Lord John and the Private Matter Read online

  "They do," he admitted. "With the exception of the bridesmaids. I am spared that, at least. But it will all be over soon." He glanced across the room toward Olivia as he spoke, with a faint wistfulness in his expression that both surprised Grey and reassured him somewhat.

  The conversation concluded in a scatter of cordialities, and Trevelyan took his leave with grace, heading across the room to speak to Olivia before departing. Grey looked after him, reluctantly admiring the smoothness of his manners, and wondering whether a man who knew himself to be afflicted with the French disease could possibly discuss his forthcoming wedding with such insouciance. But there was Quarry's finding of the house in Meacham Street--conflicting, rather, with Trevelyan's pious promise to his dying mother.

  "Thank God he's gone at last." His own mother had approached without his notice, and stood beside him, fanning herself with satisfaction as she watched Captain von Namtzen's plumes bobbing out of the library toward the front door.

  "Beastly Hun," she remarked, smiling and bowing to Mr. and Mrs. Hartsell, who were also departing. "Did you smell that dreadful pomade he was using? What was it, some disgusting scent like patchouli? Civet, perhaps?" She turned her head, sniffing suspiciously at a blue damask shoulder. "The man reeks as though he had just emerged from a whorehouse, I swear. And he would keep touching me, the hound."

  "What would you know of whorehouses?" Grey demanded. Then he saw the gimlet gleam in the Countess's eye and the slight curve of her lips. His mother delighted in answering rhetorical questions.

  "No, don't tell me," he said hastily. "I don't want to know." The Countess pouted prettily, then folded her fan with a snap and pressed it against her lips in a token of silence.

  "Have you eaten, Johnny?" she asked, flipping the fan open again.

  "No," he said, suddenly recalling that he was starving. "I hadn't the chance."

  "Well, then." The Countess waved one of the footmen over, selected a small pie from his tray, and handed it to her son. "Yes, I saw you talking to Lady Mumford. Kind of you; the dear old thing dotes upon you."

  Dear old thing. Lady Mumford was possibly the Countess's senior by a year. Grey mumbled a response, impeded by pie. It was steak with mushrooms, delectable in flaky pastry.

  "Whatever were you talking to Joseph Trevelyan so intently about, though?" the Countess asked, raising her fan in farewell to the Misses Humber. She turned to look at her son, and lifted one brow, then laughed. "Why, you've gone quite red in the face, John--one might think Mr. Trevelyan had made you some indecent proposal!"

  "Ha ha," Grey said, thickly, and put the rest of the pie into his mouth.

  Chapter 6

  A Visit to the Convent

  In the event, they did not visit the brothel in Meacham Street until Saturday night.

  The doorman gave Quarry an amiable nod of recognition--a welcome expanded upon by the madam, a long-lipped, big-arsed woman in a most unusual green velvet gown, topped by a surprisingly respectable-looking lace-trimmed cap and kerchief that matched the lavish trim of gown and stomacher.

  "Well, if it's not Handsome Harry!" she exclaimed in a voice nearly as deep as Quarry's own. "You been neglectin' us, me old son." She gave Quarry a companionable buffet in the ribs, and wrinkled back her upper lip like an ancient horse, exposing two large yellow teeth, these appearing to be the last remaining in her upper jaw.

  "Still, I s'pose we must forgive you, mustn't we, for bringing such a sweet poppet as this along!"

  She turned her oddly engaging smile on Grey, a shrewd eye taking in the silver buttons on his coat and the fine lawn of his ruffles at a glance.

  "And what's your name, then, me sweet child?" she asked, seizing him firmly by the arm and drawing him after her into a small parlor. "You've never come here before, I know; I should recall a pretty face like yours!"

  "This is Lord John Grey, Mags," Quarry said, throwing off his cloak and tossing it familiarly over a chair. "A particular friend of mine, eh?"

  "Oh, to be sure, to be sure. Well, now, I wonder who might suit? . . ." Mags was sizing Grey up with the skill of a horse trader on fair day; he felt tight in the chest and avoided her glance by affecting an interest in the room's decoration, which was eccentric, to say the least.

  He had been in brothels before, though not often. This was a cut above the usual bagnio, with paintings on the walls and a good Turkey carpet before a handsome mantelpiece, on which sat a collection of thumbscrews, irons, tongue-borers, and other implements whose use he didn't wish to imagine. A calico cat was sprawled among these ornaments, eyes closed, one paw dangling indolently over the fire.

  "Like me collection, do you?" Mags hovered at his shoulder, nodding at the mantelpiece. "That little 'un's from Newgate; got the irons from the whipping post at Bridewell when the new one was put up last year."

  "They ain't for use," Quarry murmured in his other ear. "Just show. Though if your taste runs that way, there's a gel called Josephine--"

  "What a handsome cat," Grey said, rather loudly. He extended a forefinger and scratched the beast under the chin. It suffered this attention for a moment, then opened bright yellow eyes and sharply bit him.

  "You want to watch out for Batty," Mags said, as Grey jerked back his hand with an exclamation. "Sneaky, that's what she is." She shook her head indulgently at the cat, which had resumed its doze, and poured out two large glasses of porter, which she handed to her guests.

  "Now, we've lost Nan, I'm afraid, since you was last here," she said to Quarry. "But I've a sweet lass called Peg, from Devonshire, as I think you'll like."

  "Blonde?" Quarry said with interest.

  "Oh, to be sure! Tits like melons, too."

  Quarry promptly drained his glass and set it down, belching slightly.

  "Splendid."

  Grey managed to catch Quarry's eye, as he was turning to follow Mags to the parlor door.

  "What about Trevelyan?" he mouthed.

  "Later," Quarry mouthed back, patting his pocket. He winked, and disappeared into the corridor.

  Grey sucked his wounded finger, brooding. Doubtless Quarry was right; the chances of extracting information were better once social relations had been loosened by the expenditure of cash--and it was of course sensible to question the whores; the girls might spill things in privacy that the madam's professional discretion would guard. He just hoped that Harry would remember to ask his blonde about Trevelyan.

  He stuck his injured finger in the glass of porter and frowned at the cat, now wallowing on its back among the thumbscrews, inviting the unwary to rub its furry belly.

  "The things I do for family," he muttered balefully, and resigned himself to an evening of dubious pleasure.

  He did wonder about Quarry's motives in suggesting this expedition. He had no idea how much Harry knew or suspected about his own predilections; things had been said, during the affair of the Hellfire Club . . . but he had no notion how much Harry might have overheard on that occasion, nor yet what he had made of it, if he had.

  On the other hand, given what he himself knew of Quarry's own character and predilections, it was unlikely that any ulterior motive was involved. Harry simply liked whores--well, any woman, actually; he wasn't particular.

  The madam returned a moment later to find Grey in fascinated contemplation of the paintings. Mythological in subject and mediocre in execution, the paintings nonetheless boasted a remarkable sense of invention on the part of the artist. Grey pulled himself away from a large study showing a centaur engaged in amorous coupling with a very game young woman, and forestalled Mags' suggestions.

  "Young," he said firmly. "Quite young. But not a child," he added hastily. He withdrew his finger from the glass and licked it, making a face. "And some decent wine, if you please. A lot of it."

  Much to his surprise, the wine was decent; a rich, fruity red, whose origin he didn't recognize. The whore was young, as per his request, but also a surprise.

  "You won't mind that she's Scotch, me dear?" Mags flung
back the chamber door, exposing a scrawny dark-haired girl crouched on the bed, wrapped up in a wooly shawl, despite a good fire burning in the hearth. "Some chaps finds the barbarous accent puts 'em off, but she's a good girl, Nessie--she'll keep stumm, and you tell her to."

  The madam set the decanter and glasses on a small table and smiled at the whore with genial threat, receiving a hostile glare in return.

  "Not at all," Grey murmured, gesturing the madam out with a courteous bow. "I am sure we shall suit splendidly."

  He closed the door and turned to the girl. Despite his outward self-possession, he felt an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  "Stumm?" he asked.

  "'Tis the German word for dumb," the girl said, eyeing him narrowly. She jerked her head toward the door, where the madam had vanished. "She's German, though ye wouldna think it, to hear her. Magda, she's called. But she calls the doorkeep Stummle--and he's a mute, to be sure. So, d'ye want me to clapper it, then?" She put a hand across her mouth, slitted eyes above it reminding him of the cat just before it bit him.

  "No," he said. "Not at all."

  In fact, the sound of her speech had unleashed an extraordinary--and quite unexpected--tumult of sensation in his bosom. A mad mix of memory, arousal, and alarm, it was not an entirely pleasant feeling--but he wanted her to go on talking, at all costs.

  "Nessie," he said, pouring out a glass of wine for her. "I've heard that name before--though it was not applied to a person."

  Her eyes stayed narrow, but she took the drink.

  "I'm a person, no? It's short for Agnes."

  "Agnes?" He laughed, from the sheer exhilaration of her presence. Not just her speech--that slit-eyed look of dour suspicion was so ineffably Scots that he felt transported. "I thought it was the name the local inhabitants gave to a legendary monster, believed to live in Loch Ness."

  The slitted eyes popped open in surprise.

  "Ye've heard of it? Ye've been in Scotland?"

  "Yes." He took a large swallow of his own wine, warm and rough on his palate. "In the north. A place called Ardsmuir. You know it?"

  Evidently she did; she scrambled off the bed and backed away from him, wineglass clenched so hard in one hand, he thought she might break it.

  "Get out," she said.

  "What?" He stared at her blankly.

  "Out!" A skinny arm shot out of the folds of her shawl, finger jabbing toward the door.

  "But--"

  "Soldiers are the one thing, and bad enough, forbye--but I'm no takin' on one of Butcher Billy's men, and that's flat!"

  Her hand dipped back under the shawl, and reemerged with something small and shiny. Lord John froze.

  "My dear young woman," he began, slowly reaching out to set down his wineglass, all the time keeping an eye on the knife. "I am afraid you mistake me. I--"

  "Oh, no, I dinna mistake ye a bit." She shook her head, making frizzy dark curls fluff round her head like a halo. Her eyes had gone back to slits, and her face was white, with two hectic spots burning over her cheekbones.

  "My da and two brothers died at Culloden, duine na galladh! Take that English prick out your breeks, and I'll slice it off at the root, I swear I will!"

  "I have not the slightest intention of doing so," he assured her, lifting both hands to indicate his lack of offensive intent. "How old are you?" Short and skinny, she looked about eleven, but must be somewhat older, if her father had perished at Culloden.

  The question seemed to give her pause. Her lips pursed uncertainly, though her knife hand held steady.

  "Fourteen. But ye needna think I dinna ken what to do with this!"

  "I should never suspect you of inability in any sphere, I assure you, madam."

  There was a moment of silence that lengthened into awkwardness as they faced each other warily, both unsure how to proceed from this point. He wanted to laugh; she was at once so doubtful and yet so in earnest. At the same time, her passion forbade any sort of disrespect.

  Nessie licked her lips and made an uncertain jabbing motion toward him with the knife.

  "I said ye should get out!"

  Keeping a wary eye on the blade, he slowly lowered his hands and reached for his wineglass.

  "Believe me, madam, if you are disinclined, I should be the last to force you. It would be a shame to waste such excellent wine, though. Will you not finish your glass, at least?"

  She had forgotten the glass she was holding in her other hand. She glanced down at it, surprised, then up at him.

  "Ye dinna want to swive me?"

  "No, indeed," he assured her, with complete sincerity. "I should be obliged, though, if you would honor me with a few moments' conversation. That is--I suppose that you do not wish me to summon Mrs. Magda at once?"

  He gestured toward the door, raising one eyebrow, and she bit her lower lip. Inexperienced as he might be in brothels, he was reasonably sure that a madam would look askance at a whore who not only refused custom, but who took a knife to the patrons without evident provocation.

  "Mmphm," she said, reluctantly lowering the blade.

  Without warning, he felt an unexpected rush of arousal, and turned from her to hide it. Christ, he hadn't heard that uncouth Scottish noise in months--not since his last visit to Helwater--and had certainly not expected it to have such a powerful effect, rendered as it was in a sniffy girlish register, rather than with the tone of gruff menace to which he was accustomed.

  He gulped his wine, and busied himself in pouring out another glass, asking casually over his shoulder, "Tell me--given the undoubted strength and justice of your feelings regarding English soldiers, how is it that you find yourself in London?"

  Her lips pressed into a seam, and her dark brows lowered, but after a moment she relaxed enough to raise her glass and take a sip.

  "Ye dinna want to ken how I came to be a whore--only why I'm here?"

  "I should say that the former question, while of undoubted interest, is your own affair," he said politely. "But since the latter question affects my own interests--yes, that is what I am asking."

  "Ye're an odd cove, and no mistake." She tilted back her head and drank off the wine quickly, keeping a suspicious eye trained on him all the while. She lowered it with a deep exhalation of satisfaction, licking red-stained lips.

  "That's no bad stuff," she said, sounding a little surprised. "It's the madam's private stock--German, aye? Gie us another, then, and I'll tell ye, if ye want to know so bad."

  He obliged, refilling his own glass at the same time. It was good wine; good enough to warm stomach and limbs, while not unduly clouding the mind. Under its beneficent influence, he felt the tension he had carried in neck and shoulders since entering the brothel gradually fade away.

  For her part, the Scottish whore seemed similarly affected. She sipped with a delicate greed that drained her cup twice while she told her tale--a tale he gathered she had told before, recounted as it was with circumstantial embellishments and dramatic anecdotes. In sum, it was simple enough, though; finding life insupportable in the Highlands after Culloden and Cumberland's devastations, her surviving brother had gone away to sea, and she and her mother had come south, begging for their bread, her mother occasionally reduced to the expedient of selling her body when begging was not fruitful.

  "Then we fell in with him," she said, making a sour grimace of the word, "in Berwick." He had been an English soldier named Harte, newly released from service, who took them "under his protection"--a concept that Harte implemented by setting up Nessie's mother in a small cottage where she could entertain his army acquaintances in comfort and privacy.

  "He saw what a profit could be made, and so he'd go out now and again, huntin', and come back wi' some poor lass he'd found starvin' on the roads. He'd speak soft to them, buy them shoes and feed them up, and next thing they kent, they were spreading their legs three times a night for the soldiers who'd put a bullet through their husbands' heids--and within two years, Bob Harte was drivin' a coach-and-four."r />
  It might be an approximation of the truth--or it might not.

  Having no grounds for personal delusion, it was clear to Grey that a whore's profession was one founded on mendacity. And if one could not believe in a whore's central premise, unspoken though it was, one could scarcely place great credence in anything she said.

  Still, it was an absorbing story--as it was meant to be, he thought cynically. He did not stop her, though; beyond the necessity of putting her at ease if he was to get any information from her, the simple fact was that he enjoyed hearing her talk.

  "We met Bob Harte when I was nay more than five," she said, putting a fist to her mouth to stifle a belch. "He waited until I was eleven--when I began to bleed--and then . . ." She paused, blinking, as though searching for inspiration.

  "And then your mother, bent upon protecting your virtue, slew him in order to preserve you," Grey suggested. "She was taken up and hanged, of course, whereupon you found yourself obliged by necessity to embrace the fate which she had sacrificed herself to prevent?" He lifted his glass to her in ironic toast, leaning back in his seat.

  Rather to his surprise, she burst out laughing.

  "No," she said, wiping a hand beneath her nose, which had gone quite pink, "but that's no bad. Better than the truth, aye? I'll remember that one." She lifted her glass in acknowledgment, then tilted back her head and drained it.

  He reached for the bottle, only to find it empty. Rather to his surprise, the other was empty, too.

  "I'll get more," Nessie said promptly. She bounced off the bed and was out of the room before he could protest. She had left the knife, he saw; it lay on the table, next to a covered basket. Leaning over and lifting the napkin from this, he discovered that it contained a pot of some slippery unguent, and various interesting appliances, a few of obvious intent, others quite mysterious in function.

  He was holding one of the more obvious of these engines, admiring the artistry of it--which was remarkably detailed, even to the turgid veins visible upon the surface of the bronze--when she came back, a large jug clasped to her bosom.

  "Oh, is that what ye like?" she asked, nodding at the object in his hand.

  His mouth opened, but fortunately no words emerged. He dropped the heavy object, which struck him painfully in the thigh before hitting the carpeted floor with a thump.