The Trouble With Sin

by Victoria Vane

  Jack Harris came forward at once, greeting Simon with a broad smile while his glittering gaze appraised the two young women. "Well, well, Mister Singleton. What have we here?"

  "Jack, my friend, these delightful daughters of Erin are Brigid and Bronaugh O'Malley, just arrived from the fine city of Dublin.” Simon completed the introduction, "Ladies, I make known to you Jack Harris, a gentleman who could be highly instrumental in your successful establishment in our fine metropolis.”

  "A pleasure, sar," the twins replied almost in unison and bobbed a giggling curtsey.

  Harris swept a return bow. "I am doubly enchanted, ladies."

  "Rightly so." Simon laughed. "And you are also much indebted to me."

  "Is that right?" Harris raised a brow.

  "'Tis, indeed! 'Twas quite a coup stealing these two Hibernian nymphs from under Charlotte Hayes' nose."

  "I commend you, Singleton. Mrs. Hayes is not a woman to be trifled with. However did you accomplish such a feat?"

  "It was a stroke of blind luck, actually. I happened through Charing Cross just as the Chester-wagons arrived from the north. Knowing her practice of impressing innocent maids into her den of iniquity, I swooped in as swiftly as any peregrine to snatch this most perfect pair of doves out of her grasp. Bold as brass, I embraced my dearest Irish cousins, whom I had come especially to meet."

  "With a most un-cousinly kiss!" Brigid tittered.

  Simon winked. "I assure you, our blood connection is the thinnest."

  Harris gifted the sisters with his most disarming smile. "I welcome you to London, Miss Brigid and Miss Bronaugh. Might I buy you ladies a tankard?" Signaling the drawer, he led them to a corner table, where shortly a trio of frothy mugs swiftly appeared. "I presume you came south seeking employment?"

  "Aye, sar," Bronaugh replied. "Thar be nothin' fer an honest lass in Dooblin."

  Harris' smile hardened. "Honest lasses, are ye? So ye desire nothing better than to empty some nobleman's chamber pot?"

  The sisters exchanged a wide-eyed look. Brigid then protested, "Mayhap not quite so honest, sar."

  "Nay," Bronaugh chimed in. "But a Dooblin doxy chances a beatin' with every trick and is looky if she turns enou' coin to buy her meat. 'Tis why we come ta Loondon."

  "Then you are not averse to keeping company with some of the fine gentlemen who habit this upstanding establishment?" Harris swept an arm to encompass the crowded tavern.

  Simon raised his tankard. "Here buskin'd Beaus in rich lac'd Cloathes. Like Lords and Squires do bluster; Bards, quacks and cits, knaves, fools and wits, an odd, surprising cluster"

  "That was lovely, Simon," Brigid gushed. "Be ye a poet?"

  "I do my poor best. Which recalls me to my original purpose in coming here." Simon retrieved a bundle of bound pages from the capacious pockets of his frock coat. He handed them to Harris. "I've just returned from the Grub Street printer with the proofs for the new and improved edition of our infamous guidebook. Since I'm already late in meeting my friends, you may settle up with me later."

  Harris nodded. "Demand is increasing. I may even request a second print run this time."

  "All the better for both of us." Simon grinned. "Now as to my dear cousins…"

  Harris raised a hand. "While one cannot deny their natural charms, sadly, my stables are quite full."

  "Come now, Harris!" Simon chided.

  "I am a man of business," Harris argued. "Taking them in as they are will cost me considerable upfront expense. Not only are they in need of clothes, they are in dire want of town polish. It would be weeks or even months before I could turn them out."

  Brigid looked affronted. "The gents ne'er complained afore!"

  "You are no longer in Dooblin," Harris mocked. "The standards are quite different in this establishment. Just look about you."

  Twin pairs of wide blue eyes scanned the room, taking in the painted and powdered actresses, mistresses, and other women of pleasure, all begowned in silks and lace.

  "Aye," Brigid replied. "There be a number of foin ladies and gents." The color deepened in her cheeks. She self-consciously smoothed her rough-spun petticoat.

  "Every wench here is turned out in high style, yet they are all actresses and whores," Harris added, " albeit little separates the two. It is what the well-heeled now expect, a harlot who can mimic the manners of a duchess, but who conducts herself in private like the lewdest whore."

  Bronaugh jutted her generous bosom and raised her chin. "Put us in such foinery and there be none to outshine me and me sister."

  "You would soon become the reigning beauties," Simon agreed.

  "But all comes at a price," Harris argued. "Outfitting you would require more than just painting your pretty faces and replacing your fustian and homespun with silk and lace. You require training in elocution and deportment."

  "Locushun?" Brigid looked to Simon.

  "You see, Simon? She demonstrates my point. Without town polish, they may as well walk the streets."

  "Damn it all, Harris!" Simon furrowed a hand through his hair. "You know I can't keep a mistress—let alone two! But I won't leave them without any protection. Surely you can make some accommodation."

  Harris shook his head. "It would require far too much time and effort before I would see any return on my investment."

  Knowing he'd been played, Simon groaned. "Bloody hell! Just take their initial expenses out of what you owe me. Must you exploit me at every turn?"

  "'Ye would do that fer us, Simon?" Brigid asked.

  "Aye. I could hardly leave you to the vultures." Unfortunately, by the time Harris added his premium to all that the girls would need, he'd find himself once more with pockets to let. Simon looped an arm around each voluptuous feminine bundle. "Mister Harris runs an exceptionally orderly 'disorderly house’. He has more than adequate accommodations above stairs and will furnish all of your needs. As to the town polish you require, I would be more than happy to engage my own services."

  "What do ye mean?" Brigid asked.

  "I shall tutor you both in speech and deportment."

  "You?" Bronaugh giggled.

  "Aye, me! Don't look so surprised. God knows I've spent far more time in the company of women than with my own gender." He didn't add that it would also save him considerable coin. "Will the arrangement suit?"

  "Aye!" they answered in a delighted chorus. "'Ye'll soon eat them wards, Mister Harris," said Bronaugh. "With Simon's help, we'll not be common hars fer long. You just see if some foin gent don't take us into high keepin'."

  "Any man would be a fool to pass you up," Simon gallantly replied.

  Harris shook his head. "Always the gentleman, eh, Singleton? Even to the commonest whore."

  "All women are deserving of gentle treatment, Harris, no matter their circumstances."

  Simon's suspected his soft heart for women would be his ruin, but the fair sex provided his greatest joy and delight. Simon worshipped women, exalting in soft, feminine curves that molded perfectly to a man's body, in the silkiness of their hair, in the lushness of a knowledgeable mouth. The tantalizing scent of feminine musk…their taste…. drove him to distraction.

  Simon rose and took possession of each of their hands, raising them in turn to his lips. "But why to one man should woman be possessed? Is it not better she should the numbers bless? For all smell the rose, but is its scent any less? Adieu, my pets. As I am late to meet some companions, I commend you darlings unto Harris' gentle keeping."

  Simon departed the tavern with a raffish grin stretching his mouth. Twins, begad! 'Twas a wet dream come true!

  ***

  "So, you grace us with your presence at last!" remarked DeVere. "We expected you an hour ago, Sin."

  "I had some business that required my immediate attention." Simon flipped back his coat skirts, spun the chair around to straddle it backward, and then pilfered Ned's tankard. Draining it dry, he wiped his grinning mouth with the back of his hand.

  DeVere smirked. "I must say I admir
e the manner in which you've managed to employ your talents."

  "I only seek to raise a low and much-despised vocation to a higher level," Simon replied.

  Ned signaled the drawer to replace the drink Simon had pinched. "And what vocation would that be?"

  "Has Sin not told you, Ned? He's taken Harris' directory of Covent Garden whores to poetic heights."

  Ned sat back, appraising Simon from beneath furrowed brows. "So, you've become a pimp?"

  "My dear Ned, Harris provides a valuable service," Simon protested.

  "By vetting whores like racehorses? Bollacks!" Ned exclaimed.

  "Come now, Ned," DeVere protested. "Don't be such a prig!"

  Ned shook his head and took a pull on his drink. "A spade is a bloody spade—and a pimp, however poetically inclined, is still a pimp. Does Harris present this list of his right alongside the supper menu?"

  "One should always contemplate desert." DeVere quipped. "Have you perchance a copy, Sin? I am intrigued to see this infamous book."

  "As a matter of fact, I have the proof sheets." Simon retrieved a bound bundle from his coat pocket and handed it to his friend.

  DeVere slumped in his chair, gnawing his lower lip as he perused the pages. "Polly Nimblewrist?" He regarded Simon with a raised brow. "Really, Sin?"

  Simon chuckled. "Some ladies prefer to adopt a colorful moniker to highlight their particular talents."

  DeVere flipped idly to another page. "Her gaze belies the flame within, and her mouth would tempt a saint to sin?"

  "A well-earned accolade." Simon winked.

  DeVere's mouth twitched. "It appears this so-called literary endeavor includes some perquisites?" DeVere continued to another page. "Do not venture where such danger lies, but shun the sight of her victorious eyes’?" His gaze shot up.

  "I should think that one is self-explanatory. At last report, she was frothing black saliva."

  DeVere shuddered and closed the book. "Mercury treatment is not a guaranteed cure for the pox."

  Ned asked, "Are you not still bound for the clergy, Sin?"

  Simon heaved a deep sigh. "It is my dear Mama's fondest wish for me to join the church, but I fear my nature is quite incompatible with a theological vocation. I have searched deeply, and cannot seem to summon an inkling of pious sentiment, which makes me an exceedingly poor candidate for the clergy."

  "Even so, why would you wish to dirty your hands with something like this?"

  "The answer is simple, Ned—I need the money."

  "But you receive a more than adequate allowance."

  "That he mostly squanders on women of easy virtue," DeVere drawled.

  "Admittedly," Simon confessed, unabashed. "But now my father has reduced my quarterly and demands a full account of every ha'penny. I tell you, it is humiliating in the extreme! Unless I wish to live under such a yoke for the next three years— which I positively do not— I must make my own living. If I must travail for my bread, how better than by the fruits of my pen?"

  "So you seek to combine your love of poetry and lewd women by writing poetry about lewd women?" Ned replied dryly.

  Simon clapped Ned on the back. "Precisely! Don't you see the ironic beauty of it?"

  "What do you suppose will happen when your dear, devout mama gets wind of this?" Ned asked.

  "I have taken every precaution to ensure my anonymity." Simon retrieved the book from DeVere. "My contribution to this little work is, and shall forever remain, a well-kept secret."

  "Speaking of secrets…I was waiting for the right moment…." Ned's gaze dropped to the contents of his tankard. "Hang it all."

  "What the devil is it, Ned?" Simon asked.

  "Out with it!" DeVere demanded.

  Ned drew a great breath, then blurted, "Wish me happy, my friends—for I'm to be wed."

  DeVere hissed. "The devil you say!"

  "It's true," Ned replied. "I have been blessed with the hand of Miss Annalee Marsdale."

  "Bloody Hell!" DeVere scrubbed his face. "I can't believe I'm even hearing this! The three of us were to go on the Grand Tour together. You would give that up? I have to question the judgment of any man who willingly subjects himself to such an affliction."

  "Love is not a choice one makes, DeVere," Ned protested. "It is a force of nature and not of our will."

  DeVere looked to Simon. "Mayhap you can interpret this poetic babble for surely I can't comprehend his language!"

  Simon smirked. "You only scoff because you're a stonehearted rogue who has never experienced the rapture of true love's embrace."

  DeVere opened his snuff box with a flip of his thumb. "Being the debauched creature that I am, I'd much prefer the magic of her mouth." He took a pinch. "That's precisely the cure for this affliction, Ned. Just tumble the chit and purge yourself."

  Ned's jaw twitched dangerously. "She's a virtuous girl, DeVere, not some Covent Garden strumpet."

  "There's much to be said for a good strumpet." Simon said.

  "Indeed," DeVere agreed. "And I think our friend here might be sadly in need of a thorough strumping to re-order his mind."

  "Enough!" Ned pounded a fist on the table. "It is done already. The first of the banns are to be called on Sunday. I only delayed my departure from town to tell you sods in person."

  "Begad!" DeVere cried. "I still can't believe you're serious!"

  "As I live and breathe." Ned rose to his feet with a thunderous look. "And I fear neither of you will remain living and breathing if I don't excuse myself."

  DeVere held his silence until Ned was out of earshot. "We can't let him do it, Sin."

  Simon shrugged and tossed back his drink. "Apart from locking him away, perhaps at Bedlam, I see little we can do to prevent it."

  "That's it!" DeVere cried.

  "What diabolical notion have you in mind?" Simon asked.

  "All in due time, my friend, but the first order of business is to get the poor misguided fool foxed to the gills."

  ***

  Simon awoke with the evil glare of sunlight striking his face and the throbbing awareness of an exploding head. Brigid, or was it Bronaugh, God love them both, lay blessedly naked on top of him. But weren't the twins supposed to have been with Ned?

  Where the devil was Ned? Simon turned his head to discover a particularly ugly foot beside his left ear. It was attached to an equally unappealing and hairy leg. Dear God, how much royal punch had they consumed?

  The plan, of course, had been to hinder Ned's departure long enough to convince him of his folly, but Ned had more than proven his head for drink. Simon and DeVere had raised so many cups extolling the various virtues of the bride-to-be that Simon feared he'd run out of lyrical allegories of her charms. He and DeVere had finally begun pouring their own glasses under the table for fear they'd pass out before getting Ned upstairs, where Brigid and Bronaugh awaited.

  The twins had been easily conscripted into the game even before they got a vision of the strapping Ned Chambers. But the moment they'd got him into the chamber, the giant idiot had gone crashing to the floor like some great felled oak. At least they'd got him upstairs first.

  The rest of the night was now a bit of a blur, but judging by the battered feeling of Simon's body and his exploding head, it must have involved a great deal of physical exertion…and noise.

  As Simon deliberated how best to extricate himself from the octopus-like tangle of four sets of limbs, a great shadow came over him. He looked up with a grimace.

  "Ah, Ned. I was just wondering at your absence, though I doubt this bed could contain yet another."

  "Where are my clothes, Sin?" Ned demanded, his gaze a mere slit.

  "Clothes?" Simon repeated blankly.

  "Yes. Clothes." He crossed his arms crossed over his broad chest. "I seem to be devoid of any."

  Simon smirked. "However did you lose them?"

  "I'm not in a humor for humor," Ned replied. "Don't make me drag your arse from the bed."

  "It would be a wasted effort, for you'll
find I have no clothes either." Simon chuckled. He raised the sheet that only partially covered the four bodies. "Indeed, none of us seem to have any clothes."

  "Pox on you and DeVere both!"

  Ned took hold of the sheet and gave a great tug that sent DeVere and Bronaugh—or was it Brigid?—tumbling to the floor with a respective thump, groan, and shriek.

  Ned replied with a murderous look, "I need my clothes. I must be off to Yorkshire at once!"

  DeVere sat up. "Still about that business, eh? Have you truly taken leave of all good sense?"

  "My good sense tells me to take my leave of you!" Ned growled. "I will not humiliate Annalee by failing to appear for our betrothal announcement. For the last time, send for my clothes or you will both suffer the consequences."

  DeVere's stony gaze flickered to Simon and then to the fists balled at Ned's side. "I'm sorry, Ned. We just can't do that."

  One of the twins cried out as Ned's fist smashed into DeVere's jaw, crumpling him to the floor. "I gave you fair warning, DeVere. I won't say I'm sorry." Ned massaged his fist and then turned his attention to Simon, who raised his hands in surrender. Ned, however, ignored him, proceeding to snatch up the bed sheet and wrap it about himself toga-style. "I'm going to leave now, Sin. There is nothing more you can do to stop me."

  "Think of what you do, man!" Simon cried.

  "I know precisely what I do. I'm abiding by the code of a gentleman and upholding the honor of a lady."

  "Codes? Honor?" Simon repeated. "I don't follow you."

  "Damn it all, Sin! If you two misguided miscreants must bloody well know everything, I wed because Annalee could be carrying my child."

  Simon broke into a chuckle. "Damn me, DeVere, mayhap we've misjudged him. It appears Ned's not such a dull dog after all!"

  DeVere sat up, massaging his jaw. "Mayhap not, but he's a damnably careless one! How could you let it happen, Chambers? Surely you have been long enough in my sphere to understand there are ways and means to prevent such mishaps."

  "It just happened!" Ned replied with an impatient noise.

  "So you lost your head in a moment of passion," DeVere interjected, "and will now pay dearly for the rest of your natural life."