by Laura London
“Don’t be loud, little one, we are only going to help you find your way.”
“It would be easier to travel without this,” said a woman’s voice. I felt my reticule being torn from my hands.
“And this bonnet; no need for that on a lovely night like this one.” It was gone. Then to my horror, I felt my gown being ripped up the back and I was standing in my shift. Rough hands frisked me up and down.
“An honest little one,” said a voice. “No money hidden.”
“Now you can find your way,” said one of my tormentors. I was pushed out of the doorway with such force that I fell down hard on my knees. I was too frightened to sob, too frightened to move.
“Run away, little lamb. London is out there waiting for you,” said the voice behind me now, and there was a chorus of wicked cackles.
Oh my God, I thought to myself, and I began to make my way down the alley, the pain from my gashed knees making me cry out. I felt the blood running down my leg. I was away from them now and I didn’t care what happened to me. I leaned against a cool, mossy wall and realized that I was shaking convulsively.
“Do ye have a sixpence for a poor old beggar?” Someone was begging me for money. Through my haze of agitation I saw a wizened panhandler standing directly in front of me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t a farthing.” The beggar reached out a hand and pinched my arm.
“Haven’t a farthing,” he mimicked in a whining falsetto. “Then ye have a wee kiss for a lonely old man.”
“I have no such thing.” I was dimly aware of a loud shouting and to-do now, echoing eerily from down the alley.
“Ye haven’t a kiss for me, eh? Let me tell ye somet’ing, miss. Them’s the peep-of-the-day boys acomin’, and they’ll be wantin’ more than a kiss.” He gave me a horrid wink. The shouting was very near. “May as well give me the kiss willingly now because when they are through wi’ the likes of you, you won’t be wantin’ to kiss nobody.”
“Go away,” I screamed, but he was already gone. Peep-of-the-day boys? I cringed against the wall and tried to make myself invisible. A group of six or seven men were coming around the corner, making enough hue and cry for twenty. I saw a gin bottle go flying through the air to fragment itself on the pavement.
“Look over there, boys. Something for George to do.” I had been spotted. I pressed against the wall and hoped that George, whoever he was, was a gentleman. As they came closer I noticed the aristocratic cut of their clothes, but something about their demeanor made me wish I was elsewhere. I was now close to being surrounded, and a man who appeared to be crippled in one leg made his way toward me ahead of the others. In a daze of terror I caught a glimpse of a curly brown head and a reek of gin as he pressed me against the wall. A scream involuntarily forced its way out of my throat as I felt fumbling hands pushing my shift up from my thighs. “Be good to Childe Harold, little slut.”
“The devil… Leave her alone, Gordon. I know her!” A strangely familiar voice cut through the group. “I said leave her,” and the attacker was gone, skidding on his face down the side of the wall. That voice. In the garden. Lesley Peterby.
“You gents go on without me, I’ll see to this one,” he said.
“We know you will,” they chorused, and I was alone with him.
His eyes traveled slowly up my quivering frame, taking in every detail of my miserable condition. He shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here and I don’t want to know.” He pulled off his light cape and I felt it flow about my shoulders.
When he spoke again, it was an impatient growl. “Follow me and I’ll take you home.”
He started down the alley with a long stride and I followed him, stumbling. Once he stopped to curse, telling me to hurry or be left to the rats. One filthy, narrow street slid into another. Finally, miraculously, the street widened enough to permit traffic and I heard Lord Peterby hail an empty hackney coach. I tried to climb into the coach but the step was so high that my aching knees wouldn’t respond. Peterby swore again, then lifted me bodily into the dark, smelly interior. He gave the direction of Lorne House to the jarvey and climbed in beside me, slamming the door with unnecessary vigor.
I made an effort to pull myself together. “I’m very much obliged to you…” I stopped, shocked by the whimpering quality of my voice.
“Then for God’s sake, don’t cry. I have a strong distaste for whining women.” Lesley slumped into the corner with his hands crossed behind his neck, surveying me with unfriendly dispassion. “Jesus, you look like someone’s set the dogs on you. And you reek of gin. Nicky is likely to put a bullet through me and ask questions later if I walk in the door with you in this condition.”
I had hoped somehow to be able to sneak into the house unnoticed; it would be impossible though, because all the doors would be locked, and I was keyless. I shuddered, imagining the scene that would meet my arrival if I waltzed into the house at midnight with Lord Lesley in tow and clad only in a torn shift.
I said miserably, “Perhaps you should have left me back there in the gutter. Considering the humor you were in last night I am surprised that you didn’t.”
“Ah, last night.” My rescuer pulled a small metal comb out of his pocket and flipped it carelessly across the seat to me. “Here, at least comb your hair. Last night I was operating under the misapprehension that you were Warrington’s chère amie. Lady Cat threw that tidbit my way, the stupid jade. Today I found out, it doesn’t matter to you how, that you’re not one of the ladybirds that Christopher flies with.”
“Lady Catherine!” I ejaculated, my mind fastening on this piece of information. “Why on earth would she tell you something like that?”
“Probably, my innocent, because she hoped that it would give me the incentive to… shall we say, force my attentions on you.” His face hardened. “I make love to please myself, not to further any of Cat’s schemes.”
It seemed incredible that Lady Catherine could feel any malice toward me. “But why would she want to harm me? I haven’t met her above three times in all my life.”
“She’s obviously seen you enough to consider you competition for your cold-blooded guardian. The fool is living under the illusion that she’ll be able to entice Dearborne into marrying her.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Far from showing any inclination to declare himself, Nicholas has become rapidly bored and makes no attempt to hide it.”
“He didn’t look bored last night in the Ingrams’ gatehouse,” I said doubtfully.
Lord Lesley shrugged. “That was nothing. One amuses oneself,” he replied cynically. I returned the comb to him, too tired to make any further effort with my hair, which fell in a heavy snarling mass down my shoulders.
“But how could I be a threat to Lady Catherine?” I wondered out loud.
“You’re not. Dearborne isn’t libertine enough to take an innnocent girl under his protection as his fancy-piece, nor is he going to marry a country nobody with only her beauty to recommend her. Cat needs somewhere to put the blame for her failure. She could hardly admit that there was a deficiency in her charms.”
I felt as though I were smothering in the clinging folds of my borrowed cape, which I had pulled closely about me for modesty’s sake. It was impossible to digest Peterby’s remarks, so I leaned my face against the greasy window and stared disconsolately out at the dark cityscape. If only, by some miracle, I could manage to sneak into Lorne House without being observed.
Well, miracles will occur only at capricious intervals. I had already had all the luck that I was going to that night, though you would think I deserved some more after what I had been through.
When we reached Lorne House, Lord Lesley dragged the hood of his cape roughly over my hair, telling me it was better to try to prevent me from being recognized. He then hauled me unceremoniously from the hack and rapped sharply on the imposing doorway. The door was opened almost immediately by Roger, Lord Dearborne’s valet. Lesley demanded the marquis a
nd Roger led us to the library with a carefully wooden countenance. I was aware of Lord Dearborne but kept my eyes riveted to the floor. Lord Peterby’s voice came harshly:
“Before you try to cut out my liver, you might as well know that I’m not the one who’s responsible for her present condition. I want five minutes to explain how I found her. After that you can call me out if you still want to.”
“As you wish,” Lord Dearborne sounded cool, even slightly bored. “Miss Cordell, why don’t you sit down? I’ll return to wait on you in a moment.”
I walked stiffly over to the blue damask sofa, taking meticulous care to avoid glimpsing myself in the reflecting panes of the bay windows. Once seated in the luxurious splendor of the library, I felt even more bedraggled and downtrodden. Wishing I had made more assiduous use of Lesley’s comb, I made a few ineffectual attempts to untangle the silky knots with my shaking fingers. Elizabeth Cordell, early Christian martyr, waiting for the arrival of the lion.
When the lion returned to the room, he walked to the ornate Oriental cabinet and poured brandy from its crystal decanter into an elaborate piece of stemware. He placed the goblet on the shining kidney-shaped table next to me and motioned for me to drink. When I lifted the glass to my lips, the scent of the brandy brought back the memory of cheap gin fumes. I set the glass down rather quickly.
“Oh no, my pet, you’re going to drink that.” Lord Dearborne set the goblet back into my hands. “It’s obvious that you are on the verge of vapors. You might find my methods of dealing with hysterical women not to your liking.” The words were spoken with an almost cordial urbanity, but I wasn’t fool enough to miss the underlying threat. I choked down several swallows of the burning liquid, which brought tears to my eyes in stinging waves.
“What an obedient girl,” commented the marquis sarcastically. I could see that this interview was going to be a new low in an already hellish night. “You were limping when you came in. I take it that you’ve injured yourself? Show me.” I pulled back the cape dumbly to expose badly scraped knees.
“Heartrending,” said Lord Dearborne in a voice totally devoid of sympathy. He took my chin between his long fingers and turned my face up to look at him. “Lesley tells me that he found you clad only in your shift. Were you hurt in any other way? No, don’t jerk your head away. I want an answer.”
“No,” I snapped, goaded. “I wasn’t hurt in any other way, as you so delicately phrase it. But I have been harassed, insulted, robbed, and humiliated in every imaginable manner tonight, on top of getting lost in a horrible jungle of a place that I thought I would never get out of.” I rose with what dignity I could muster. “Will that be all, Milord? Because I should very much like to retire.” And cry in peace.
“Sit down.” His voice cracked like a whip and I sat back down hastily. I watched nervously as he went back to the cabinet to bring out a clean linen napkin and a container of spring water. “Perhaps you’ll be so indulgent as to relate the tale of your adventure?” he said, coolly sardonic, and began gently to clean the muck off my knees. The last thing I was in the mood for was a verbal re-enactment of my harrowing experiences, but I could see that Lord Dearborne was determined to drag it all out of me. I might as well get it over with. I told him everything, starting from the time I left the Cuckold’s Comfort. I was careful to make no mention of what I was doing there in the first place. The note had been explicit that I should tell no one, and I felt myself bound by it. It had said “there is danger.” I had no intention of letting my loose tongue endanger anyone. After tonight danger had a whole new meaning to me.
When I finished my story, I saw that if I had expected to receive any sympathy from Lord Dearborne, I might well have spared my breath. He merely remarked callously:
“Amazing. You’ve been trotting around in an area of London which no decent woman can enter, even during the day, and a little rough treatment is all that you have to show for it. And if what you’ve just described includes every ‘imaginable humiliation,’ then your imagination must be remarkably restrained. Naturally you are aware that you’ve neglected to mention what you were doing in that part of the city at night alone when the household believes you to be sleeping safely in your bed? I trust you intend to enlighten me?”
If I could have thought of an acceptable lie, I would have told it. What plausible reason could I have for making a solo visit to the Cuckold’s Comfort? I replied weakly:
“I can’t tell you.”
“You went there to meet someone, didn’t you? Don’t bother to shake your head at me—someone must have told you how to get there. Who are you protecting? Is it a lover,” he sneered, “or a traitor?”
I think I must have gasped because the marquis shoved the brandy glass into my hand again—apparently under the misapprehension that I was beginning to sob. I swallowed the contents of the glass—I would rather have expired on the spot than let Lord Dearborne see me cry. He took the glass from my hand and set it on the side table, then turned to regard me searchingly.
“You know, my little doe, I’m not sure whether you are a very clever woman or only a pathetic dupe. I will assume, for charity’s sake, that you don’t realize what you’re getting yourself into. This won’t be the first time that one of my household has been approached by enemy agents hoping for an inside contact. There are two things that you should know. First, these are dangerous men who will not hesitate to get rid of you as soon as you cease to be of use, no matter what they may tell you now. Witness the fate of Henri, the cook, the strange accidental death you have been so interested in.”
“Henri? Then he didn’t die falling from the roof? He was murdered?” I roused slightly from my state of stunned misery.
“Henri was strangled with a dishcloth and tossed from the roof. A pretty set of fellows you are in with.”
“I’m not in with anybody,” I objected.
“Secondly,” he continued, ignoring my feeble protest, “if you are caught intriguing with the French government, there is nothing I could do to protect you from a traitor’s fate.”
A searing pain began to course through my breast. “That is the most insensitive, unfeeling accusation I have ever had to endure in my life!” I choked out. I was proven wrong almost immediately.
“I’m making a terrible misjudgment of you, am I? You’re wandering around in the stews of London in the dark of night and you won’t tell me who you are meeting or why? What kind of lover would ask to meet you in such a place? Even the likes of Peterby can call on you here. I would advise you to examine your associates. I am beginning to think you are a very good actress, Miss Cordell. It takes a definite toughness, not immediately visible in your character, to tryst with somebody in the stews of London.”
I was now goaded beyond discretion. “I don’t care what you think, Lord Dearborne. You may think me wanton or a traitor, it matters not a whit to me, it does not concern me in the slightest. It is obvious that people in this contemptible town believe what they wish to believe, and if you believe me to be those things, then it comes from your own purposes and desires and not my actions.”
My hands were clenched into fists beneath the cloak which rippled from contact with my trembling shoulders. I felt ill. And too angry now to waste energy on tears, though my eyes stupidly persisted in shedding them. I wiped a couple of the obnoxious intruders away with the back of my hand, staring defiantly at Lord Dearborne. Some of the freezing harshness left his face; it was replaced by something more rational, though speculative. He lifted his hands to rest lightly on my shoulders and when he spoke, his voice was gentle.
“My only purpose and desire is to help you. Trust me, Elizabeth. Tell me what kind of trouble you are in.”
He made it very tempting. There was a part of me that cried out to clear myself, to deny those bitter accusations. Yet there was another part of me that stubbornly refused to dignify insults with justifications. The hurt was too fresh. If he had so little faith in me, then what was the point of defending myself? I h
ad been tried, judged, and sentenced without a fair trial—I might as well let him hang me, too.
“Would you oblige me by releasing my shoulders,” I said. “Immediately!”
“Very well.” I was released so abruptly that I almost fell. I turned to walk stiffly to the door, but before I reached it a thought occurred to me.
“If Mrs. Goodbody and my sisters haven’t found out that I was out of the house tonight, could you please not mention it? It… would be pointless to distress them, don’t you think?”
He countered my nervous look with one of uncomfortable irony. “Quite pointless. Your affairs are your own business.”
Chapter Thirteen
Last night when I petitioned Vesta, the Roman protector of virgins, I should have remembered that Vesta is also the goddess who punishes virgins. I woke up the next morning with scabbed knees, damaged pride, and the problem of explaining to Mrs. Goodbody the loss of a gown, reticule, and bonnet, all in one swoop. Once you begin lying you have to lie repeatedly to protect the original lie—it’s an exhausting business. I reflected bitterly on the simplicity of life before Lord Dearborne had inherited Barfrestly. Ironically, he was accusing me of behavior I hadn’t even known about until I had met him and his set, and had been dragged into fashionable London. Prior to that time my behavior had been blameless by many standards; I had never been accused of anything more serious than allowing the tea to boil over.
Nor had I encountered the plotting of tony beauties. If Peterby was to be believed, my Cinderella had the heart of a wicked stepmother. How humiliating it was that I could be so easily cozened into trusting someone. Take one cup of flattery, mix lightly with guile, season with a pinch of feigned deference—oh! and baste with wine; there you have a foolproof recipe for deluding Elizabeth Cordell. What an April fool I must have appeared to Lady Catherine, pouring out my secrets to her while she was thinking of ways to stick in the needle. I had to admit that she had chosen quite a subtle scheme. Instead of trying to destroy my reputation with society in general, she had simply told one potent little lie about me to Lord Peterby and depended on him to do the rest. Men don’t seduce pure young woman of gentle birth, but if I was already Christopher’s mistress, I became fair game as far as a rake like Lesley Peterby was concerned.
