by Hart, Amelia
The two men jogged briskly down the stairs.
“Do we need to find Kitty and bid our farewells?” asked George apprehensively. James read this as an unwillingness to fall into the snare of their elderly hostess, who had an embarrassing habit of groping him when she had had too much to drink.
“Last time I saw her she was deep in her cups. She’ll neither know nor care that we’re gone,” he said with a private smile. If George were less polite, he would not suffer such problems. When James had been her object of desire he merely picked up the unwanted hand, regarded it witheringly and gave it back to the woman without once looking at her. They had both pretended it never happened, and she had never tried again. The more tactful and less experienced George simply sidled away as if by accident, and remained a target.
The men nodded politely to various acquaintances as they brushed through the crowd, but did not stop. More than one young lady sighed and pouted to see them leaving.
“I’m not sure the neighbourhood between here and your residence is quite the thing, you know,” said George archly as he collected his hat from the hands of his butler. It was a gross understatement. The area in question was disreputable or downright dangerous.
“We shall come to no serious harm,” said James, untroubled by anything the streets had to offer. “So long as you can restrain yourself,” he flicked an imaginary piece of dust from the sleeve of his jacket, “from such loutish pastimes as boxing the watch.”
“You wretch!” cried out George at this injustice, as James had been sure he would. “That was one time, it was years ago, and he was the first to put his fists up. As you well know. You were there!”
“As you say, dear fellow,” he left off his teasing. “Bristow Street then?”
“Quite.” And the two men set off with perfect accord into the dark streets of London.
“Have you been to visit Gentleman Jackson’s Salon recently?” asked George. “I’ve been in a few times, myself. I fancy I’ve seen a look of respect in his eyes.”
“What? Are you turning pugilist? How very rough of you. Haven’t you heard brawling is for commoners?” he drawled, the echo of the disapproving traditionalist.
George snorted. “As if you don’t strip to advantage. I’ve been told to bring you with me. Some of the young cubs want to see you in action.”
“I may do. I would be happy to find a worthy opponent.”
“I am at your service.”
“Not you, buffoon. You’re as like to trip over your own feet and knock yourself out before I can lay a blow on you.”
“Since you will be quite unable to land a blow regardless, then that may well be true.”
“Big words. You shall eat them.”
“Not if you’re the one to make me,” said George complacently, and James laughed at him. “In all seriousness, I am itching for a good fight.”
“I will consider it.”
“And I shall leave your pretty face untouched so the ladies may continue to enjoy it,” offered George generously. “Oh, by the bye, I will be rusticating this time next week. Do come and shoot some of my birds, won’t you?” He was walking faster now, his natural vigour asserting itself over the pose of the languid man about town.
James quickened his own pace to keep up. “Who is taking whom for a walk, hmmm? I have a few affairs of business to attend to, and my sister to present at Court, but after that I should be delighted.”
“The roads will be shocking of course. Inches deep in mud. But you can bring your sister with you if you like. She might enjoy some of the rides.”
“Have you an interest there, George?” asked James, casting a sharp glance at his friend. George was not the correct sort for Stephanie. The man was loyal and could be counted on in a tight spot, but he was not quite right for James’ sister. Not quite . . . perfect enough.
“In little Stephie? Good Gad no!” replied George hastily. “What on earth would make you think that?”
His shock was genuine, and James hunched his shoulders and sighed at his own over protectiveness. “Not so little these days. All grown up. She’s out this season and I shall be beating off paramours with a stick.”
“Worrying already, James?” It was George’s turn to tease. “Seeing Lotharios behind every bush and shrub?”
“Something like that.”
“Yes, well with the Carstairs’ money behind her you’ll have every gazetted fortune hunter circling.”
“Rubbing it in?” He sighed. “Face and fortune, George. It’s a damnable combination to have to watch over.”
“Won’t take you long to pop her off then,” said George with the flippancy of a man who has no dependants to trouble him.
“That’s the intention. I will come to the Cotswolds, George.” The idea was very appealing, in comparison to yet more dinners, balls and routs; let alone the fearfully insipid Almacks, where he went as escort to his sister. “And I’ll bring Stephie. Give her a breather from all the hysteria. She isn’t used to these town hours. Though I doubt she’ll thank me. She’s at a fever pitch of excitement.”
“Well a few days riding in the Cotswolds is nothing to compare to a week of parties, I’m sure. Not for a young lady, any road.”
“It will be good for her. And I daresay she’ll enjoy it well enough. I’d rather . . .” He suddenly realised the footsteps he heard were pursuing them, too perfectly matched in distance to be coincidental. “George. I do believe we’re being followed.”
“Are we? Famous! Footpads? The luck really is with me tonight. I shall get that fight after all. How many, think you?”
“Three, perhaps four, you bloodthirsty fellow,” said James, his own teeth bared in a ferocious grin. There were few enough true thrills for a well-bred gentleman and sportsman. Taking on obliging attackers was a merry end to an evening, a lively test of skills learnt in the rarefied air of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon.
“Then I shall contrive to leave one for you. Shall we turn in here?” George indicated a narrow and noisome alleyway.
“It should do nicely,” said James with a quick glance, taking in the dense shadows. As he stepped after George he cast a sideways look back the way they had come and saw four men break away from the walls they hugged, and hurry to catch up.
“Four indeed. Methinks I see cudgels. There,” he pointed and moved in one swift motion, George on his heels as they ducked into a doorway and stood virtually hidden in the darkness.
The four footpads were silhouetted against the dim light from the streetlamps, peering into the alley. Whispers were exchanged before they moved forward, cudgels at the ready, straining to see their quarry.
“On my signal. Take them in a rush. You get the two closer. I’ll take the others,” breathed James directly into George’s ear. He saw George nod.
Then as the would-be assailants drew level he squeezed George’s shoulder and they both launched out of the doorway. There were startled oaths and James felt a nose bone crunch satisfyingly under his knuckles as he grabbed an upraised cudgel with his other hand.
Pivoting sharply he wrested it out of the man’s hand and drove his elbow upwards into the dimly-seen face. There was a choking cry and the fellow collapsed. Laying about him with the cudgel he knocked two more to the ground with sturdy blows. One lay still and the other groaned and clutched himself.
James straightened his slightly rumpled clothes, still loosely grasping the cudgel, and stood patiently waiting as George delivered several sound punches about the head and chest of the last man.
“Don’t take too long about it, will you?” he finally said.
“Just warming up, James.” His unwilling sparring partner was trying to dodge around George and escape back up the alley, but George would have none of it.
“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” asked James rhetorically. The groaning man on the cobbles gathered himself and started to rise. James rapped him smartly on the head and he fell soundlessly. “I like this stick, I must say. Simple and
effective. Maybe I should get myself one.”
“It looks like you already have,” grunted George, absorbing a wildly thrown blow.
“True. A souvenir. Come along now George, finish him off.”
“Yes, quite. Any moment now.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” James stepped forward and delivered a nicely judged tap to the back of the skull. George’s opponent crumpled.
“James!” cried George, deeply offended.
“I haven’t all night to stand around watching you disport yourself.”
George placed his hands on his hips and shook his head in disgust. “You have no patience, man. You must stop and smell the roses in life. It’s been weeks since I had a good dust up, and now you’ve spoilt it.”
“My heart bleeds for you. What shall we do with these unlikely fellows?”
“They belong in Newgate.”
“Too true, but I’ll be damned if I’m hiring a carriage to convey them there.”
“We can’t just leave them to prey on passersby,” said George, putting his hands behind his back and starting to walk a contemplative circle around the crumpled forms. He stopped abruptly when something unpleasant squished beneath his foot.
“How civic-minded of you. Very well. We’ll send a runner to the constabulary.”
“Where shall we find a runner? I don’t happen to have one handy about my person.”
“There’s a tavern only a little way down the street. They’re sure to have someone who would do an errand for a shilling, and more who would stand over these men until the constable arrives.” James turned away, bored with the inert thieves.
“Fairly said. Shall we just leave them here in the meantime?”
“I don’t see why not. I’m certainly not carrying anyone about. And they all appear to be sleeping soundly.”
They went back up the alley towards the illumination of the streetlamps at a casual stroll, then walked the short distance to where the tavern’s light and sound spilled out onto the street.
They entered and James took in the rough atmosphere with a jaundiced eye. It was one of the establishments that sat on the fringes of wealthy London, catering to the vices of the rich and the cits and giving them a thrilling chance to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi of the working class and the more questionable elements of the city. His nostrils picked out the faint reek of opium and hashish above the tobacco smoke.
George captured the attention of a barmaid who wended her way through the crowd to their side, fending off grasping hands with deft slaps, her own hand as swift as a striking snake.
He explained the situation, pressing a coin into the palm that appeared expectantly. The blowsy woman bustled off to find assistance. A runner and two thickset men were dispatched, with more coins on one side, and respectful tipping of hats on the other.
Obligations thus discharged, George and James were about to leave the tavern when James heard a loud call of “Gentlemen!” from a raised dais at one end of the room, and turned.
The barkeep was standing there, next to the cloaked figure of a woman.
“Gentleman, I have for you here a special treat. You knows as I don’t like to interrupt the drinking and gaming. I don’t like to see the flow of money into me own pockets cease,” there were chuckles from the patrons at this sally, “but I simply cannot resist the urge to share with you this here delicious morsel.”
With that he reached out and quickly swept the hood back off the woman’s head, so that it fell on her shoulders. Her face was revealed to the room. There was an audible indrawn breath from multiple throats.
Such a sweet, pretty face. No. Beautiful was a better word. With large eyes and delicately arched brows over fragile cheekbones, a rosebud mouth and a strong, determined jaw. Her shining golden hair, unfashionably long, was caught up at the back of her head in a simple knot then fell from there to lie in waves and loose curls about her shoulders, tousled from the hood enough to look like she had just risen from her bed.
The crowd fell silent, waiting for the bartender’s next words.
“Now, sadly, I cannot share her with all of you. It breaks my fragile heart, but this tender little darling is looking for just one man. One man with the purse,” he rubbed his fingers together meaningfully, “and the cock,” he clutched his own and there was a quick, lewd cheer, “to give her one hell of a virgin night!” This time the gleeful yell came from many throats, and there was a general surge towards the dais.
“Yes, my lads. We have here a sweet, untouched little virgin. Pretty as they come. She has descended to us from Nob hill, put her delicate little feet in our gutter, and is looking for a real man to match her real woman.”
With a swift flick of his fingers he opened the clasp at the woman’s throat, grabbed the edge of the neckline and pulled the cloak completely away from her body. He flung it aside theatrically.
From head to toe she stood revealed in a white dress. The décolletage was low, showcasing her lush breasts pushed high by the bodice. Sleekly the gown followed the graceful line of her body, artfully draped to sweep in to her tiny waist before blossoming into a more generous width of skirt. At the sudden display of an exquisitely womanly shape, there were exclamations of wonder and lust. Her clothes were not enough to shield her from their imaginations.
Even James was not unmoved. He thought of himself as civilised, but that delicate confection standing on the tavern’s excuse for a stage woke in him a response that was more than a little feral. Sardonically he measured it as two parts lust, one part an instinctive protectiveness towards the vulnerable, and a last part the competitive desire to best all others and win a desirable sex object.
These shows were not to his taste. If the woman was truly a virgin – which he usually took leave to doubt – then she was to be pitied rather than desired. No good prospect lay before her.
Something about this one occasion roused more than pity and disgust. He examined the woman as best he might, standing less than two dozen feet from her in the crowded and smoky room.
Her face pale and still, only her eyes moved. They roved the room searching for – what?
She looked straight at James. He felt that look almost like a touch, a palpable connection. There was a pleading there in her gaze, a desperation. Suddenly he was certain this one was indeed a virgin, alone and helpless in a roomful of men who saw nothing of her but an object for their lust; nothing of the person within. One of them would take her, use her roughly, maybe brutally, and then she would be discarded, broken.
This seemed suddenly the most heinous sort of crime against a woman of such peerless beauty. Such a creature was a treasure who should be worshipped, initiated gently to the arts of love. Brought to a knowledge of the true potential her body held for its own and others’ pleasure. What a courtesan she would make!
He thought there was no one in this room capable of teaching her that better than he. For bedroom sport was quite the favourite of all the sports in which he indulged, and he knew how to cherish a woman and awaken her to herself. Oh, an experienced lover was usually his preference, but even those were often unacquainted with the true heights and depths of the bedroom arts.
He was tempted, he was sorely tempted by her, and had not spent quite all his money at the table with George. He could very well answer that plea he saw in her eyes and bring her a delight the likes of which she had never known.
He could rescue her.
James took a step forward.
She jumped when the cloak was swept away. Her arms ached to wrap around her torso, covering herself. It was as if she was naked. All those hungry, creeping eyes. The wet mouths hanging open. The stench of men pressed tight into a small space.
Instead she bunched her hands into fists at her sides, gritted her teeth and lifted her chin in challenge.
She scanned the crowd. Ranks of faces, the well-scrubbed shoulder-to-shoulder with the smudged and scarred. No friendly, sympathetic smile. She looked further, to the back of the room.
There stood two men in black evening coats, literally cut from a different cloth than every other man here. Starkly dressed in the fashion of Brummell; clean cut, athletic figures, heads held high; they looked like another species entirely.
The seats around them were all emptied by the surge towards her dais. They were alone.
She fixated on them rather than look at the prospect directly before her, the ugliness of the heaving, jeering mass almost more than she could bear, the tavern keeper’s loud voice a meaningless drone in her ears.
Those two men were civilisation personified, belonging to a fresh, crisp morning’s walk in the park. They should be well-mounted on gleaming horses. They would doff their hats politely; dismount to offer a lady an arm as she promenaded. She could picture it and shut out everything else. Her racing heart slowed a little, no longer feeling as if it must leap out of her chest with terror.
She examined the first of the two men, trying to view him as if met in the street. His black hair was fashionably tousled, a style that suited the broad, clean lines of his face. His eyebrows were two dark slashes under a wide forehead. His jaw line was firm and strong. What colour his eyes were, she could not tell at that distance. She only knew they were dark, and seemed somehow both cool and hot as they looked right into her.
“So, gentleman,” roared the bartender, breaking into her trance. “Who will be taking this flower home with them? Who will enjoy a night of passion with this pure, delicate lady? Who will show her what a real man can do?”
Again there were eager shouts.
“Tell me what I’m bid. A hundred pounds is a cheap price for such a marvel. Who’ll give me one hundred?” She was horrified, forgetting the nature of an auction and thinking for a dreadful moment that this might be the price for her virtue, thrown away without winning their escape.
“One hundred!” came a call from several throats.
“Gentlemen, too close,” cried out the bartender. “We’ll go to two hundred. Who’ll see me?”
