B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  “You are a Darcy, a gentleman of honour. You must never use your place unkindly.”

  Putting a hand on each of his shoulders, he said, “You are to be your sister’s protector.”

  Geoff’s large eyes grew ever bigger as his father spoke. With those last words, they filled with tears. He refused to blink, perhaps knowing that should he, his tears would fall upon his cheeks and trail down his face. They pooled in his eyes in such a way they were highly injurious to his father’s reserve.

  Had it been his tears, Darcy knew that his own father would have done him the favour of ignoring them. Upon this occasion, however, he was quite torn whether kindness lay in turning a blind eye or possibly offending his burgeoning dignity by addressing it. Although he was sorely tempted, he decided that wiping away tears was a mother’s occupation. It was his to offer affectionate benevolence.

  Softening his voice, he said, “Go now. Be good to your sister for she loves you—as do I.”

  With a swipe of his index finger across his nose, Geoff nodded his head and turned to go. Before he made for the door, there was a significant straightening of his shoulders.

  Outside the door, Darcy heard his daughter’s urgent voice trembling as she inquired, “Was Papa angry at you, brother? Was he?”

  Understandably, there was no audible response from her brother. Janie’s dismay over her brother, Geoff’s distress was heartening. Perchance his children would cease bickering and love each other as did he and Georgiana—and Elizabeth and her sister, Jane.

  These felicitous thoughts were interrupted by those less agreeable.

  Jane was not Elizabeth’s only sister—simply her dearest. Libidinous Lydia and Mary the Reprover were her sisters as well. The long-observed truth that one cannot chose one’s relations should be a caution to any persons overly impressed with their lineage—even the Darcys.

  When Darcy believed that the twins behaved more kindly to each other that day, he was quite pleased with himself for handling their squabbling so easily. He had little time to sit in self-congratulation. Indeed, that very afternoon an invitation had arrived by post.

  It was from Howgrave Hall.

  Chapter 36

  The Devil’s Trade

  It is said that when a man must choose between good and evil, most lean towards good—except when his own interests would be best served by evil.

  ———

  Alistair R. Thomas was not really a veteran of Wellington’s staff. He was a gentleman down on his luck, banished from good society for a triviality. The Beau Monde was heartless. Expulsion is all the worse for a gentleman who knows his rightful place and is denied it. (This is most especially true when one fancies himself a part of the coterie that never quite recognised him as one of their own.)

  There was but one way to regain one’s status. One must marry well (royalty would be nice), or obtain a great deal of money. (England was fast becoming an island where all things were attainable—be it land, title, or respectability.) As the first was incumbent upon the second, he set out to earn if not a fortune, at least a living. With nothing to promote himself but a quick tongue and an honest, open face, he put these attributes to their best use. He entered into the web of criminality that encircled the town’s various courts and scrambled for cash. As he had a willingness to engage in the basest of employments, he was hereupon largely successful.

  The streets were writhing with chicanery and his introduction to underhandedness (as seen in a legal sense) involved informing on criminals to the parish constables. The magistrates were notoriously slow in recompensing their informers, so he eventually decided to take his game to the other side and defend the accused in court. The law became his constant study. He offered his services as a witness or furnished an alibi as needed. (He also became adept at employing whatever coarse inflection his cultured voice needed at the time.) More than once he stood as a fictitious lover in a divorce. Wise in the ways of the proceedings, he made his way from court to court and judge to judge, never staying in front of any one bench long lest he come to be recognized.

  His most prized possession became his greatest liability, forcing him to cover his silver mane with bootblack. Even then his countenance was quite remarkable, particularly when opposite the vilest wenches and most depraved chaps that ever visited His Majesty’s courtrooms. The whole place was a disgrace to refined society. The jurists’ wigs were in want of powder and the solicitors’ handkerchiefs looked beneath that of a White Chapel fellmonger. His own collar was sullied just being in their company. As he was making money hand over fist, he managed to overlook the grubbiness. He would have been happy to continue servicing His Majesty’s courts, but his face eventually became too familiar to keep up his facade.

  He had always been a bit of a spendthrift, but he put away enough money and influence to buy out a carting enterprise (the owner, lately battered, was quite willing to sell for a good price). Very soon he amassed a dozen drays without sullying his own soft hands. Its corner position gave him an office whereupon he could watch over the politics of the street. His pursuits soon became far-reaching. Not a single baker’s waggon passed by that he did not have a finger in each of their meat pies. And a trio of harlots stood on the street corners, all paying him a gratuity to keep from being thumped, bagged, or snatched.

  The shops sold nothing but brummagem as the street was inhabited by guttersnipes and people of poor circumstances. From this it might be presumed that there would be no money for low entertainment. The habitués of White Chapel and the like were often invaded by gentlemen and ladies of quality in want of being diverted by the poverty they saw. People of all nationalities and class occasioned to prance down the walkboards, finding themselves delighted by the miasma. They were known to rent rooms above Newgate when hangings took place. (The renowned caricaturist, George Yancy Parr once travelled a hundred miles to see a triple hanging, but then it was said that he was given to necrophilia.) Drury Lane theatres fought for a share of the merry-making coinage with makeshift penny-gaffs and horse drawn caravans featuring midgets, two-headed goats, and people with hideous deformities—all which could be gawked at for half-penny a look.

  For every exotic fruit that arrived in a Covent Garden market, a gratuity was paid to someone. No one questioned that. Alistair realised that there were a dozen ways to make money without leaving his chair. Every other man, woman, and child would play another false without a moment’s hesitation—and he took his share. Even street entertainers paid him an honorarium. If they were reluctant, he had a bevy of embittered, disbanded soldiers ready to be hired to convince them otherwise.

  The one nod to propriety was to influence thieves and prostitutes to keep off the thoroughfares. Their business was better suited down side streets where, it was generally agreed, a gentleman taking a risky piss deserved an ambuscade. Beggars who wandered off Carnaby Street got worse.

  It was to be expected then that a man who was so happy to take from the living would not give a damn about the dead.

  The resurrectionist trade was one particular to Alistair’s needs. It was infested with rats who were disorganised and stupid. All that was needed to turn a team of them into a thriving concern was a firm hand and quick mind. Anatomists wanted newly dead cadavers—the fresher the better. Because he was in possession of a carting business, Alistair was able to have bodies trotted about in daylight hours whilst their competition had to do business by moonlight.

  Moreover, the other gangs engaging in these nocturnal digging expeditions did not wait for the nicety of death to deprive the dead of its earthly vessel. Alistair cautioned his men to be certain the deceased had breathed his last (or mash a pillow over his face until he did) before offloading at one of his preferred locations. The constabulary frowned upon death occurring too hastily of the dissection. It begged investigation.

  Most of Alistair’s snatchers had been released from the worst prisons. Clerkenwell New Prison and Coldbath were dreadful, but paled when compared to those priso
ns made from decommissioned warships moored along the Thames. Alistair did not care how horrific their punishment had been. Whatever they endured whilst trying to survive on a floating prison ship made them ideal for digging up corpses. Such was their pride that they sported primitive gun-powder tattoos. Between each finger was carved a figure noting their level in their gang’s hierarchy. They were tenacious, heartless, and brutal. They were also desperate and that served Alistair’s ambition.

  As grave-robbing became more prevalent, however, the newspapers got wind of it. Such bestial doings touched on the fears of decent folk, thereby selling tons of newsprint. It also made Londoners evermore vigilant over their loved ones’ graves. Hence, the body-snatchers had begun to strike out unto the surrounding countryside to keep up with demand.

  It had been a keen temptation to have the bloody mark of Cain between his fingers to warn his enemies of his daring, but Alistair was too clever to mar his body with indelible proof of being a resurrectionist. That cesspool of a profession was a mere way-station upon his climb to a higher level of society. He had proudly come to the realisation that he had the gift of adaptability. Once he decided that the time had come for him to rejoin the ranks of gentlefolk, he knew just how to go about it.

  Within one year of his reappearance in Southwark he had begun attending meetings of the Marylebone Reading Society. There were a number of such groups throughout town. Marylebone was the most respected. To Alistair it was a place where the bored read boring political pamphlets. However, he learnt from the bores that the authorities employed spies and agents to agitate and inform upon anyone suspected of liberal tendencies. He soon learnt that within Marylebone lurked a radical plot—one he had little interest in until he saw that he could make money on both sides. By stealing gunpowder from the dock and reselling it to the radicals, he was happy to appear a man of their cause.

  It was whilst he straddled the line between the indecent and the bold that he washed the bootblack from his hair. If he was to be accepted by the ton, he had to look the part. He also began to introduce himself as a retired officer and attaché to Wellington. Every time he made the declaration, and it was not impugned, he became more smug. After all, it took a magnificent liar to make such an easily disproved statement.

  That was its brilliance.

  Chapter 37

  Until the Morrow

  It did not trouble her countenance, yet Elizabeth was not at all welcoming of a card from the Howgraves inviting them to a ball. This was not owing to any fear for her husband or his affection. The Howgraves’ company was simply unappealing. Moreover, she despised the notion of embarking upon a sojourn to seek other company when she was quite happy where she was. Had she needed one, young William supplied the perfect reason to send her regrets. He had not yet been weaned (Mrs. Littlepage notwithstanding).

  The one knot in the rug was that the Bingleys were much in want of the Darcys to accompanying them. (They had little choice but to go as the ball was in their honour.) Jane was exceedingly sympathetic to her sister’s desire to remain with her baby. Disinclined to spend an evening with what passed for friends to politicians, Darcy believed his wife’s excuse should exempt his as well.

  He said, “If Elizabeth cannot attend, then I shall send my regrets as well.”

  Charles Bingley, however, very nearly sulked. Rarely could Darcy be cajoled, but Bingley knew that small chance was better than none whatsoever.

  “I have been most anxious to have this outing, Darcy. I shan’t enjoy myself at all if you do not attend. I beseech you to accompany us,” Bingley said. Then, in a harsh whisper, he added, “If you do not, we shall have to share a carriage with Beecher!”

  Unhearing of her brother’s disparaging remark, Caroline gushed, “You must add to our merriment!”

  In all other ways, the finest of friends, the Bingleys had once again brought his sisters to Pemberley with them. Caroline and Louisa were beside themselves in anticipation of admiring not only Lady Howgrave’s ensemble, but her fine house too.

  Caroline continued, “There is no handsomer feast, no grander gowns, no more exhilarating conversation than shall be had at the Howgrave’s ball! I understand they have renamed the place.”

  “Yes,” replied Elizabeth. She did not want to appear unwilling to speak of the Howgraves. It might cause Caroline to comment. However, before she could compleat her answer, Caroline interrupted.

  “Yes,” repeated Caroline. “They now call it Howgrave Hall.”

  “How droll!” laughed Bingley. “As we have reclaimed “Deering Lodge,” I fancy it would not do for Howgrave not have his name upon an estate somewhere.”

  The Bingley sisters had come to Pemberley ostensibly to admire the newest Darcy. In truth, Lady Caroline had quickly run out of people to curry favour with in London and had repaired to the country in anticipation of Lady Howgrave’s fête. (While her gown was being stitched, she came to visit the Darcys as much to amuse herself as to avoid her brother’s children.) Upon taking in Elizabeth’s aspect, her usual disdain was set aside. Suddenly, she was taken in paroxysms of true delight.

  “Your pearls!” shrieked Caroline. “Your pearls are divine! Where ever did you get them?”

  Without a moment’s thought, Caroline reached out and took them in her hand. Startled, Elizabeth took a step back, fearing such ungentle behaviour might cause them to need another restringing. Caroline, however, had whipped out her quizzing glasses and peered at them as she rolled several between thumb and forefinger. Abruptly, she ran them across her front teeth.

  “Superb,” she admitted.

  Observing Elizabeth’s startled expression, Caroline explained, “The front of the teeth—that it is the surest way to gauge their genuineness.”

  Stumbling to alter their discourse, Elizabeth bid, “Does your husband stay much to London?”

  “Yes,” replied Caroline. “Sir Beecher remains dedicated to the card tables. He became reacquainted with them whilst we were abroad.”

  That information was unheralded by any ovations. Not long before their engagement was formed, Beecher was on the unhappy end of a duel over a gambling debt. Word had it that, whilst professing himself a Christian, Sir Beecher was worshiping other gods. It had long been known that he bowed regularly to the throne of Bacchus. However, whilst recuperating from an acute wound to his posterior (received in the duel over a string of ponies that he had put up against a card debt), he had gained an affection for laudanum. Caroline took it away from him, but he repaid her dedication by attempting to bed every chit who spoke to him. Caroline soothed the deprivation of her husband’s constancy by sharing his wine.

  Caroline could be obliging when she chose, but over time her heart’s generosity continued to decline. Living all her life with a doting brother and enjoying the exceptional kindness of her sister-in-law, she was unprepared to reside with a husband who considered his own wishes well above those of his wife. But then, the gift of marriage rather than that of love had been her design. Her match with Beecher brought her both the title of lady and of wife. Hence Caroline was, largely, happy. If anyone thought otherwise, she attempted to convince them of their marital felicity by reciting how they dined in the first circles.

  “We have twice dined at Carlton House and sat within earshot of the Prince Regent and his retinue at the Argyll Rooms. Charles could have come had he wanted, but chose to stay away.”

  She shook her head at his audacity.

  “Charles favours nothing above the race park. As Beecher lost his ponies—he used his prize racing ponies as collateral and lost them—Winton no longer enjoys going there. My husband blames me for his bad luck at cards, so what am I to do with myself but come to Derbyshire with Charles? Whilst in Italy, we came across Winton’s friend, Alphonse—you recall, Mr. Darcy, the man who shot Winton in the great duel?”

  “I thought he was shot in the hindquarters,” interjected Bingley.

  Not wanting her aside to Darcy interrupted, Caroline gave her brother an angr
y glare. She then looked back at Darcy, still awaiting his reply.

  Darcy said, “I recall the man.”

  She continued, “It was right of Beecher to have slapped him across the face with his glove, he is a beast. But he has made a great deal of money in trade. You should do business with him, Charles. You are certain to double your fortune.”

  Said Charles, “I do not care for Alphonse’s business practises for they include evicting old women and sick children from his properties.”

  “Oh, why care? I see these people in the street. They are simply lazy. Would they just take work, they would be well-fixed.”

  Bingley opened his mouth as if to reply, but she proceeded on to another subject more appealing to her senses.

  “Vauxhall Gardens!” she gushed. “With every visit they have added new entertainments. Concerts, plays and I do not know what all—every night there are fireworks as one has never seen since Madrid. Dirty little place, that. I abhorred every minute of our stay there save for the fireworks. I should have stayed abroad forever had not my dear Winton become homesick for London. He is such a dear. I could not allow him to take his leave alone.”