Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

  She dug her fingernails in. “If you trouble my husband again, I’ll make sure you suffer for it.”

  I took hold of her arm with my free hand, pushed it backward and twisted it until she yelped in pain. She dropped her hold and stepped away from me, her eyes filled with outrage that I would treat her thusly.

  “I’ll be sure to tell Lady Winser what a gracious hostess you are,” I said. “Now get out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I left Bingley House before the family left for church. Lady Winser was disappointed that I decided not to accompany them but I told her I wanted to get home before dark and she understood.

  In truth, I couldn’t wait to get away.

  It wasn’t Emily’s ill manners that prompted my quick exit. For that matter, I had no intention of telling Lady Winser about our unfortunate encounter. It was that Bingley House was too full of memories for me to be content there for any length of time. Knowing with certainty what had become of Margaret only strengthened that feeling.

  As the carriage passed through the fields and pastures that marked the journey back to London, we approached St. Pancras Church. An idea came to me. “Sam, ask Elijah to stop here.”

  He looked dubious. The area around St. Pancras was notorious for highwaymen. “What for?”

  “I want to check to see if they have a record of a clandestine marriage between Adam and Margaret.”

  “If it’s clandestine there won’t be a record. Isn’t that the point?”

  In actuality, a clandestine marriage didn’t mean the marriage was secret. It simply meant that the laws governing the traditional marriage ceremony were circumvented. There were many reasons why a couple might want to do this—the most nefarious was when a clever rogue married a young heiress clandestinely, thus doing away with the pesky need for her father’s permission.

  Over the years I’d heard rumors that if a couple wanted such a marriage, the pastor at St. Pancras was amenable to performing it, in spite of the fine incurred by the bishop if an angry father or a spurned lover reported the union to the authorities. Usually the hefty price charged for performing the nuptials more than made up for the penalty incurred. St. Pancras was not a wealthy parish so the bishop needed to earn revenue by whatever means he could.

  The church was outside greater London, and the distance made it another reason it was an attractive choice for clandestine marriage. Without the bustling city crowds to serve as witness, stealthy couples could get in and out without the risk of seeing someone they knew.

  “Just tell Elijah to stop, please,” I said.

  It appeared that services for the day had recently ended. A few churchgoers were still chatting on the steps and several families walked along the path toward the village of St. Pancras, bundled up and stepping quickly to escape the cold.

  I approached the small rectory and knocked on the door, triggering the dog inside to bark angrily. Someone shushed the beast and a moment later, a stocky man still dressed in his vestments opened the door. A black-and-tan mastiff sat politely by his side. I introduced myself.

  “Good day, Lady Wilde,” he said. “I’m Dr. Evans. Won’t you come in?”

  The dog followed us into a small drawing room and we seated ourselves. “Now then,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I confess it’s a rather delicate matter, Dr. Evans,” I began. I didn’t know how cooperative he would be, inasmuch as I was inquiring about an illegal marriage. “It’s possible that my brother got married here. I’d like to know if you have a record of it.”

  “A marriage is indeed a sacred occasion, but I wouldn’t say it’s delicate. When did the ceremony take place?”

  “I’m unsure of the exact date, but it would’ve been in August 1665. My brother’s name was Adam Barber.”

  “And his wife?”

  I hesitated, unsure of which name to give: Margaret Winser or Ann Sutton? “Margaret Winser,” I said finally.

  “It’ll just be a moment while I check.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d also check your records for a clandestine marriage,” I said.

  He paused. “I see. You should know, Lady Wilde, that this parish follows the absolute letter of the law, and accordingly, no such records exist.”

  I’d expected a denial. After all, how was he to know what my motives were? “I assure you I have no intention of protesting the marriage. I simply want to know if it happened, and when. Both my brother and his wife are dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady. Nevertheless, I don’t think I can be of any service to you in this matter.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “I was planning on making a substantial donation to this parish in his name.”

  Dr. Evan’s eyes brightened and he sat up a bit straighter. “Well now, I don’t see why I can’t at least check our records. I shall be back presently.”

  The dog followed its master out of the room, leaving me alone in the tiny space. It was as sparsely furnished as my room in Coal Yard Alley, though admittedly it was more comfortable. The bench on which I sat was covered in cloth and the walls were colored in warm red, hung with crucifixes and portraits of various religious figures.

  Before Dr. Evans returned, the dog came into the room and eyed me with curiosity, as if to say “You’re still here?” I snapped my fingers and it ambled over to me. It nosed my hand and I patted it on the head. It peered up at me gratefully and lay at my feet.

  By the time Dr. Evans finally returned, the dog was deeply asleep and snoring loudly. Upon its master’s return, it rose up, wagging its tail optimistically, as though dinner was in the offing. Dr. Evans ignored it and sat back down in front of me holding a heavy-looking ledger book.

  He laid it on the table and opened it to a specific page. “I’m pleased to tell you I’ve found him.” My heart skipped. He turned the book around so I could see and pointed to a line.

  “Here it is. Adam Barber married Margaret Winser on the second of August, 1665.”

  Seeing Adam’s name clearly written in that book made me want to cry. Not only did I have confirmation that my brother and Margaret had married, it further strengthened Susanna’s claim that she was his daughter. My heart swelled at the prospect.

  “Do you remember marrying this couple?” I asked.

  Dr. Evans regarded me sadly. “Alas, Lady Wilde, I’ve married a great many people over the years. I confess I don’t recall this one.”

  His response disappointed me, for his memory would’ve served as a long-lost connection to my brother. But just seeing this document was enough.

  “I assure you I have no quarrel with you if indeed this marriage was conducted in secret. But for my own knowledge, was it?”

  Dr. Evans appeared to be contemplating whether he should admit to wrongdoing. “It appears that this marriage was not performed exactly as tradition dictates,” he finally said. “But I assure you it was a valid marriage. There is no question of that.”

  * * *

  Sir Richard was surprised when Wilson announced my arrival at his apartments that afternoon.

  “Hello, Isabel. I thought you were staying at Bingley House tonight. Lady Winser informed me of your visit.”

  “I stayed there last night but came home this morning.”

  “I trust everything is well?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I think you should know that I told Lady Winser what I’ve recently learned about Margaret.”

  His face fell a little bit. “I was hoping to tell her myself. But I’ve been so busy, and of course I couldn’t convey it in a note. How did she take it?”

  “It distressed her, of course. But I also told her something else. Something that I’ve not divulged to you. Margaret was with child when she left Bingley House.”

  Sir Richard went pale. “I
t’s not possible! Nathan would never have touched her inappropriately.”

  “I think you know that it wasn’t Nathan’s child, it was Adam’s.”

  He exhaled. “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve had my suspicions ever since you told me that Margaret ran away. But the reason I’m here is because I stopped at St. Pancras Church on my journey back from Bingley House. The bishop found a record of Adam and Margaret’s clandestine marriage on the second of August, 1665.”

  Sir Richard shook his head. “I don’t believe it. None of this can be true.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because they were both dead by then. I was certain of it.”

  How could he have been so sure? “Apparently they weren’t. Why would you believe such a thing?”

  He fixed his gaze upon me, his eyes passionate. “Because Margaret would never have been gone so long if she wasn’t dead. She would’ve come back with the child.”

  “Did you know about the child, Sir Richard?” I asked, my voice gentle.

  He looked defeated. “I knew nothing of it. I was certain that Margaret died as Adam had, of the plague. Now it seems—good God, if I had only known. I would’ve forgiven her everything.”

  For some reason, even after all of the lies, I believed him. It was finally time for me to tell him about Susanna. “The girl is alive, Sir Richard. Your granddaughter.” I relayed the details and when I finished, he was near tears.

  “But where is the girl now?”

  “I don’t know. She’s traveling with a man named Tom Clarke—someone whom she’s known for most of her life, it seems, as I found evidence he traveled with Margaret and Susanna to America.”

  “Isabel, you must find her for me. Promise me you’ll find her!”

  * * *

  I left Sir Richard with the assurance that I’d inform him if I learned anything about Susanna. The situation felt dire now—she’d disappeared so completely, I feared something terrible had happened to her or that Tom Clarke had taken her back to America. But her only remaining family was here in England and she belonged here.

  Before bed that night, I sat in the drawing room sipping a syllabub, hoping that the Rhenish in it would make me sleepy. When the door knock came I smiled to myself, thinking it was the king’s messenger. I hadn’t forgotten Barbara Palmer’s visit to Coal Yard Alley, but a few hours with Charles appealed to me right now. I got up and headed toward the stairs to ready myself.

  When Alice passed through the hallway on her way to answer it, I said, “Tell him I’ll just be a moment.”

  But I had my foot on the top stair when she called up to me. “It’s a Mr. Ogilvie, m’lady. He insists upon speaking with you immediately.”

  Mr. Ogilvie? My mind was a blank until I saw him and realized he was the barkeep I’d told to let me know if he saw Susanna.

  “My lady, I’m sorry to be bothering you so late, but I figured you’d want me to tell you as soon as possible. I saw the girl you were asking about the other day.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Just a while ago at Mother Plimpton’s bawdy house.”

  “The Six Lions?”

  “Aye.”

  This was not good. Mother Plimpton was among the most notorious bawds in London. I’d never had occasion to meet her, but I’d seen her in the streets, sitting like the queen herself in a gaudy but expensive sedan chair carried by four burly men. Lucian, whose familiarity with the city’s bawdy houses was second only to his knowledge of which taverns were the easiest to procure credit from, had regaled me with tales of the iniquitous goings-on at her brothel. Though I was hardly innocent myself, some of the activities he described were quite incredible.

  As far as prostitutes went, the girls who ended up in London’s brothels were among the fortunate. This, of course, wasn’t saying much. But they had room and board, pretty clothes and baubles, and in general, they entertained a higher quality of gentlemen. They never had to resort to a dirty fuck in a dark alley for a ha’penny. That is, until they were too old to be useful to the bawds like Mother Plimpton. But by that time, the pox or the clap might get them, or, if they weren’t careful, childbirth. The cleverest of them might even rise to open houses of their own. Mother Plimpton herself had been a popular whore during her youth, and to see her now you’d not guess she’d suffered for it. She was a striking woman, even well into middle age.

  All the gilded spoils of living in the house came at a price, however. Mother Plimpton charged her girls ten times what their dresses, or their food, or their stockings were worth and most were deep in debt to her. Sometimes, when a girl had outlived her usefulness, Mother Plimpton sent them to debtors’ prison just for spite. Abandoning them in the streets wasn’t cruel enough.

  Mother Plimpton owned her girls outright. Having been a prostitute herself, she knew just how to seduce girls too poor or too naive to question the promises she made. Sometimes, their parents were the ones who sold them, and other times they went on their own free will. How had Susanna ended up in such a place?

  “What was she doing there?” I asked Ogilvie.

  “What do you expect she was doing?” he said, embarrassed. “I almost didn’t recognize her, all dressed up and painted. But I got the feeling I’d seen her before and remembered she’d sat in front of my tavern not more than a week ago.”

  “She wasn’t—” I faltered, struggling to find the right word, “—with anyone?”

  “If you mean was she with a cully rumper, then no. She was sitting in the parlor with the rest of the girls.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t seen her with a customer, though it didn’t count for much. There was no telling how many men she’d been subjected to, even if she’d only been there a brief time.

  I gave him a half crown for his trouble and sent him off. I called Sam downstairs and told him what the barkeep had witnessed. “We’ve got to rescue her,” I said.

  “Of course we do,” he said. “But how will we manage to do it? The Six Lions is well secured.”

  “I have a plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Six Lions was located on Chiswell Street in Cripplegate.

  I shifted uncomfortably as I approached the bawdy house. The pair of breeches I’d selected from Sam’s paltry collection were too tight in the seat and too loose in the waist. No amount of inconspicuous tugging could ease my discomfort, and I was grateful for the belt holding them securely around my waist, for at least they would not fall down.

  The rest of my disguise was also borrowed from Sam. I’d wound a wide linen strip around my bosom, tying it tightly so that it flattened my chest to the extent that it could be. I covered it with a cotton shirt. His black wool coat was too large, but it kept me warm and helped to conceal my body. I wore his highest heeled boots and stuffed the toes with cotton so they would fit better. I finished my ensemble with a cheaply made wig and a broad-brimmed hat.

  During the journey to Chiswell Street, I thought about how easily I could’ve ended up in a place like the Six Lions myself, had it not been for Adam. My mother had died when I was two years old and I lived with my father and two brothers in a small house in Kent. Until I was eight, my father employed a nurse to care for us whilst he worked as the village blacksmith. Upon reaching that age he judged me old enough to run our meager household, with only the help of our chambermaid, Elsie.

  Our life in Kent was a good one, but I hated the drudgery of housework and longed for the excitement that London promised. Had I stayed there, I would’ve become a nursemaid, or perhaps a servant in a country squire’s household. Eventually I might’ve married and had children and succumbed to a rather ordinary existence as my mother and her mother before her had done.

  But I never saw myself as a country wife and certainly not a lowly servant.
Somehow, I knew I was destined for greater things, for a more tumultuous and yet satisfying life. I would’ve found a way to get to London, regardless, but without Adam’s guidance, I might very well have ended up a whore in a house such as Mother Plimpton’s. I had the beauty and charm and would’ve been a prime candidate for her studied eye.

  It was with this knowledge that I entered the opulent Six Lions, where Mother Plimpton did business.

  A bearlike man stood guard at the door. He wasn’t so much tall as he was wide. His shoulders rose up from his body like two upended chamber pots and his hands were as large as supper plates. He paid Sam no mind but eyed me from top to bottom with suspicion, as though he could see right through my shirt to the curve of my breasts.

  “And what’ll you be wantin’?” he asked.

  “I reckon I want what most men want in a place like this,” I said, lowering my voice and mimicking the rough accent of a Yorkshireman. “A good tumble’s all I ask for.”

  He squinted at me. “Why’ve I not seen you around here before?”

  Sam wasn’t nearly as big as this mongrel but I’d seen him fight larger men and win. This one didn’t look as though he’d scare easily, however.

  “We’re new to town,” Sam said. “Heard the finest lasses in the city reside here and had to give it a try.”

  The guard grunted. Apparently concluding that we presented no harm to the premises, he stepped aside so we could enter. “Go in if ye like,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “But any trouble and you’ll pay for it with a cracked head.”

  Beyond the front door was a small entry leading directly into a large, festive parlor. Girls and women in various states of undress lounged upon chairs and couches. The men fawned over them, attempting to impress them with their keen wit. Thankfully, I didn’t recognize anyone. My disguise could fool a stranger, but it might not pass muster with anyone who actually knew me.

  The decor was feminine, with rose-colored draperies, an abundance of silk pillows, exotic tapestries, feathers and cheaply made, gaudy accessories. A chambermaid approached us first, inquiring about whether we wanted some French wine and meats. We both refused. I didn’t see Susanna anywhere but the lighting was dim and no doubt she’d be painted and dressed, perhaps unrecognizable. The whores appraised us frankly, brandishing come-hither looks, hoping to lure us into private rooms.