desires. He was sated with wine, with food, with pleasure, and only awaited his bed.
Maria Dunstable, a passable dancer, late of the Opera, had been, he reflected, a very good choice. She had made herself at home almost at once in Annabelle’s old quarters, making quick work of stowing her clothes, displaying her various mementos, permeating the rooms with her own individual blend of perfumes. She was quick-witted, adaptable, and still young enough to be amusing, while experienced enough to be adept. They had not yet reached the point in their relationship where she wheedled for more liberties or felt secure enough to run up more expenses. How long she would last in her new situation, St. John felt, depended entirely upon her own actions; for the moment, he was well pleased.
He allowed himself the luxury of a most undignified gaping yawn and a long stretch of his limbs; still, he thought, it would be good to sleep now in his own, undemanding bed. The gray light outside the carriage showed that another cold dawn was fast approaching. St. John alighted from his carriage and walked slowly to his front door, pausing for a moment to scent the air. Snow, he thought, was soon in coming. For a moment, he thought he saw a small shadow detach itself from the darkness near the alleyway leading to the back of his home, but then he shrugged and paid it no further attention. On such a chill night, there would be little likelihood of footpads, and certainly none who would dare frequent this fashionable street.
A drowsy footman opened the door for him, but no sooner had he flung off his cape when he was surprised to see his man, Hilliard, enter the hallway, dressed as if it were broad daylight, and waiting for him.
“Surely you have mistaken the hour, Hilliard,” St. John drawled. “It lacks five in the morning, not five in the afternoon.”
“I understand, My Lord,” Hilliard replied. “But there was a message for you, My Lord, that I felt might not wait until a retarded hour.”
St. John gave him a quick sharp look. Hilliard was no fool; only a matter of importance would receive such unusual treatment.
“What is it, then?” he asked, suddenly feeling the languor dissipating and an uneasy feeling of alarm coming over him.
“A young person came here this evening, sir,” Hilliard said impassively, “who looked quite the lady. However, she would neither give her name nor state her business. She would only give me a message she said was to be hand-delivered only to Your Lordship. And she asked if she might wait for your arrival, even though I explained that it might well be late, or even this day when you finally arrived. Nonetheless, she was adamant, and insisted upon waiting.”
St. John put out his hand to receive the small slip of paper Hilliard offered. He scanned it quickly, and it made him draw in his breath in a short gasp. For the message contained only two words scrawled upon it. It read only “George Berryman.”
St. John stiffened. He shot a quick look at Hilliard. How much did the man know of his private affairs, how much did he surmise, to understand that these two simple words would indeed be of paramount interest to him? For George Berryman, St. John knew, was dead. Dead and buried these many weeks. Mrs. Teas had given him the hurried news when he last had visited the house, and he had bowed and, stating his condolences, had slipped away, as he had always intended to, never to return. That phase of his life, although entertaining, profitable, and much relished, was over with now. Over with the instant that George Berryman had drawn his last breath. But now, who wished to revive the matter?
Was it an attempt at blackmail? Or was there some unfinished business about which George Berryman himself had given directions that the Marquis of Bessacar should be sought out after his death? That would be unforgivable, and dangerous to his standing. St. John stood still, his eyes still bent upon the little note in his hand. He brought his hand to a fist over it, and then inquired, with deceptive calm, “And where is the young person now, Hilliard?” For he thought, it was not without the realm of possibility that Hilliard had some notion as to what his actions these past years were, they had lived in such close proximity. But still, he trusted the servant, and had known him for too many years to think that this was a ploy on th
e man’s part.
“She waits outside, My Lord,” Hilliard answered, and seeing the swift surprise in his master’s eyes, continued, “As she had neither a maid nor a companion with her, and as I did not recognize her, I thought it best that I not allow her entry into your home, My Lord. And since she insisted upon waiting, I gave her leave to wait in the alleyway. If she is still there, she will have been waiting for some several hours, sir. Shall I fetch her? Or do you wish to let the matter pass? I did not presume to attempt to foresee your answer.”
The Marquis relaxed. No, Hilliard was not part of this. He was too shrewd to wade into the murky waters of blackmail. This woman was obviously no confederate of his. He had signaled that to the Marquis by not allowing her inside the house. And he certainly would not have forced a confederate of his to wait in the street for all those hours on such a bitter night. By his decision to allow the creature to stand in the cold night, he had both signaled his innocence of the affair to his master and washed his hands of the situation, even though he had certainly known of its importance to the Marquis.
“I am intrigued, Hilliard, at the mysterious aspects of the affair,” St. John said, pretending to stifle a small yawn. “So disregard the lateness of the hour. Lay a fire in the study and permit the woman to enter.”
St. John was comfortably ensconced in a chair by the fire, a dressing gown drawn over his clothes, a brandy in his hand, when Hilliard announced the young woman. “The person to see you, My Lord,” Hilliard sniffed, doing the best that he could at an introduction and having no name to go by.
St. John heard his man very well, and heard the door quietly close, and by the rustle of a dress, knew that the woman was within the room, but he played for time and ascendancy in the matter by continuing to stare into the fire for several moments, his back to visitor. When he felt that enough moments had ticked by, he said, without bothering to turn his head, “State your business, please. The hour is late, and I have only admitted you because your note was so cryptic. Begin, and tell me all that you would not tell my man.”
