My Lady's Pleasure

by Julia Justiss

  The sharp tang of fresh coffee eased the queasy swirl left in the brandy’s wake, and the aroma of fresh-baked meat pie made him realize that, having had no dinner the previous night, he was famished.

  “Mrs. Smith, ’tis a blessing you are!” His mouth already watering, Teagan reached for his money pouch.

  “Nay, put away yer coins,” she said as she set down the tray. “I’ve just made the meat pies, and the coffee be fresh. Have ’em while they’re hot.”

  Teagan took the mug and gulped a reviving draught of the coffee, then set about the meat pie. “Ah, sweet lady,” he said after the first savory bite, “you’re an aingeal flown straight down from heaven!”

  Mrs. Smith chuckled. “An’ ye’re a lad with too honeyed a tongue! But a good tenant ye are for all that, always payin’ me reg’lar, never pinching the maid nor bringin’ in raff ’n scraff to brawl ’n gamble. I’d rather have yer plain “Mr.” than half a dozen lordlings with fancy titles runnin’ up their bills ’n sendin’ their man bangin’ on me door, hollarin’ fer me to fetch ’em this ’r that.”

  “Why, Mrs. Smith, I shall have to change my new coat for an altar boy’s robe, such a saint ye make me out to be,” Teagan replied as he reached for another meat pie.

  “Not a saint, I’ll reckon,” Mrs. Smith replied as she crossed the room, “but a true gentleman, fer all that ye carry on about bein’ naught but a rogue.” She deposited a bundle of folded linen on the bureau. “Maisy said to tell ye them new shirts iron up real nice. An’ ’twas kind o’ ye to give her an extra copper, her mum being sick ’n all.”

  “She does her work well,” Teagan said, thinking of the young girl—she couldn’t be much older than eight—with her thin shoulders and slender hands, sweat beading her face as she hefted the heavy iron and guided it across the endless stacks of linen shirts.

  How could he not despise his aristocratic cronies who carelessly threw away hundreds of pounds on a single round of cards, when so many honest folk made do on so little?

  “Ah, did ye not see the parcel what was delivered to ye yesterday? I set it here on the bureau. The boy what brung it said ’twas already paid for.”

  Teagan looked in the direction of Mrs. Smith’s pointing finger to a small paper-wrapped package. After Oxford, he’d turned his back on the books he loved, but upon returning from Rafe’s hunting box, winnings heavy in his pocket, he’d vowed to purchase a few of his favorites. Despite his dwindling resources, when he’d seen the small used volume of Herodotus in the shop window of the penny press, he’d not been able to resist it.

  His spirits inched up a notch. Before he forced himself from his rooms this evening for another round of gaming, he would allow himself the pleasure of an hour in the intelligent company of that long-dead historian.

  Mrs. Smith walked to the door, then hesitated. “There were a man come from that Hoby’s yesterday, and one from that Mr. Weston as well. But I tol’ ’em all the young gentlemen buy on tick, ’n ye’d always paid me sooner ’r late, and would pay ’em too, so’s not to come round here bothering ye no more. That should hold ’em off a week.”

  Teagan looked over in surprise. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. That was very kind.”

  Mrs. Smith shrugged. “The merchants’ lads been comin’ round here reg’lar since I bought this place caterin’ to the Quality, fer it seems most o’ the gentlemen never have a feather ta fly with. Spend it all on cards ’n spirits ’n women, with naught left to pay the duns.” Mrs. Smith gave a sniff of disdain. “But I ain’t forgot the favors ye’ve done me, and ifn I kin keep the collectors from botherfyin’ ye till ye come about, I’m right happy to do it.”

  Surprised and touched by his landlady’s intervention on his behalf, Teagan hardly knew what to say. “Ah, Mrs. Smith, I misspoke the truth earlier. ’Tis the very Queen of Heaven ye be, and a beauty besides!”

  Laughing, Mrs. Smith waved a hand at him from the doorway. “More’s the fool me, were I ta listen to yer pretty words! But go on, now, finish yer pies. There’s ale in the kitchen—ring when ye’re ready for it.”

  After she’d bobbed a curtsy and departed, Teagan chewed the rest of his meat pie and eyed the neatly wrapped package. After a few moment’s struggle, he gave up, too eager to wait until after he’d finished shaving.

  Quickly he unwrapped and drew out the volume. Though the cover’s nicked and dented surface spoke of hard use and lack of care, nonetheless Teagan ran his fingers over it reverently. He opened the flyleaf, to find an inscription in fading black ink: “T. Williams, Oxford, 1808.”

  Oxford. In his head he heard Magdalene’s bells tolling, surprising him with the lateness of the hour as he sat at the desk in his narrow room, immersed in the Dialogues of Plato. Close his eyes, and he could see the soft gold of the weathered stone of the university’s halls and chapel glow in the early morning light as he strode to his professor’s house.

  A deep, barely conscious anger stirred, and he shut the cover with a snap. If the possession of a few ragged volumes, doubtless sold off at the first possible moment by university men more enamored of drink than scholarship, was going to sink him into a green melancholia over being torn from the one place he’d ever felt he belonged, he’d best resell the lot of them forthwith. That page of his life had been ripped out and trampled underfoot long ago.

  After placing the book on the bureau, he strode to the washbasin and pulled out his shaving gear, trying to shake a lingering weariness. A ride would buoy his spirits, but Ailainn had thrown a shoe and was still at the smith’s.

  Teagan would make himself presentable, then go for a walk. Mayhap even spend a few precious pence to take a boat down to Hampton Court, that he might clear his mind and revive his spirits with a stroll through the gardens. And steel himself for another round of play tonight.

  Perhaps he should look for another house party. The company would be more respectable and the players less fanatic than those who frequented the hells that, as he lacked entrée to the exclusive clubs of White’s or Brook’s, were his chief London haunts. He would be well fed for the duration, another plus, and there would be fields and woods through which he might race Ailainn, a pleasant change from the restrictive bridal paths of Hyde Park.

  There might even be another lovely sprite of a neighbor.

  At the thought, he slipped easily back into memories he’d reviewed all too often these past two months. What a marvel she’d been, his Lady Mystery, all wide-eyed wonder and desperate yearning, passionately curious, and yet wise enough to walk away when the time came. No, he concluded, his lips curving into a smile as he tucked the magical recollections back in their special place within his mind. There could be no other like his Lady Mystery.

  But for the cost of a boat ride, there could be a temporary respite from the noise and clutter of London. For one afternoon he’d indulge himself in clean-scented air, blessed solitude…and sweet memory.

  Several hours later, refreshed by his time away, Teagan strode into the Meridian, a modest gentleman’s club off St. James’s that had never quite achieved the cachet that allowed its former neighbor, White’s Chocolate House, to transform itself into one of London’s most exclusive establishments. The Meridian counted among its patrons a mix of clerks, neighborhood merchants and men of aristocratic birth whose connections were not sufficiently grand to gain them admission to the more select clubs.

  Teagan noted Rafe Crandall already present, his small group nursing tankards of home-brewed.

  Rafe raised a mug to him. “Ah, Jester, well met. Barkeep, a round for my friend.”

  As Teagan claimed a seat at an adjacent table, a young man rose from the back of the room and approached him.

  “May I?” he asked, indicating the chair beside Teagan.

  “Of course. A good day to you, Holden.”

  The young man smiled. “Much better than yesterday, thanks to you. Since you wouldn’t hear me out last night, I had to find you today and—”

  “Nor do I mean to listen now.”
Teagan cut him off, smiling. “’Tis the duty of one Oxford man to another to deflect the Captain Sharps out to fleece newcomers.”

  “Is it?” Insley glanced at Lord Crandall and his party. “Based on my experience, I would have concluded most Oxford men believe quite the opposite.”

  Teagan took a sip of the frothy ale just delivered by the barmaid. “You mustn’t judge us all by the…dubious behavior exhibited by some.”

  “Why, Teagan,” Rafe called over to them, apparently noticing the addition to their numbers. “’Tis the young bantling you’ve been bear-leading. Insley, ain’t it?”

  The young man inclined his head. “Lord Crandall.”

  “An odd role for you to play, Jester—rescuing innocents, rather than leading them astray,” Rafe observed. “Or did his mama pay you to keep him out of harm’s way?”

  “Ah, Rafe, give the lad time. Even such a reprobate as you must have been green once,” Teagan replied.

  “Still don’t think you should have won the infant’s vowels back from that sharpster.” Rafe shook his head. “Dropping one’s quarterly allowance at a gaming hell is practically a gentleman’s…rite of passage. Why, an Oxford education’s not complete until one has learned mathematics at the hands of the cent-per-centers.”

  “For those who don’t mind dishonoring their family name,” Insley muttered.

  Crandall sent the young man a sardonic glance and drained his glass. “We’re off to see what play there’s to be had at White’s. Care to join us? Ah, of course, how silly of me,” he said, clapping his hand to his head in an exaggerated gesture of comprehension. “Not likely to allow you into White’s, are they, Jester?”

  “Might be interesting to bring him as a guest, Rafe,” another of Crandall’s friends said. “If his cousin the earl happened to be present, he’d likely go into apoplexy.”

  Keeping tight rein on his temper, Teagan said lightly, “Faith, and why should I wish to enter such portals? Nothing but a bunch of bloody Tories within, who’d as soon try to string up my Irish arse for sedition as look at me.”

  “Shoot you for dallying with their wives, more like,” Rafe returned. “We’re to try that new hell near Marlybone after dinner—Devil’s Den, they call it. Play’s said to be deep and the lasses comely. Join us, both of you—if Insley’s mama will allow him out of the house tonight.”

  Ignoring the jibe, the young man replied, “I expect to play a few rounds later. My sister’s come-out ball is tonight, and I must put in an appearance.” Turning to Teagan, he added, “Mr. Fitzwilliams, I’d be honored if you’d accompany me there.”

  Rafe was moving with his friends to the door, but at that, he halted. “Teagan? At a ton ball?” He leaned his head back and laughed. “You young cawker, don’t you know Teagan ain’t received? Not even by his own mama’s family!”

  “’Tis Lady Insley who’ll be having apoplexy if you bring Teagan along!” one of Rafe’s group added.

  “Might have to toddle over and witness this spectacle myself,” Rafe mused. “’Twould be quite entertaining—seeing the Jester get bounced out on his ear.”

  “Entertaining for certain,” Teagan replied. “But not half so satisfying as a good dinner at White’s.”

  Rafe appeared to ponder the alternatives. “Aye, Jester, you’re right. As usual. But then, were you not usually right, in wagers and play, you’d have been clapped into prison for debt long ago, eh?” With a careless nod, Lord Crandall walked out, trailed by his sycophants.

  “Ignorant ass,” Insley said, watching them depart.

  Teagan shrugged. “A bit worse than most, I agree. Though I’ve won a tidy fortune off him these last ten years, so I must not abuse his character too roundly.”

  “Would that you’d won enough to see him clapped in prison, and so spared us his company,” the young man replied with some heat. “But no matter. I was quite sincere in my offer, by the way. Won’t you take dinner with me at Crillon’s and then go on to Marianne’s ball?”

  Teagan looked over in surprise. “That’s kind of you, but however inelegantly he expressed it, Rafe was correct. My…presence is considered undesirable in proper ton circles, particularly if there are innocent maidens about.”

  “I can’t understand why. From what I can discover, you’ve never debauched a maiden in your life, and have scarcely dallied with married ones the last few years.”

  “My behavior after being sent down from Oxford was a bit…less circumspect,” Teagan replied wryly. “And once won, a bad reputation is easier kept than lost.”

  “Perhaps. But given the magnitude of the service you’ve done me, a service of which both my parents are aware, I’m sure my family would be pleased to receive you.”

  “’Twas a mere trifle.”

  “You may call it such, but I cannot. The horror that overcame me when I realized the extent of the vowels I’d signed, and knew that in order to make good on them I’d have to confess the whole ghastly business to papa…” Insley gave a reminiscent shudder. “Never again shall I be tempted to play beyond my means or skill. I am under obligation to you, whether you choose to recognize it or not, and I should be honored to acknowledge you, even at so public an event as my sister’s ball.”

  The young man’s declaration left Teagan at a loss, none of the usual light comments he kept at hand to deflect criticism or jibes being applicable. “L-let me accept the dinner invitation with pleasure, and leave it at that.”

  Insley offered a hand. “That will do…for a start.”

  Lady Farrington peered out the carriage window at the long line of vehicles waiting to discharge their passengers before the torchlit entry of the square’s central town house and sighed. “I do wish you would have let dear Sir William escort us to Lady Insley’s ball, Valeria. At least we would have had the benefit of that gentleman’s uplifting conversation while we waited.”

  With what she considered true nobility, Valeria refrained from pointing out to her chaperone that had they departed at the hour first agreed upon, they would have arrived before this crush. “That may be true, Cousin Alicia,” she replied instead, “but Sir William has already escorted us to three activities in the last two weeks. Though he is a good friend to Grandmamma, I should not wish to take advantage of his kindness.”

  Nor appear to be encouraging him to dangle after her, Valeria added silently to herself.

  “To be sure, but ’twould be a very good thing if you could fix his interest. A truly noble gentleman, you must allow, learned and well spoken, as well as quite kind and distinguished. And at least ten thousand a year. Of course, I should not wish to imply that his income matters overmuch, but one cannot deny the possession of a handsome fortune must enhance his other fine qualities.”

  “I will allow that Sir William is everything good and amiable. You have been exceedingly generous, introducing me to your friends, and bringing me along to so many delightful entertainments. But please remember, Cousin, I am in London only to keep Grandmamma company for a time.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Farrington declared. “I know ’tis only been a year since Hugh…But you’re not getting any younger, my dear, and to whistle down the wind a gentleman like Sir William without at least making a push to—”

  “Only look, I believe we’re close enough to the entrance to step down. Do go first, ma’am, so Jeffers may hold the umbrella for you.”

  With any luck, that would end the discussion of her erstwhile suitor for the evening, Valeria hoped, since the gentleman himself would doubtless soon join them. Surely even a lady as single-mindedly fixed on forwarding matrimony as Lady Farrington wouldn’t attempt to advance a gentleman’s suit with the man himself within earshot.

  Valeria climbed down after Lady Farrington, wondering with some aspersion why that lady, if she were so enraptured of the wedded estate, did not expend her efforts on finding herself a husband and leave Valeria alone.

  Her first month in London had been like dining on a diet of Gunter’s sweet ices. But by now the t
ime-consuming ritual of shopping for gowns, gloves, reticules, pelisses, shawls, stockings, bonnets, undergarments—it seemed every day Lady Farrington discovered another “deficiency” in Valeria’s wardrobe that must be rectified by an immediate expedition to Bond Street—had grown tiresome. The exciting novelty of attending the apparently endless round of at-homes, breakfasts, routs, card parties and balls that made up the rest of Lady Farrington’s existence, had also paled.

  Her chaperone’s delight in introducing her new protégée about was so obvious, however, that thus far Valeria had refrained from begging off any of the invitations that Lady Farrington eagerly accepted on their behalf. But her patience was wearing thin. She had about had her fill of overcrowded rooms, overdressed aristocrats and conversation concerned solely with the latest fashions and the most scandalous on-dits.

  They reached the entry at last and handed their evening cloaks over to the butler. “Did I not tell you?” Lady Farrington said with a smile of pure delight. “Look there, at the edge of the ballroom. Sir William awaits.”

  She sounded so enthused Valeria felt a little guilty for having so little enthusiasm herself. Perhaps, she thought as they awaited their turn in the reception line, if she’d been able to see more of the city she’d feel less frustrated, but it seemed that every time she tried to steal a moment to go exploring, Lady Farrington or her grandmamma had some objection.

  That, Valeria decided firmly, would have to change. She would simply have to make it clear to them both that she must have more time to herself. More opportunities to venture beyond those areas in which the Upper Ten Thousand lived, shopped and socialized.

  For, if she were very honest, the fact that in the two months of her residence she’d been nowhere that promised even the chance she might see or hear something of Teagan Fitzwilliams certainly added to the vague disappointment she’d been feeling of late.