Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  ‘And still, we are unchanged. You love someone, Miss Dent. A great error.’ Was Lavinia mistaken, or did Swift’s gaze cloud a little? ‘You will cease to write, if you wish for Robert Prince to keep whole and healthy.’

  ‘No. I will write what I please, apart from your name, and you will keep your hands to yourself.’ Lavinia moved closer. ‘Because if you don’t, you will anger me. And I will have to destroy the thing you love, in recompense.’

  ‘I love nothing, Miss Dent.’ But Swift spoke too quickly, too curtly, and Lavinia seized upon it with the triumph of someone whose hunch turns out to be correct.

  ‘Oh, but you do. There’s someone you care for. An ailing parent, a struggling sibling… or perhaps someone who has no idea that you care for them? Yes, that’s it. An unrequited love.’ Lavinia’s voice sank to a low murmur, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. ‘I would so hate to publish terrible lies about them in every newspaper, and pay my lads to sing ballads about them on every street in London. And you think, oh, she’d never find out the name… but I would. I would destroy the lives of everyone you have ever associated with, until I found my object. I am patient.’

  ‘You would really do that?’ Swift’s voice carried a hint of admiration. ‘Ruin so many innocents? I doubt Prince would do the same for you.’

  ‘That’s because Robert Prince is a good man. If you keep to my terms, I can also be good.’ Lavinia paused. ‘My good conduct depends on you.’

  There was a long period of silence before Swift nodded. ‘I accept your terms, Miss Dent. Well-negotiated.’ He gave a humourless chuckle. ‘Thank goodness you’re not in any of my lines of work.’

  ‘You never know.’ Lavinia turned to leave. ‘I think I’d be rather good at them.’

  Only as she left the house, the grim man closing the door with the same wordless scowl as before, did Lavinia crumble. She leant against the Laughton railings, her heart beating rapidly against her chest, mind reeling with the sheer impossibility of what she had just accomplished.

  Fifteen panicked seconds later, she stood straight again. She began to walk as calmly as before, out into the night.

  She had saved Robert Prince’s life. Now she had to save her own.

  Eustace Dent, brother of an earl and unlikely to let anyone forget it, did not understand his daughter. As a father, it wasn’t his place to try and understand anything about the female world he was forced to manage. His only duties were to provide money for frills and furbelows, make Lavinia a handsome dowry upon the occasion of her marriage, and viciously stamp out any small spark of spirit his daughter displayed that could limit her chances of being wed.

  On that last score, he prided himself on having done well. Lavinia had been rebellious in her early years, but strict punishments and constant corrections—of her posture, her speech, and her dress—had given her a silent, obedient air that would leave any titled suitor most gratified. One wouldn’t exactly call her docile, but she was, at least, quiet. Perhaps given to spending too much time in her room, but quiet.

  So when he received a note from Lavinia ordering him to come to the library in the middle of the night, given by a frightened-looking housemaid, he felt a vexation that he hadn’t felt in years. A vexation that had him draining two brandy glasses in quick succession.. When he found half of his relatives already sitting in the library, including his ashen-faced brother, his vexation became rage.

  Rage that crescendoed when he saw Lavinia sitting at his desk, a pile of papers in front of her… and then, abruptly, his rage altered.

  He’d never seen his daughter look so definite before. She was quiet, as always—but this time she was quiet in the manner of a gun, just before it fires.

  Still. Disquieting silences were no reason to put aside one’s patriarchal duties. Drawing himself up to his full height, preparing to bellow, he faltered as Lavinia held up a hand.

  A sound of cracking knuckles made him turn, starting with surprise. What were a brace of street boys doing in his library? And why were at least two of them on the verge of breaking into giggles?

  ‘Father, sit.’ Lavinia’s tone of bored command disturbed Eustace. ‘We have much to discuss.’

  After Lavinia Dent left, Jack Swift threw his cigar away and lit a pipe. He sat in the lushly decorated drawing room of the Laughton residence, feet stretched out on an overstuffed ottoman, occasionally looking at the clock.

  After two hours or so, heavy feet sounded in the corridor. Swift puffed at his pipe, face blank, as Robert Prince stormed into the room.

  ‘I don’t care if you kill me, Swift. I don’t care if you cut me into pieces.’ Swift raised an eyebrow as Robert dramatically cast his cap onto the floor. ‘I’m here, you see? I fooled you, and I shouldn’t have, but I’m here. Just leave enough of me to make some kind of an honest living afterwards. I’m sure a one-handed man can sell newspapers, or a one-eyed man can prize-fight. Not sure about the bigger limbs, but—’

  ‘Fine.’ Swift looked Prince up and down. ‘Get out. Don’t do it again.’ He studied his pipe, taking a contemplative puff. ‘Consider yourself punished.’

  Robert paused. He looked at Swift for a long moment, his eyes full of shocked questions. Swift, with an impatient sigh, flicked pipe ash into the fire.

  ‘Look.’ He used his special voice; the one he normally used when the man opposite was tied up, or bleeding, or both. ‘Go to the nearest flower stall, and buy an enormous bunch of something fragrant. Straighten your shirt. Then roam the world until you find Lavinia Dent, fall to your knees, and alternate between begging for forgiveness and kissing her feet.’ He puffed at his pipe. ‘And go to a bakery as well. She might want a bun. Women love pastries.’

  ‘She came here.’ Robert looked at him accusingly. ‘You—you made some sort of pact, didn’t you? What did you make her do?’

  ‘Nothing that she didn’t want to do.’ Swift held up a warning hand as Robert’s fists clenched. ‘And certainly not that. I’m not an idiot. Just… accept this small particle of grace, for goodness’ sake, before you really do begin to annoy me.’

  He stared at Robert, time ticking by, until Robert shifted. He awkwardly picked up his cap, patting it back into shape, before placing it back on his head.

  ‘Well then.’ He nodded. ‘I hope we never meet again.’

  ‘Likewise.’ Swift puffed at his pipe again, wondering if he should say the words forming in his mind. ‘… Prince?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful, with that one. Treat her well.’ Swift frowned. ‘Very well indeed.’

  ‘Of course I will, if she’ll have me. I love her.’ Robert’s voice trembled. ‘All I want to do is protect her.’

  As he left, slamming the door, Swift looked out of the window. The London night comforted him, as it always did, moving in his soul.

  ‘I didn’t mean that, lad.’ He chuckled. ‘The woman’s terrifying. If you don’t treat her well, even I won’t be able to protect you.’

  Robert walked home with weary feet, a burning heart, and an enormous bunch of roses in such full bloom that petals trailed behind him. Perhaps they would keep, perhaps not—he would buy more. He would buy the entire garden of Eden, if it meant pleasing her.

  Ignoring the mysterious smile on Harry’s face as he entered the theatre, he sullenly climbed the stairs. He opened the door, face downcast… and saw Lavinia.

  Lavinia, sitting meekly at his desk. Lavinia, with what looked to be two travelling cases—and to Robert’s immense surprise, a small, elderly-looking spaniel.

  ‘His name is Horace.’ Lavinia spoke quickly. ‘He belongs to my father, but my father kicks him. So now he belongs to me.’

  Robert couldn’t bear it. He ran to her, sinking to his knees, sighing with pained, intense relief as she clutched him tightly. He kissed her as hard as he could, tears in his eyes, almost unable to believe her presence.

  ‘I belong to you.’ He whispered the words, holding her. ‘I belong entirely, and completely, to you.
I will spend my life endeavouring to deserve you.’

  ‘Good. I belong to you too.’ Lavinia sniffed; Robert felt his cheeks dampen with her tears. ‘I will require you to tell me when I’m being idiotic.’

  ‘Once a month, without fail.’ Robert kissed her. ‘And then I’ll buy you a bun. I’ve been told tonight that women love pastries.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ve been told tonight that I’m insane, possessed, and a traitor to my sex. My father was most verbose.’ Lavinia let out a shuddering breath. ‘But by the time I’d explained just how easily I could destroy the family, he was quiet. They all were.’

  ‘My love. I am sorry.’ Robert stroked her cheeks. ‘At least you managed to leave with Horace.’

  ‘Yes. I also managed to leave with what would have been my dowry, along with the title deeds to a half-ruined country house in Wales that we never use.’ Lavinia gestured to the suitcase. ‘These will keep us out of debtor’s prison. Horace will keep us warm at night.’

  ‘I will sleep with Horace at the foot of your throne, my queen.’ Robert kissed her again, wiping away her tears. ‘Or we’ll both sleep at the foot of Horace’s throne. Either way, I’ll be building a throne.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You’ll be on stage.’ Lavinia looked at him in mock fury. ‘Don’t you dare tell me, that after going to all this trouble, I won’t get to see the name Robert Prince outside every theatre in London.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure.’ Robert gently kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Perhaps I’ll change my name.’

  ‘If it’s going to be Amha Ras Yohannes, my love, you’re going in the Thames.’

  ‘No.’ Robert held her close, happiness filling him like wine. ‘Given how content I am… perhaps I’ll change Prince to King.’

  THE END

  A Gentleman at Christmas

  One hour before the explosion in Powell Street, Nikau Roera sat gloomily in his second-favourite place to drink. As carriages rattled through the snowy London streets, shadows of passing gentlemen and ladies flowing over the fogged windows, he looked at the half-finished portrait in his folio with a flash of real annoyance.

  He could never manage to get her mouth quite right. He held the pencil as delicately as he could, trying to capture the dreamy curve at the corner of her lips, but as the point snapped he sighed. The woman remained half-finished, staring at him from the final page of his sketchbook with a faint air of disappointment.

  Of course, she would probably look disappointed if he ever spoke to her in real life. Or scared. He mentally scanned through the available ways of beginning a conversation, finding all of them lacking.

  Hello. I know you can’t hear me, but read these words. Please. You’ve probably seen me staring at you like an idiot—I promise I have a rich, full life, and would rather die than make you feel even mildly uncomfortable.

  Hello. You’ve probably seen me frantically avoiding your gaze, should you ever look up. I promise I don’t find you ugly. If anything, the complete opposite. And the fact that I write, instead of speaking… it’s not because I can’t speak English. In fact, I speak it perfectly. But I’m tired, so very tired, of no-one I meet believing it. Best to be silent, then shock them with a pithy note.

  Hello. How nice we’re finally meeting… yes, I know. By the standards of polite society, I’m absolutely terrifying.

  Please don’t be terrified.

  Please.

  As he raised his hand for another pint, he caught a glimpse of himself in the smoke-stained mirror behind the stacked glasses. He also saw the slight edge of fear in the barman’s eyes as he swiftly refilled the proffered pint mug.

  Hello. Yes, I know; I’m over six feet, as broad as an ox, and have a face and body covered in tattoos. Some think me a sailor, and others have no qualms calling me a savage.

  But I am Nikau Roera of the Ngāti Raukawa; son of a chief, and keeper of our treasures in their London home. Chief treasurer, in fact. I love dogs, boxing, and sketching in any spare moment I can find…

  … And you, of course. I’m desperately in love with you. And I really wish I’d seen you, and realised this, before I’d slept with a good quarter of London’s high society. A great deal of them women who had no qualms about calling me a savage.

  He couldn’t look back on that period of his past without a mixture of conflicting emotions. It had been tremendously enjoyable; especially for a young man eager to explore every area of carnal pleasure. It had been freely entered into—he had always had his family’s money to play with, and thus needed no economic incentive to partake. It had involved… camaraderie. He had even made friends.

  What he had trouble admitting, even to himself, was that it had also been highly exciting for him; playing the part, inhabiting the role that high society expected of him. It had been freeing, spectacularly freeing, to become an object of pleasure, a token of desire, in the darkness of a bedroom where class and expectations could take new forms, and give life to new types of bliss.

  Had been. That was the important part. The more Nikau looked back, the more he wondered if he had given his desire free reign at the expense of his dignity.

  The creak of the pub door swinging open interrupted his musings. As Nikau looked at the tall, dark figure who had just entered, the scent of roasting chestnuts and night-time frost filling the air, his face twisted into a knowing smile.

  Jack Swift. If ever there was a man who knew everything about desire, it would his harsh-faced friend. He’d known Jack Swift for years, and yet the only thing he could be sure of was that he knew nothing at all, absolutely nothing, about the man’s inner life.

  Swift was a butler, yes—and a manservant, and a gamekeeper, and an old soldier, and any number of other professions. He was cunning, manipulative, sarcastic to a fault, and intensely loyal to those who showed him the same courtesy. He bought drinks, organised prize fights, ran any number of betting rings and gaming tables and market stalls, hidden down alleys, where a gentleman could by any amount of equipment best used for violence… and when he had little else to do, or when the mood took him, he made dreams come true.

  Erotic dreams. Forbidden desires; the wants that high society’s finest wouldn’t whisper to their partners—but could stammer out to Swift, given the correct persuasion. Dreams of dominating, being dominated, exploring women, exploring men, exploring both at the same time… everything, absolutely everything, could be left for Swift to organise.

  Some women, of course, had wanted very specific experiences. Experiences with men who looked very different from the men they had married. And that, in not so many words, was how Nikau had met Jack Swift.

  Just as with his own memories, seeing the man after a long absence brought up mixed feelings. He gestured to the empty bar stool next to him all the same, smiling as the man sat.

  ‘Nikau.’ Swift shook his hand, the familiar cynical smile on his face. ‘Still frightening barmen? I think he’d look less terrified if you spoke.’

  Nikau picked up his pencil with an ironic flourish, quickly hiding his sketch under a new page. I’m comfortable with him being terrified. It means he doesn’t overcharge me, or water down the beer.

  ‘Still, though. Drinking alone, with no-one but a frightened barman for company? If you’re feeling a want of company, Nikau, you know that happiness is nothing more than a letter away.’ Swift reached into his waistcoat pocket, drawing out an array of elegantly engraved calling cards. ‘A great number of London’s most respectable wives and mothers are keen to receive geography lessons. They love a scowling specimen like you, if you’ll recall—remember Lady Laughton? She still speaks very highly of you.’

  Nikau couldn’t help smiling as he remembered that afternoon. He’d made Lady Sophia Laughton’s acquaintance in a singularly lurid, intimate way, aided by a silver-tongued Mongolian Oxford graduate and a good-humoured Ethiopian prince. As a geography lesson it had been somewhat lacking, but tremendous fun had been had by all… including the lady’s husband.

  Had. Again;
that important word. He let his pencil rest on the page, marshalling his thoughts, before writing.

  Happiness can be found in that fashion much more easily when young. As I grow older, I am less and less content to be treated as nothing more than…

  ‘Geography? A specimen?’ Swift’s eyes showed an unexpected depth of sympathy as Nikau nodded. ‘Well… I don’t blame you. I imagine that can be very hard on a man.’

  Nikau repressed a bitter chuckle as he wrote. You have no idea. Your geography is very easily identified, and accepted.

  ‘Very correct.’ Swift smiled. ‘History a little less clear, but geography is most accommodating when it comes to my face. Opens all sorts of doors… doors that don’t have to be closed to you, seeing as you have a friend with an accommodating face to hold them open. And we all need friends, Nikau. Even me.’

  Nikau stared for a beat, disconcerted. As long as he’d known Jack Swift, he’d never heard the man refer to anyone as a friend. He’d also never heard Swift admit to needing anything, whether it was a fresh cigar or an umbrella in the middle of a rainstorm. He began to write an enquiry, wondering how to phrase it correctly, before Swift’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  ‘Don’t ask. I’ve met a most singular woman.’ He laughed at Nikau’s expression. ‘And I’ll leave before you manage to scribble out an adequate reply.’ He drained down the dregs of his pint, throwing coins down on the bar before Nikau could protest. ‘If geography starts sounding attractive again, you know where to find me. But until then, I hope you find something a little more… edifying.’

  With a final tip of his hat, he was gone. Nikau stared after him in astonishment, almost forgetting the sheaf of paper in front of him until a careless elbow spilled a few drops of beer onto it.