Mary slowly put her teacup back onto its saucer. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Hypothetically.’ Rebecca forced herself to speak calmly, thanking the Lord that her shawl covered the blush that was no doubt forming at the base of her neck. ‘If one of the girls who protests with us, who writes letters, who gives money to the orphanages—what would happen if they were discovered to be engaging in scandalous conduct?’
‘Scandalous conduct.’ Mary paused. Her face, normally focused with intense concentration upon whatever topic they happened to be discussing, had a new and worrying furrow in between the eyes. ‘What exactly do you mean by scandalous conduct?’
‘Goodness. Well.’ Rebecca took a sip of tea, hoping the liquid was scalding enough to spark a bright idea. Alas, it was already disappointingly tepid. ‘The—the sort of things we protest about.’
‘We protest about many things.’
‘Yes. I know.’ Rebecca looked at her friend with faint irritation; for someone who was normally such a good conversationalist, Mary was surprisingly silent in this particular case. ‘Any one of the immoral acts in question, I suppose. Drinking, or gambling, or engaging in bawdy conversation or—or—’
‘Or carnal acts.’ A flush had crept over Mary’s cheekbones. ‘Carnal acts, with someone unsuitable.’
Rebecca almost bit into the china of her cup as she choked on her tea. ‘Well, I—I—’
‘Things entered into in a younger, freer state.’ Mary let out a short, passionate sigh, the biscuit held in her left hand beginning to disintegrate as she held it tightly between her thumb and forefinger. ‘With someone who was terribly sinful, irredeemably bad—but who since has taken a brighter, holier path, leaving his former love languishing in his wake.’
The outburst was as specific as it was unexpected. Rebecca stared at the older women in outright shock, blinking, recovering herself with real difficulty.
Mary was thirty-six. Old enough to be definitely considered a spinster—but really, she had never questioned herself as to the contents of the woman’s early life. It hadn’t seemed relevant. Now, looking bleakly at the remaining biscuits, Rebecca wondered what on earth she had missed.
Mary clearly had a past. A sinful one, at that. It made what she herself had done with the mysterious man in the Cappadene Club slightly less shocking—but no more able to be talked about.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ She spoke as carefully as possible. ‘Something of that nature, I suppose. Or something similar. There… there would have to be public consequences, I imagine.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Mary slowly shook her head, her eyes fixed firmly on her teacup. ‘Not if the lady had privately acknowledged the gravity of the sin she had committed, and judged herself free of any chronic moral decay. Even angels fall, my dear.’
What she had done in the Cappadene Club had certainly been sinful. The fact that it had felt pleasurable—intensely pleasurable—only proved how depraved it had been. Pleasure was to be feared, not sought, in every aspect of one’s life. Rebecca, noting the sadness in Mary’s normally placid gaze, put down her teacup.
‘And she would be forgiven, of course, for that exact reason. Especially by those that love her, and are close to her.’
Mary looked up, a spark of real gratitude in her eyes. ‘Quite.’
‘But… but that would only reduce the guilt a little.’ Rebecca picked her teacup back up, the smoothness of the china offering an obscure kind of comfort. ‘What else could be done?’
‘The only solution to matters of this nature, my dear, is good works. As many good works as possible—administering help to as many poor unfortunates as you can find. It will bring one out of oneself, and encourages one’s continued adherence to a vital, necessary path. A righteous path.’ Mary nodded earnestly. ‘This would be my advice.’
As advice went, it was both sound and reasonable. Rebecca drank gratefully, looking at her friend with new sympathy. ‘I thank you for it.’
‘But we are not speaking of you, of course.’ Mary’s voice carried a note of warning. ‘We are speaking of a general situation.’
‘Of course.’ Rebecca swallowed. ‘Without a doubt.’
Helping people, particularly people that no-one else wanted to help, had always given Rebecca great joy. Improving the condition of London, and by extension the world, normally depended on small, unpopular acts of drudgery—and for the right cause, Rebecca could be a willing and cheerful drudge. Alas, on her afternoon of greatest possible need, none of her usual charitable causes were in need of help.
Mrs Sulbury of Tatter Street had more than enough bread, and felt no desire for more. The soldier with one leg who lived near Hyde Park had found a buxom maid of twenty years old to tend to his needs—Rebecca thought about telling the man that his new nurse was clearly hunting for a share of his military pension, but dismissed the idea as too satisfying to be truly altruistic. The shoeless child on the corner of Winpole Street had a new pair of shoes on his feet, the thin dog that haunted the jeweller’s quarter was tucking into an enormous sausage—why, it was as if London had decided to find its moral centre, right when she most needed it to be in atrocious disrepair.
There was nothing to do but return home, drink tea and look anxiously out of the window, half-expecting to see a Bow Street Runner ready to put her in gaol for crimes against decency. As her father read the paper, tutting at the state of the world, her mother looked at her with a proud, gentle smile.
‘I am so very sorry we can’t be with you tonight, dear. If only the Wilkinsons could have chosen another date! But it would have been so rude to ask them to do so…’
‘Tonight?’ Rebecca turned from the window, blinking away the memory of the man’s dark eyes boring into hers. ‘What is happening tonight?’
‘Are you well, Rebecca? It isn’t like you to forget things.’ Mrs. Westbrook patted Rebecca’s shoulder. ‘The medal. The eastern quarter of Spitalfields wishes to give you a medal, remember? For your sterling work improving the hygeine of Harbour Street and Barton Road? I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten to prepare a—’
‘A speech.’ It had all come flooding back with her mother’s words—the gushing letter, the invitation to a small, informal ceremony of thanks. Her speech had been written, rewritten and written a third time; it currently sat in her desk drawer, tied with blue ribbon.
A different woman had written that speech. A woman unwilling, or simply unaware, of the pleasures that could come from the forbidden. Rebecca smiled at her mother, hoping against hope that her guilt didn’t show on her face.
‘My speech is ready. Don’t trouble yourself.’ She squeezed her mother’s hand, wishing she could stop John Peterson’s voice sounding in her mind. Low, authoritative, wicked—a part of her still wished to obey him. ‘It will be a perfectly lovely evening.’
It may not have been a perfectly lovely evening, but it was certainly more pleasant than the day that had proceeded it. Rebecca looked at the small audience of scrubbed, expectant faces with a touch of contentment from her chair on the makeshift stage, in the drafty hall that had once been a storeroom for grain. She felt secure in her primmest, most modest dress—in her tightly-pinned hair, each rebellious wave firmly pulled into order. Even her newly-mended spectacles gave her an air of importance, of authority, that helped her battle her fear of speaking in front of groups.
Now she was truly Rebecca Westbrook—the closest she ever looked to the shrewish, strident caricature that had briefly appeared in one of London’s most scurrilous gossip rags, before her father had threatened legal action. In truth, Rebecca had rather liked the frightening image. If she was to be the moral arbiter of London, so be it; she had worked her way to the top of that particular pedestal with severe and constant effort. Now she was there, she would bear whatever storm came.
It was only now, looking down at the waiting crowd, that Rebecca wondered if she truly liked being seen as a shrill, sexless shrew.
‘Do not worry. We can begin
soon.’ Mrs. Boone, an anxious-eyed but kindly lady wearing an organiser’s sash, smiled at Rebecca. ‘We have a small speech before the presentation ceremony, but the poor man hasn’t arrived yet. Odd—he’s normally so punctual.’ She looked worriedly at the side-door. ‘I do hope he is well.’
‘I see.’ Rebecca tried to focus on the conversation. It wouldn’t do to be rude, after all. ‘Who is the gentleman in question?’
‘Mr. John Peterson.’ Mrs. Boone’s eyes softened, her smile a little wider than before. ‘Such a lovely man—he still brings food and clothes for the children who live on his old street. Doesn’t really go in for societies, but does ever such a lot of work himself. Only…’
Despite herself, Rebecca was interested. She knew so many of the London do-gooders, and it was always unusual to find someone that escaped her notice. ‘Only what?’
‘Only it is such a shame, a terrible shame, about his sister.’ Mrs Boone lowered her voice. ‘She is—oh, goodness. He’s arrived.’
She jumped up, rushing to greet the dark figure that had come through the side door. Rebecca peered from the stage, mildly curious to see the gentleman who made Mrs Boone smile as if she were speaking of a son.
The figure turned. When Rebecca saw the dark eyes, the familiar furrow to the brow, her heart leapt to her throat.
Him. The mysterious man from the Cappadene Club. The man walking into the room with a faintly exhausted air, not even looking at the stage as he listened attentively to Mrs. Boone. Rebecca turned her face away, pretending to study the corner of the stage as a hot, red flush rose to her neck.
The man from the Club was John Peterson. The Club worker… or rather, the man she has assumed was a Club worker…
Oh, lord. So many people could be found in buildings despite not working inside them. Not only that—there were legions of staff to be found in every house of a respectable size. Who knew how many people it took to keep the fires lit in an enormous den of iniquity like the Cappadene Club? He could be anyone… he could be a passing grocer, or debt-collector…
… and she had thrown her arms around him, implied that he was responsible for the most depraved excesses of the flesh, and imperiously demanded pleasure. Pleasure that he had given her as swiftly and thoroughly as possible.
She would have to leave. Leave without delay. She had no desire whatsoever to reach the truth at the heart of this mystery—and neither did she wish to investigate the hot, wicked thrill at the meeting of her thighs, her most craven place, exactly where John Peterson had stroked her until she had—she had—
She had no word for it. She had no words for anything they had done. But the acts still lived in her, deep in her core, repeating over and over again. Rebecca closed her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek in anguished panic as she rose to leave the stage.
She would feign a headache. Feign sickness. Feign something. But before she could safely make her escape, Mrs Boone was already back on the stage—already excitedly addressing the assembled ladies and gentlemen. Rebecca sank back into her chair, half-sure that she would faint as the elderly lady spoke.
‘Mr. John Peterson will address us now… as valet to Sir Marcus Bennington, he is in the most perfect position to see London’s best aspects as well as the worst…’
Valet to Sir Marcus Bennington! Valet to the man who was widely suspected to be the owner, at least in part, of the Cappadene Club! That was why he had been there… oh, Lord, the spectacle she had made of herself…
She bit her cheek harder still, attempting to concentrate on the pain. She certainly couldn’t look at John Peterson as he stepped onto the stage—oh, she had to look away as he turned, looking behind him…
… looking at her.
Time stopped. Rebecca stared, transfixed, into the dark intensity of John Peterson’s gaze.
A flash of recognition passed between them like a bolt of lightning. Peterson stopped, looking at her looking again… and when the corner of his mouth curled in the faintest hint of a smile, Rebecca’s core quivered in response.
He had clearly recognised her. More than that—he had connected her reputation, her public self, with the woman who had said and done unspeakable things in London’s most notorious house of pleasure.
Please. Rebecca clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Please, let this not be happening.
Alas, it was no dream. No sudden fever. With a slight but definite bow of his head, John Peterson turned to address the crowd.
‘Thank you for the fine introduction, and the warm welcome. I—I am unused to speaking in public, but indulge me with your ear. I am not hear to speak of myself, a poor study in even the most flattering of lights—instead I must speak of my sister, Helen Peterson. A woman with great zest for life, but a terrible affliction—a dependence on strong spirits, which so many in our city still consider harmless, but in fact are a terrible scourge…’
Rebecca didn’t know how she managed to listen politely to John Peterson’s speech, and clap with the rest of the crowd. She didn’t know how she managed not to cry—how she didn’t weep through the man’s tender, affecting speech, his every word touching her heart. How she managed to sit still, a tidal wave of strong emotion coursing through her as he had finished with a bow.
Her own speech was a blur. The ceremony itself was a blank-but the medal sat shining on her dress now, and Mrs Boone had smiled with fervent enthusiasm as she had thanked her.
Apparently, she had performed splendidly. Rebecca smiled with mechanical effort as she greeted every well-wisher, not daring to look around the room to see if Mr. Peterson was waiting for her.
He shouldn’t wait for her. Couldn’t wait for her. But all the same, Rebecca was obscurely disappointed when she didn’t catch sight of his tall, dark figure waiting to speak to her. Waiting to clasp her hands, as some of the more enthusiastic woman in the audience did, and tell her… tell her…
What could he tell her? That what happened between them was like a lightning-strike, never to be repeated? What else could he possibly say to her?
Why did she want him to say something different?
The crowd, although small, suddenly seemed so large as to be unmanageable. Rebecca nodded to Mrs Boone, squeezing the woman’s hand as she made her way to the side-door. Opening it, she slipped inside before she could be spotted by any further well-wishers.
The small, whitewashed room still carried the smell of wheat and rye. Rebecca leaned against the plaster, taking a slow, deep breath, before reaching to adjust her hat. The pins in her hair were coming loose; they needed to be tight, severely tight, so she wouldn’t forget herself.
Oh, it was no use. She had forgotten herself completely when John Peterson had stepped onto the stage. With a small sigh, wondering if it were too late to call in on Mary Atterson and take moral courage from her strong, smiling face, Rebecca heard the side-door open without thinking about who could be coming in.
‘I knew I recognised you from somewhere.’ The low rasp of a voice, complete with an intriguingly rough accent at its edges, moved through Rebecca’s bones like thunder. The voice she had been frightened of hearing ever since she saw him in the crowd—the voice that had haunted the strange, forbidden dreams that had racked her sleep. ‘You look different with your spectacles on.’
‘S—sir, I have finished my speech.’ Rebecca couldn’t summon up the courage to meet the man’s eye. ‘If you have any questions, you must ask for Mrs. Boone to—’
‘I have a lot of questions. None that Mrs. Boone could reasonably answer, I think.’ The man’s voice hummed with a new, dark note of command—one that Rebecca found herself unaccountably responding to. ‘Turn around. Face me.’
It sounded like an order, but felt like a request. One that she was free to obey, or not. Rebecca sighed as she turned, shame reddening her cheeks as she realised that somewhere, deep inside her innermost self, she wished to see the man again.
John Peterson. She had never noticed him before—not at any of th
e various meetings she had attended. But then, she had never looked at any of the men in her meetings… and apparently, if the man was to be believed, he hadn’t recognised her that day in the Club. Neither did he attend any meetings.
He was probably lying. But then, she did look different without her spectacles. And—and her behaviour had certainly differed most powerfully from the strident, shrewish attitude she had adopted for goodness-knew how many years.
He was as tall, dark-eyed, and quietly frightening as ever. But was frightening the best word?
She felt fear when she looked at him, but not because he was dangerous. The fear came from what she could do. What she had done with him before.
What she wanted to do with him again.
‘There you are. Rebecca Westbrook.’ Peterson bowed. ‘We meet under slightly more usual circumstances.’
‘Mr. Peterson.’ Rebecca curtseyed as frostily as she could. ‘I do not know why we are meeting again. At all.’
‘Then you’re considerably less intelligent than I’ve gathered.’
‘You—you are insulting.’
‘I most certainly am not. From what I gleaned of your speech, you’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. Or rather, met twice.’
‘I… you make it impossible for me to receive the compliment with grace.’ Rebecca wished she could stop looking at the man—his gaze seemed to demand attention. When had she become so weak? ‘You insist upon referring to something that cannot, and will not, be discussed.’
‘I disagree. I think that it requires discussion.’
‘Well, I—if we must say anything about that day—’
‘—And we must.’
‘Yes. No. I…’ Rebecca stopped, putting a hand to her chest as she struggled for composure. The man had already made her body feel dangerously abandoned—he couldn’t possibly run verbal rings around her as well. ‘I think it should be noted that—that what occurred, occurred under false pretences.’
A Bluestocking's Vice: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Four Page 3
