Den of Thieves
Page 6
“Not specifically, but one can assume he is here to ease trade relations with England.” We entered our bedchamber. A room I knew all too well. I stopped and looked around. Something was different. Sheppard must have noticed my lack of placement.
“I must ask for your forgiveness.” He nodded as I turned to look at him. “I took the liberties of exploring the cellar and came across another washtub. It looks old, but still in good shape. She was…” He ran his finger over the curved edge lost in his thoughts.
“Sheppard?”
“Yes, of course. She was heavy. I ask Crowe to assist me in bringing it to the bedchamber. I thought it more appropriate than sharing one…what I mean—” He looked away.
“It is okay, Sheppard,” Pierre said. “We know what you meant.”
“It was Mother Clap’s.” My voice was flat, saddened by the sudden memories. I ran my fingers along the large oblong frame and remembered her song voice drifting through the house as she bathed.
“Have I overstepped my position in some way?”
“No, not at all.” I looked at him and smiled. “I have not seen this in over two years. I forgot it was down there.” I stepped away from the washtubs as Sheppard took two pots of water from the fireplace and began to fill the tubs with hot water. I noticed Pierre undressing, and followed his lead.
Sheppard glanced toward me with his head bowed as I unlaced my breeches. He turned away as I pulled off my inner most linen. He seemed ill at ease and troubled by mine and Pierre’s nakedness. I looked at Pierre, who shook his head with the utmost discretion. I said nothing and waited with my hands clasped in front of my privates as Sheppard finished drawing the bath.
“Unless either of you have further need of me, I shall go powder the wigs while you bathe.” Sheppard’s nervousness was apparent as he watched Pierre and me step into our separate tubs.
“Thank you.” I said standing in the hot water. “The wigs are in the bureau beneath the stairs in the cellar.” I turned toward him. He blushed and turned his back to me. “I cannot promise the condition of the wigs—”
“I am sure I shall manage, Mr. Thomas,” he replied and closed the door behind him.
“Has Sheppard always been so uptight about nudity and sex?” I said as I sunk into the tub.
“He has always had a difficult time with his spirits,” Pierre said. He ran the bar of soap over his arms and chest. “I thought he had it under control. I guess his demons are getting the better of him.”
“His demons?”
“Sheppard is a devoted man of faith and struggles with guilt over his sexual desires for both men and women. The internal war that rages inside him causes him to drink more than he should.” Pierre handed me the bar of soap.
“I cannot imagine a faith so strong as to dictate my life into such misery.” I scrubbed my hair with the lather then dunked my head into the water. Blowing water and suds from my mouth as I emerged, I added, “Mother Clap, John, and I went to church every Sunday.”
“Some people cannot reconcile the two issues.” Pierre dunked his head. “Despite what he thinks, drinking enhances his urges, that is why his mood shifted so drastically between the time we arrived, and a few minutes ago when we undressed.”
“I feel we are to blame for his discomfort.”
“No one is to blame but his faith. All we can do is be there for him if and when he needs us.” Pierre stood. “Let us dry off and get ourselves covered before Sheppard comes back with our wigs.”
I sat for a moment longer, admiring Pierre’s body. The fresh lavender scent drifting through the room stirred my desire. I felt myself rise in the silence of our closeness and touched myself beneath the water while I watched Pierre dry himself. I heard footsteps coming from the hallway. I stood, stepped out of the tub and began drying myself as a knock came to the door.
“Come in,” I called, wrapping the towel around my waist.
Sheppard opened the door. “Sir? Are you able to receive?” His voice took on a cautionary tone as he stepped inside. “Your wigs are in the living room whenever you are ready for them.” He kept his eyes directed at the floor, and his body turned away from us.
“Thank you, Sheppard. We shall be down as soon as we have finished dressing,” I said. When he did not leave, I added, “Is there something else?”
“I beg your pardon, but when Mr. Baptiste asked me to come to London, I did not inquire if there would be a room for me here, or if I would have to find other living arrangements. I am fine with finding a place elsewhere in the city if I must, though I would need a day or two off to have the time—”
“You are more than welcome to stay here,” Pierre said.
“Thank you, sir.”
Pierre went up to him and placed his arm around Sheppard’s shoulder. “There are several rooms downstairs available. Crowe has claimed one of them, but the other two are available.”
“Are they not used for other purposes? I mean, I do not wish to intrude on the livelihood of this establishment.”
“Clapton’s is a reputable business. I spent too many months in Newgate Prison after the raids to ever risk getting sent back there. You can rest assured I am no longer renting out those rooms to the patrons of Clapton’s. We have cleaned and remade each of the rooms.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thomas. Mr. Baptiste for your generosity. It will not go unnoticed.” He looked toward the ceiling and crossed himself. “I shall place my belongings in one while you finish dressing.” He bowed then shut the door behind him.
“As much as I appreciate Sheppard being here, it is going to take some getting used to his religious convictions.” I clasped my hands together in mock prayer. “Bless me, father, for I have sinned.”
“You are too much.” Pierre pulled on his shirt and tucked the tails into his breeches.
“I am sorry. I know everyone has a right to believe whatever they want.” I finished pulling on my overcoat and tugging on the sleeves. “But I am feeling a bit awkward around him and our unconventional relationships. It is as if we are being watched and judged by Sheppard.”
“I am sure things will ease once he gets used to being here.” Pierre came up to me and tied my cravat. “You have to realize he is not used to such open displays of affection. Except for a few liaisons over the years, I never brought anyone home with me when I lived in Paris. It will just take him some time.” Pierre looked at his pocket watch. “We should be going.” He opened the door and led me out of the room and down the stairs where Sheppard was waiting.
* * * *
As we entered Mayfair, I became fascinated at the large homes, and well-manicured streets. A link-boy was making his nightly rounds lighting the street lamps as dusk settled over the city. I peered out the side window of the carriage and wondered if the people’s lives who lived inside were as trying and unpleasant as my childhood had been. I always equated money with misery.
“You know, Thomas, once your inheritance is released, you could afford to live such a lifestyle.” Pierre leaned toward me, placed his chin on my shoulder, and shared my view.
“You mean we,” I replied with a curt look. “I would be no more comfortable here than I was in a cell in Newgate. I grew up with money, and I was never more miserable in my life.”
“What are you going to do with your soon to be realized wealth?” Pierre kissed my neck then straightened himself on the seat as the carriage came to a stop.
“I want to renovate Clapton’s. Mother Clap always wanted to redecorate, but she never had enough money. I also want to help rebuild your business back in Spitalfields. Your office needs to be where you can do the most good.”
“Thomas, that is your money…”
“If it was not for Mr. Green, you would still have your office in Spitalfields. It is only fitting that some of his money goes to rebuild your business.”
“Thank you, Thomas.”
“I want to use the family money to help others.” I said as Sheppard opened the door and helped us out.
As we approached the house, chamber music drifted out the front door and windows. Despite Mother Clap’s love of music, I had never developed an ear for distinguishing between the composers. I looked at Pierre. “Bach?”
“Purcell.” He smiled at me. “We need to take in some opera. You have been denied the knowledge and beauty of music for too long.”
“If the opera requires me to wear this fucking wig, then no thank you.” I slipped two fingers under the edge of the wig and scratched the side of my head. I brushed the dust off my hand as we entered the home of Jonathan Wilcox. Bess must have been watching the front door. She was already making her way toward us before we saw her.
“Bess, you look stunning.” I took her hands in mine and kissed her cheeks.
“As you do.” She blushed. “Handsome that is, and the same goes for you, Pierre.” She leaned toward him for a kiss. “I am so glad the two of you are here. These dinners are such a bore. Please, come in and have a drink with me.” She bent her elbows and curtsied as I took one arm, and Pierre the other. As I looked around the overly decorated room, I noticed Mr. Wilcox eyeing us. He nodded in our direction. A smile crossed his lips, one which unsettled me. I turned my back on him.
“I cannot believe Mr. Wilcox lives here,” I whispered. A servant presented us with a tray. We each took a glass of wine, nodded then continued our conversation.
“Impressive, is it not?” Bess said then took a sip of her wine. “Though I must say it is a bit too much for my taste.”
“Surprising would be my word of choice being my only interaction with Mr. Wilcox was in the rooms and tunnels beneath the Goose and Gridiron. I had no idea he lived in such luxury.”
“Luxury acquired through his illegal activities, no less,” Pierre said.
Before I could remind Pierre of his promise to keep his personal dislike for Mr. Wilcox to himself, the music stopped, and everyone’s attention turned toward the guest of honor as he entered the room.
My breath caught in my throat as my eyes fell upon Rasmus Borgstrom. He was nothing like I had imagined, though if I were to tell the truth, I was not sure what I had expected. There was an air about him, but it was not arrogance, even though vanity was justified in his case. He was not what one would call masculine by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he was more effeminate than most women I knew, wore more makeup, and carried himself with a delicate demeanor. As he looked around the room at the small group of honored guests, he seemed almost humbled by their attention. Accompanying him into the room were two members of what I assumed was his entourage. The young man and woman, both of whom appeared the same age and had many of the same features. While Mr. Borgstrom smiled, and nodded with great gentility, his two assistants retained a firm, emotionless expression as they looked out at the guests and their surroundings.
In what I could only describe as a choreographed exit, the two attendants walked in front of Mr. Borgstrom, turned to face him, bowed then retreated through the doors in which they had just entered. As they departed, Mr. Wilcox came up to the guest of honor, greeted him, then proceeded to take him around the room for introductions.
As I watched the formalities, it was not difficult to notice how Mr. Borgstrom stood out against the high society of London. His coal-black and un-powdered wig, styled with soft flowing curls cascaded over the front of his shoulders. I patted my wig with its powdery short cropped curls and tiny tail in back and wished mine to be more like his. I noticed Pierre holding back a laugh at my comparison.
Mr. Borgstrom’s face appeared unflawed, almost with a boyish charm. His lips colored a subdued red, accentuated the rose painted hue of his cheeks. His attire was subtle, a white frilled shirt, blue knee breeches, and pale white stockings. He finished his outfit with a gray silk jacket which hung down to his knees. It was much too long by the standards we were used to in London. I looked at my outfit and felt overdressed to an almost exaggerated state. A small, pouch or purse hung from a thin strap which he wore across one shoulder. For the life of me, I could not take my eyes off the spectacle that was our guest of honor.
“He is wearing a purse,” I whispered to Bess. “Is that normal for the Dutch?”
“Mr. Borgstrom is known for his eccentricities,” Bess replied. “It is not a purse. Rumors say he has a pet mouse that goes everywhere with him. My guess is that is how the little creature travels.”
“I wore a wig to dine with a mouse?”
“Thomas.” Pierre elbowed me. Bess sniggered and placed her arm in mine. Mr. Wilcox came toward us with introductions.
“May I present, Mr. Rasmus Borgstrom,” Mr. Wilcox said. “This is Bess Dutton.”
“Madam.” Mr. Borgstrom bowed, lifted her fingers in his grip, and kissed her hand. “Your beauty pales only in comparison to your spiritual essence.” He spoke with a thick Dutch accent.
“It is an honor—”
“Please, madam, do not spoil this moment with words. The pleasure is all mine.” He smiled then turned his attention to Pierre.
“And this is—”
“Ah, there is no need for introductions, Mr. Wilcox.” Mr. Borgstrom bowed. “Pierre Baptiste. It is an honor to meet such an outstanding gentleman such as yourself.”
“I beg your pardon?” Pierre seemed a bit thrown by the one-sided familiarity.
“There is no use in modesty here for I am sure you know your reputation is well known and respected in many foreign lands, especially considering the struggles between France, England, and my homeland. Rest assured the Dutch parliament keeps a close eye on their competitors in trade, and the men who can get things accomplished.” He bowed. “We have much to discuss.”
“I am at your service, sir.” Pierre gave a quick nod as Mr. Borgstrom fixed his attention on me.
“Thomas Newton, sir. It is a privilege to meet you.” I bowed with one foot extended over the other as Mother Clap had taught me. I held back an improper smile as I wondered what Mother Clap would have made of this extravagance.
“Mr. Newton. I have heard much about you from the magistrate.” He nodded.
“And I have heard little about you,” I said before I could hold my tongue. “My apologies, I meant no disrespect. It is just that Mr. Wilcox and I do not have many opportunities to talk.”
“Ah, then another unusual occurrence, as I thought you and Mr. Wilcox were better acquainted.”
“Acquainted yes, but far from anything else.” I noticed Mr. Wilcox glaring at me. Mr. Borgstrom cocked his head to the left and gave Mr. Wilcox a wry smile.
“Well, I believe dinner is about to be served,” Mr. Wilcox said. An obvious ploy to divert the conversation. “Shall we?” He drew his arm out and let Mr. Borgstrom go ahead of him. As I walked by, he grabbed hold of my arm and with a tone I could not place, said, “You and I need to talk, Thomas.”
“I do not believe this is the time nor place for a conversation.” I looked down at his grip on my elbow. “Now, if you will excuse me, sir.” I pulled my arm from his hold, took Bess on one arm while Pierre took her other. The three of us proceeded to the dining room, leaving Mr. Wilcox behind.
Mr. Borgstrom sat at the head of the table. Mr. Wilcox came in straightening his coat and took the opposite end of the table. One of the magistrate’s staff escorted Bess to sit next to Mr. Borgstrom. I was placed to the left of Bess. A woman of considerable age was seated to my left. The male/female arrangement continued on the opposite side with Pierre seated across from me. The other guests, of whom I did not know, made up the rest of the table.
I looked down the table toward Mr. Wilcox, who eyed everyone at the table with pride. He nodded with a slight tilt of his head. I followed his stare. Mr. Borgstrom and Mr. Wilcox were in some form of private conversation, and only those with knowledge could participate. The conversations waned as the cold pea soup was served
then once the servants left, everyone took up eating without another word.
I looked around the table at the other guests as I ate. It appeared everyone sitting around the table was as uncomfortable with the silence as I. Since I was not known for a quiet nature, I decided to break the silence as everyone finished the first course.
“Where are you staying while visiting London?”
“I have been given living quarters in the area between the West End and Parliament.”
“I suppose that location lends itself quite convenient for your business in London.”
“My apologies, Mr. Newton, again I am embarrassed by my assumptions. You do not know why I am in London, do you?”
“Is it not to help ease trade relations with England?” I leaned back in my chair as the staff replaced the soup with the main course. The smell of roast venison, artichokes, and string beans drifted off the plate and made my mouth water. I restrained myself and waited for the others to receive their plates.
“I can assure you his majesty would not be pleased if I tried to intervene on such matters. I am more of a Liaison for the Dutch government. I like to think of myself as an ambassador of good will. I am a scientist, nothing fancy mind you, a humble practitioner of natural magic.”
“You are a witch?” The conversation around the table died away. The sound of silver dropping against the plates chimed around us, as all eyes turned toward Mr. Borgstrom and me. I immediately regretted my comment but the words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “My apologies, Mr. Borgstrom. I can assure you I meant no disrespect.”
“Thankfully, I have enough faith in the Lord as not to be offended by your statement.” He held up his hand as I tried to speak. “Please, no apologies are necessary. It is obvious you lack the knowledge in the sciences to understand the meaning of magic. Witches are called upon to do the devil’s bidding. They are untrustworthy and only believe in the one deity, Satan. I, by contrast, study the natural elements of the world we live in, and the world we do not. I use the elements the Lord himself created and therefore my work is for the greater good of all things. I am the Lord’s humble servant, and nothing more. Can you say that, Mr. Newton?” He held up his index finger. “Ah that was rhetorical no need to respond. I do not believe that type of conversation would be suitable for such a setting as this.” He winked and gave me a knowing smile. I could not understand how someone of his standing and from another country could possibly know of my less than moral trade.