The Captain's Courtesan

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Sure you don’t want company, Captain?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Alec was flinging open the door when he came to an abrupt halt, for outside in the passageway a large, golden-haired dog was watching him expectantly.

  Alec swung round, eyes ominously narrowed. ‘Garrett, do you know what this creature’s doing here?’

  ‘He’s been hangin’ about outside for days, Captain. No food, no ‘ome. Thought we might manage to fit him in.’

  Alec raked his hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you realise how much dogs this size eat?’

  Garrett remained imperturbable. ‘He’s nowhere else to go, Captain. His name’s Ajax.’

  ‘Ajax. Then, Garrett, you’ll oblige me greatly by finding Ajax somewhere else to go!’

  ‘Very well. Gently now with that door, Captain!’

  Too late. As the door slammed shut after Alec’s rapidly departing figure, flakes of ancient plaster pattered down from the ceiling. Garrett, with a sigh, fetched a broom to sweep them up, then ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Blasted place is fallin’ to bits … Don’t worry, lad. Our Captain’s all heart. Most of the time.’

  Ajax gazed up at his new friend and wagged his tail happily.

  Chapter Two

  The Temple of Beauty, Ryder Street, St James’s Later that evening

  The first-floor dressing room was crowded and smelled of cheap perfume. Rosalie Rowland edged her way towards the nearest door and opened it a few inches, hoping for a breath of cooler, fresher air.

  Oh, fiddlesticks. She shut it again quickly.

  Men. Dozens of them, queuing from the ground floor all the way up the staircase. Men, tall and short, rich and poor, plump and thin, all filling the air with the smells of tobacco and strong drink. Men, queuing to see—amongst others—her. On stage tonight, in the upstairs hall of the notorious Temple of Beauty.

  Rosalie fought down a renewed wave of panic. If she didn’t catch her death of cold in this— costume that was as flimsy as a bride’s veil, she’d catch something horrible from the dirt. Not that such a minor detail bothered the proud proprietor, Dr Perceval Barnard, or his wife. Or the other girls, who chattered and giggled as they clustered to paint their faces in front of the looking-glasses hung askew on the walls.

  ‘On stage in ten minutes, Greek goddesses!’ squawked Mrs Patty Barnard. ‘Make sure you’re all looking ravishing, now!’

  ‘Think she means—ready to be ravished,’ drily put in dark-haired Sal close by. Within minutes of Rosalie’s arrival here earlier today, kind Sal had promptly taken her under her wing. And people to watch out for, Sal told her, most definitely included Patty Barnard, a shrill, domineering forty-year-old, whose dyed red hair dazzled the eye.

  Mrs Barnard didn’t hear Sal’s comment, but her sharp eyes shot to Rosalie. ‘You. New girl. Pull your gown lower. Our gents haven’t paid to see a bunch of Vestal Virgins!’

  Rosalie kept her expression demure. ‘Certainly it’s the last place on earth they’d expect to find any, ma’am.’

  The rest of the girls sniggered. Mrs Barnard looked at her, frowning, uncertain, then swung round to the others. ‘Girls, stop squabbling over those Grecian arm-bracelets. There should be sufficient for you all … Charlotte, my dear, what a truly exquisite Aphrodite you make!’

  And the normal hubbub of chatter and preparation resumed.

  The Temple of Beauty was, Dr Barnard liked to declare, a gentlemen’s club. But there were no rules for membership, merely an initial payment for the evening’s entry, after which the clients could indulge in the usual pursuits of dining, drinking and gaming. Many other clubs in London offered the same. But here, at the stroke of ten, all the patrons moved as one to join the queue for the upstairs hall, because the Temple of Beauty was known throughout London for its classical tableaux featuring scantily-clad girls in costumes who posed in what Dr Barnard called ‘attitudes’ for around ten minutes while the gentlemen in the audience, already mellow with food and wine, feasted their eyes.

  ‘I have an exclusive clientele, my dear, most of them highly educated in the Greek and Roman myths,’ Dr Barnard had earnestly assured Rosalie yesterday morning when she’d called about a post. ‘And I pride myself,’ he went on, ‘on my own knowledge of those ancient times of glory!’ He’d waved an expansive hand towards his crowded bookshelves, though his lecherous appraisal of her face and figure had rather spoiled the effect of his lofty words.

  Rosalie had dragged her eyes from an oversized volume called The Myths of Apollodorus and gazed back at him brightly. Now she looked anew round the crowded dressing room. Greek goddesses? Well, the chief of his girls, Charlotte—’the star of our firmament!’ was how Dr Barnard had introduced her to Rosalie earlier—looked more like a Covent Garden streetwalker than a heavenly deity. Tonight, as Patty Barnard adjusted Charlotte’s dyed locks fondly, Sal hissed to Rosalie, ‘D’you think our Mrs B. would find Charlotte quite so exquisite if she caught her romping in bed with ‘er husband whenever Mrs B.’s back’s turned?’

  Rosalie felt laughter bubbling up. But it faded, as she glanced at herself in the mirror and thought, just for a moment, that she saw another face—pale, wistful—gazing back at her.

  Her sister. Oh, her sister might have stood here. Might have looked into this very mirror …

  She jumped as Mrs Barnard’s harsh voice rasped in her ear, ‘You, girl. Take that ribbon off!’

  Rosalie’s fingers flew up to the pale blue ribbon with which she’d tied back her silvery-blonde hair. ‘But I thought …’

  ‘Do you think,’ went on Mrs Barnard, ‘that the Ancient Greeks tied back their hair in that fashion, my girl?’

  Rosalie rather suspected they did and was prepared to argue the point; Sal stood heavily on her toe.

  As it happened, Rosalie was now quite happy to let her long hair hang free. It meant she could hide behind it. And heavens above, looking at this garment they’d given her to wear, she’d need to.

  When she’d first seen her dress, laid across Mrs Barnard’s plump arm, it had looked perfectly respectable. She was Athena, the goddess of wisdom, after all, so a long white-muslin tunic girdled with a turquoise cord seemed appropriately demure. ‘The turquoise will match your eyes, my dear!’ had simpered Mrs B.

  Up until now, Rosalie had never really considered that she had much of a figure to hide. She was twenty-one years old, of medium height, and rather too thin; her legs, she considered, were too long and her bosom decidedly undistinguished compared to the voluptuous figures that were on display around her. Besides, she’d always made a point of dressing to deter any roving male eye. She’d never in her life up till now worn her hair loose and tumbling to her shoulders, had never worn a gown remotely like this one. Demure? That was before she got it on. It was sheer, it was clinging … For heaven’s sake! How could she go out on stage like this?

  She’d done her very best to adjust the ridiculously low neckline by quickly threading a turquoise ribbon through the scalloped lace that edged the yoke and pulling it together into a bow just above the curve of her breasts. But Sal, who was busy powdering her own extremely well-displayed plump bosom, turned to her, powder puff in hand. ‘Ma Barnard will never let you get away with that cover-up, darlin’. Not in a thousand years.’

  Rosalie protested. ‘I’ve no intention of going out there half-naked!’

  ‘What did you expect, in Dr Barnard’s Temple of Beauty? Gawd, dearie, I wish I had your looks. Your face and figure, that gorgeous hair of yours—’

  ‘My figure? My hair?’ echoed Rosalie.

  Sal sighed. ‘Own up, now. You ain’t done nothing like this before, ever, have you?’

  ‘Well, no. Not exactly …’

  ‘Not on the run, are you, from the law, or some cross husband?’

  ‘No! Not at all, Sal! And anyway, I don’t suppose that any of them will be paying much attention to me. Will they?’

  ‘New girl at Dr B.’s Temple of Beauty? Course they’ll be lookin’ at you!’ Sal drew clo
ser. ‘And after the show—did Mrs B. explain? There’s a bit of music in what they call the Inner Temple on the next floor up, and it’s there that the gents pay to come to dance with us.’

  ‘Just dancing?’ Rosalie enquired rather faintly. She had already discovered that this place was like a rabbit warren, with five floors of rooms and various twisting staircases.

  Sal winked. ‘Just dancin’ to start with. Then—who knows?—you might end up with a nice rich lord to milk for a while, if you just shut yer eyes through all the grunting and heaving. But watch out, gal. If they promise love, they’re lying through their teeth.’

  Rosalie nodded, her heart sinking. She knew that. But so many didn’t.

  Rosalie, I’m in London. I’m in trouble. Please help me. That was all that was in Linette’s pitiful letter last October. Nothing else—no address, no other clue—except that Rosalie knew Linette had always wanted to be an actress.

  Now emotion squeezed at Rosalie’s throat like a necklet of iron when she thought what had become of that dream, and a touch of fear also; Linette had been only two years younger than Rosalie, and though Linette’s blonde locks were more luxuriant and her figure more shapely, the sisters did bear a resemblance. At the interview yesterday, Rosalie had worried that Dr Barnard might spot it.

  But his gaze had been one of cursory approval. ‘Oh, they come and they go, our girls!’ he’d said airily, when she asked him why he had vacancies. ‘A world of opportunities awaits them, after all!’

  Opportunities. Anger, as well as despair, surged through her. Then the door flew open and Danny, the lad who helped backstage, burst in. ‘Three minutes to go, lay-dees!’ He looked straight at Rosalie and winked.

  ‘Dirty little rascal,’ said Sal amiably. ‘Always hopes he’ll catch us with nothing on. Here—have some rouge.’

  ‘No thanks.’ Rosalie turned to face her. ‘Sal, how long have you worked here?’

  ‘Feels like a lifetime, but I’ve been here all of six months! What with Mrs B.’s sharp tongue and her hubby docking our pay at any excuse, no one sticks it more than a year.’ Sal was piling on more rouge. ‘Why are you workin’ here, gal? Standin’ about on stage in next to nothing isn’t what you was brought up to, anyone can see that! You’re clever, you speak like a lady. You could have bin a governess or something, surely!’

  ‘I have a child to care for,’ Rosalie answered simply. ‘Governesses with children don’t get hired.’

  Sal looked at her quickly. ‘How old’s your little one?’

  ‘Two. She’s just two years old.’

  ‘Ah, bless! She’s lucky, then, havin’ you to watch over her,’ said Sal wistfully. ‘Me, I was put on the streets by my ma when I was ten. To think I’m playin’ Hebe, the virgin goddess—Lord knows I can hardly remember bein’ a virgin meself. But I’ve learnt lessons. I know the ways of the so-called gentry like the back of my hand. And remember, the best way to make life comfortable for yourself and your little ‘un is to open your legs to a rich man—but get his money first, you hear me?’

  ‘Ladies!’ shrieked the boy Danny, flinging the door wide open. ‘Ready to go on stage!’

  ‘Here we go.’ Sal grinned.

  Here we go indeed, echoed Rosalie silently.

  But not before Mrs Patty Barnard, inspecting every goddess as they filed through the door, ripped open the bow securing the neckline of Rosalie’s bodice and tugged it down to show the curve of her breasts. ‘Told you before, Athena. Think you’re in a damned nunnery?’

  Rosalie pressed her lips firmly together, but a faint flush of defiance rose in her cheeks.

  With the curtains still closed, all the girls hurried to take up position on stage. Charlotte was carefully seating herself on a damask-covered throne and preening her dyed golden locks, while the others clustered around. Now Rosalie could hear Dr Barnard standing in front of the stage and announcing to the gathered audience, ‘For your delectation, my honoured friends! A scene of exquisite and ennobling artistry—the Greek goddesses!’

  Rosalie had kept as far to the back as she could. Oh, she wondered, the breath hitching in her throat, what had she let herself in for?

  The heavy curtains were gliding back.

  There must be nigh-on a hundred men out there.

  She felt rather sick. For Linette, her beloved sister. She would see this through, for Linette—and for Linette’s child, Katy.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Dear Rosalie, why on earth are you asking me about such a place?’ had been her friend Helen’s startled response when Rosalie mentioned the Temple of Beauty two days ago. They were in Helen’s printing shop, and all around them were heaps of freshly printed broadsheets. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ Helen went on, ‘that Temple is nothing but a glorified brothel!’

  ‘Bwothel,’ little Katy had lisped. ‘Bwothel.’

  Quickly Helen turned to the two children, who were drawing stick men on some scraps of paper. ‘Toby, darling, take Katy to the kitchen and get her a glass of milk, will you?’

  ‘And a treacle bun?’ Six-year-old Toby, always hungry, asked the question hopefully.

  ‘And a treacle bun each, yes, if Katy wants. Look after Katy, now!’

  ‘C’mon, Kate.’ Holding out his hand, Toby had valiantly led the toddling two-year-old past the for-once silent printing press towards the kitchen. Katy was still lisping, ‘Bwothel. Bwothel …’

  Rosalie watched them go with a catch in her throat, then said quietly to Helen, ‘Toby’s wonderful with Katy. I’m so very grateful to you for letting us stay here with you, Helen. I wish you’d let me pay you for our food, at least!’

  ‘And I wish you’d take my advice and stop going round these dreadful places on your own.’ Helen had sighed. ‘Men who visit the Temple of Beauty have only one thing on their mind! Are you going because you’ve heard that Linette might have been there?’

  ‘Exactly. You know how Linette always talked of being an actress? Well, now I’ve found out she may have worked at this Temple of Beauty, three years ago.’

  ‘That place! Oh, poor, poor Linette!’

  Helen had been a teacher at the little school in the village where Rosalie and Linette grew up, then she’d married and moved to London, where her husband ran a small publishing press in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. But a few years later he’d abandoned Helen and their little son, Toby, for a singer from Sadler’s Wells. Helen had always kept in touch with Rosalie by letter, and after her husband’s departure she wrote to her young friend that she’d resolved to make a success of the publishing business on her own. When Rosalie’s search for Linette brought her to London last autumn, it was to Helen that she turned.

  ‘I will pay you, Helen, for my accommodation,’ Rosalie had insisted when she arrived outside Helen’s door.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Helen had hugged her warmly. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you find your poor sister. As for payment—well, how about writing for The Scribbler?’

  ‘The Scribbler? Helen, what’s that?’

  And Helen had gone on to explain.

  The Scribbler was a weekly news sheet Helen produced, a round-up of London events and advertisements, which Helen also used from time to time to denounce the greed of the rich and the plight of the poor.

  All this Helen had told Rosalie as she’d unpacked her bags last October. ‘What I really need,’ Helen had said, eyeing her former pupil thoughtfully, ‘is someone who’ll write a weekly diary of London life. Something light, about the theatre, for example, or an amusing commentary on the latest women’s fashions … How about it, Rosalie? You have talent—I realised it when you were my pupil.’

  ‘But I’ve never thought of writing for publication!’

  ‘Why not? I remember you write with such charm, such humour—just try it, please?’

  Helen’s suggestion certainly paid off, because Rosalie’s weekly articles—published under the pen name of Ro Rowland, a fictional young man about town—had become resoundingly popular. In other circu
mstances, Rosalie would have revelled in her new life. She’d come to love this little Clerkenwell printer’s shop with its ancient hand press that rattled away merrily in the front parlour. But Helen could be stubborn, and every so often Rosalie had to make clear what she was after. What her purpose was.

  ‘All I want is to find out the truth about Linette,’ Rosalie had repeated steadily in the face of Helen’s objections. ‘I thought we’d discussed this. My sister might have met him at the Temple of Beauty and I cannot leave any stone unturned.’

  ‘Then …’ Helen had hesitated ‘… it might just help you to know that Dr Barnard keeps a secret register of clients. Names, addresses, the dates they visited, that sort of thing. I only heard about it because once I was offered the chance to publish some of it by a man who worked for Dr Barnard and showed me some pages he’d copied. I refused, of course—I’d have made too many enemies. But I learnt that Dr Barnard keeps this register—he calls it his green book—in his office, hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of a big old book called The Myths of Apollodorus. And since you know, roughly, the dates that Linette was there, it just might help you! It’s such a tragedy that you don’t know the name of her villainous seducer—’

  Rosalie cut in, giving Helen’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thank you for the news about the register. You are such a good friend.’

  Helen shook her head, sighing. Though over thirty now, she still looked just like the village schoolteacher she once was, with her brown hair pinned up tightly and her eyes behind her spectacles shining with intelligence. ‘Just look after yourself, my dear, won’t you? Get out of that “Temple place” just as soon as you can. Men.’

  ‘Men don’t worry me, since I’ve got a foolproof defence, Helen,’ Rosalie said lightly. ‘I’m simply not interested in them. Though we mustn’t forget that there are some good men in the world!’

  ‘Not that I’ve met lately!’ snapped Helen.