Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 7 - Diane Gaston, Ann Elizabeth Cree - Страница 18

Over the last month of the Season, Morgana saw little of Sloane, though he was often at the same balls and routs she attended. He continued to show some attention to her cousin, but never to her. Worst of all, he no longer slipped through her garden wall to share breakfast or dinner or to assist with Madame Bisou’s lessons.

Mr Elliot, who, like Mr Duprey, visited more frequently than before, disclaimed any knowledge of why Sloane avoided Morgana’s company. He said Sloane spent a great deal of time secluded in his library, adding that Sloane seemed irritable at times, snapping at Elliot but apologising afterwards.

Morgana knew precisely why he avoided her. He thought her no more than a harlot, a threat to his desire to be accepted into the beau monde, to marry her cousin.

Still, she could not help gazing out of windows, hoping to catch sight of him leaving his house, to see his tall figure striding down the road. Her heart ached for missing him.

She realised the loss of his company had been her fault. He had scolded her for her wildness, but then she’d kissed him as wantonly as any harlot might do. He had lost respect for her, and that was painful indeed.

Why could she not have merely employed the pretty flirtations that gave Hannah such success? Hannah, though her manners were lively, never strayed too far from what was proper. Unlike Morgana.

Even Hannah’s spirits had altered lately, her gaiety forced. Morgana could only suppose that Hannah worried that Sloane would not make an offer after all, although she long had been convinced that Hannah loved the idea of marrying a rich man more than the man himself. Indeed, Hannah seemed to prefer David Sloane to his uncle.

Partly to keep her mind off Sloane, Morgana allowed her girls more outings, all of them wearing hats that obscured their faces. They shopped at the Soho bazaar with money Morgana had given them to buy trinkets. They attended a performance at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Daring indeed, because five lovely young ladies together, even though chaperoned by Miss Moore and escorted by Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey, attracted nearly as much attention as the arena’s spectacular feats of horsemanship. Robert Duprey had also taken them each for rides in Hyde Park.

This morning’s breakfast conversation was all about Mr Duprey.

‘I shall never ride with him again,’ Katy said dramatically. ‘He near enough turned the curricle on its side—’

‘Nearly turned the curricle on its side,’ Miss Moore corrected.

Katy stared at her. ‘Nearly turned the curricle—’

‘Do stop!’ cried Mary. ‘I think Mr Duprey is quite good at handling the ribbons. I am sure I never worried for one minute about it.’

‘He is a menace!’ Katy shouted. ‘Rose, you must agree.’

Rose, who was chewing a piece of toasted bread, could not respond right away.

Katy did not pause. ‘He near enough—nearly—ran into some fellow in a phaeton—’

‘A gentleman, dear,’ said Miss Moore. ‘Not a fellow.’

‘I tell you, I nearly got my neck broke.’

Mary sprang to her feet. ‘I will not hear Mr Duprey so maligned. He has been nothing but kindness and generosity and all that is proper.’

‘How proper can he be spendin’ all his days with a pack of dolly mops!’ Katy demanded, a bit too loudly to be ladylike.

Morgana massaged her temples. The headache that roused her before dawn still pained her, and the discussion at hand was not helping. ‘Do not call yourself a dolly mop, Katy. You are better than that.’

Katy laughed. ‘Gracious, Miss Hart. We ain’t nothin’ more than fancy dolly mops.’

Morgana sighed. There was no use arguing with Katy. It would only egg her on and make the headache worse. Finishing her now tepid cup of tea, Morgana bade them good morning as an example of ladylike manners, and went in search of Lucy.

It did not take long to find her. She was in the garden pulling weeds. Mr Elliot stood nearby, chatting with her.

‘Good morning, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said, rising to her feet.

Mr Elliot nodded.

Lucy smiled at Morgana. Either the morning air or a blush had put colour in her cheeks. Or had she and Mr Elliot found a private place to be together?

‘I was just telling Mr Elliot the news my mum sent to Amy and me. Did she tell you of it?’

‘No.’ Amy had lately chattered more about her sister, how she feared for Lucy in her new life, how she wished Lucy would content herself with being a maid and forget this notion of being a courtesan.

Morgana sharedAmy’s sentiments. As the days went on, she dreaded more and more the moment she would have to release them into the life she had created for them. Two months ago Morgana had been convinced that she would be providing them with a better life. Now she feared she would only cause them more unhappiness, like the unhappiness she now felt.

‘What was the news, Lucy? No one is ill, I hope.’

‘Nothing like that, miss.’ Lucy glanced to Elliot, who nodded encouragingly. ‘It is the shop next door to my father’s. The button seller. Do you remember about him?’

Morgana was not likely to ever forget. ‘I remember.’

‘Well, my mum said he moved away. Just up and moved. He’s gone.’

Morgana could barely speak. ‘Indeed.’

‘And I was asking Mr Elliot if he thought it could be Mr Sloane’s doing. Do you think so? Mr Elliot says he does not know, but I think Mr Sloane made him go away. Mr Castle has run the shop for ever and his father before him and now it is empty and he’s gone.’

Morgana felt her senses, so dormant of late, come to life. Of course Sloane had been responsible. Like a secret champion, he’d avenged Lucy. Sloane had driven the man off.

‘It does seem odd,’ Morgana managed.

Lucy and Mr Elliot shared smiles, and Morgana felt a wave of envy. Lucy and Elliot had found a steadfast friendship, perhaps more than a friendship, though Morgana dared not ask. Morgana was happy for her even if, at this moment, it made her own loneliness seem more acute.

A voice sounded from the other side of the garden wall. ‘Elliot, where the devil are you?’

Sloane.

He stepped through the gap in the garden wall and caught sight of Morgana. ‘Oh.’

Elliot sprang to attention. ‘Did you have need of me, sir?’

Sloane looked as if he were about to retreat back to his own property. ‘No, just wondered where you were.’

Morgana remained riveted to the spot, but Lucy skipped over to Sloane.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said with meaning in her voice.

He backed up a step. ‘What for?’

She gave him a worshipful look. ‘For whatever you did to Mr Castle, because he is gone and his shop is closed.’

Morgana watched a muscle in Sloane’s cheek flex. He paused before responding. ‘I am glad of it, Lucy. But do not assume I had anything to do with it.’

‘I know you did, sir,’ Lucy seized his hand and kissed it. ‘And I am grateful to you.’

Sloane glanced over to Morgana, but glanced away as quickly.

‘Perhaps Mr Sloane is busy, Lucy.’ Morgana knew Sloane wished to escape her company.

Cripps stepped out of the doorway. ‘Madame Bisou wishes me to inform you that she has brought you a visitor.’ He looked unusually stern. ‘Miss Harriette Wilson.’

‘Harriette?’ barked Sloane, with a searing glare at Morgana. ‘What the devil is she doing here?’

Morgana was every bit as shocked as he. ‘I have no idea.’

Elliot excused himself, saying he must return to his duties, but Sloane followed Morgana and Lucy into the house.

Miss Wilson sat in the front drawing room wearing a stylish white India muslin gown trimmed in blue satin, with embroidered flounces at the hem and neckline. Her cap, complete with blue and white feathers, matched perfectly. Looking at her, one could only conclude that the life of a courtesan was very lucrative indeed. Mary, Katy and Rose sat gaping at her.

Madame Bisou presented Miss Wilson to Morgana. Her introduction ended with, ‘… and you know Cyprian, I believe.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Miss Wilson responded, giving Sloane a frank look of admiration that made Morgana feel faintly ill. ‘But it has been much too long since you have called upon me, sir.’

Sloane’s expression remained stormy. ‘What are you doing here, Harriette?’

‘I insisted Penny bring me to see this courtesan school.’

Sloane shot Penny a scathing glance.

‘Do not look at me that way, Cyprian. I did not tell her of it.’

He turned his glare to Morgana. ‘If Harriette knows, your activities are no longer a secret.’

‘Not everyone knows, Cyprian, my love!’ Harriette chirped. ‘That odious Fortuna Rice offers a great deal of money to discover this place. But she believes some man runs the school.’ Harriette laughed as if such a notion was ridiculous.

Morgana’s breath caught to hear Mrs Rice’s name. She’d not imagined the girls were still in danger from the woman. It had been weeks since they’d left her.

‘Sir Reginald!’ cried Madame Bisou. ‘It must be he who told you, Harriette. He must have pieced the story together after meeting us at Vauxhall.’

Harriette did not deny this. Morgana glanced at Katy. The girl returned a defiant look, and Morgana could imagine Katy prattling on while she practised her wiles at Vauxhall.

Sloane glowered at Morgana, then marched over to her. ‘Morgana, I need a word with you. Excuse us.’ He gripped her arm so that she had little choice but to follow him.

He propelled her into the library and still kept hold of her, holding her so close she could feel the heat from his body. She could also see the fire in his eyes.

‘Let me speak plain, Morgana. If that woman knows of you, in minutes the rest of the world will know. You cannot trust her.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘You must end this now.’

She lifted her chin and stared directly into his face, even though it was only inches away. ‘How do I end it, Sloane? Toss them out? Will that make them safer? Or am I suddenly not to care if Mrs Rice punishes them for leaving her?’

He acted as if he’d not even heard her. ‘You have become too reckless. Taking them to Vauxhall. And even that wasn’t enough for you. You had to take them to Soho and Astley’s. Where were your wits? Have you gone totally mad? You have no notion what you risk.’

Who could have told him such things? She glared at him. ‘I thought Mr Elliot more discreet.’

He huffed. ‘Elliot is the model of discretion. Did you assume he was my only source of information about your doings?’

She had not imagined he cared a fig about her doings since the night at Vauxhall, when he held her much less painfully than he did now.

She addressed him in a haughty tone. ‘Do take your hands off me, Sloane. I do not fancy having bruised arms.’

He released her so quickly she almost fell against him. He caught her again and only stepped back after she regained her balance. She rubbed where his hands had gripped her.

It suddenly felt as if walls were falling in on her, but she could not allow him to realise that. ‘I should like to know your source of information, if it was not Mr Elliot.’

‘Take your pick,’ he shot back. ‘The circle of those who know of you is widening rapidly. The floodgates are open, Morgana. It is time to cut and run.’

‘I have no notion of what that means,’ she snapped.

He glowered at her. ‘It means that your activities are in imminent danger of being revealed—’

‘And my reputation ruined?’ she finished for him. ‘Did I not tell you, Sloane, that I do not care?’

This was a lie. Her ruin and banishment from a society that heretofore had only grudgingly accepted her truly terrified her. Her father would disown her. How could he do otherwise when her shame might reflect on his new wife? The part of her fortune her father did not control was modest. What would happen to her?

She almost laughed. She knew too well what happened to young women with no money and no friends.

‘I care,’ he shouted. ‘I told you from the beginning I would not allow you to bring me down with you. Not after I have worked so hard to earn my good name. I’ll be damned if I allow you to ruin it.’

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Then you must prevent my discovery, must you not?’

He swung away and paced in front of her. ‘It is not only that, Morgana. This is a dangerous business. Deadly dangerous… Your altercation in the park was nothing compared to what could happen. That glove-shop proprietor is nipping at your heels, and, believe me, she will not stop until she is revenged upon you.’

Morgana’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’

He stopped pacing but did not answer right away. He finally turned to her and the look on his face made her shiver. ‘I have my means.’

They stood no more than three feet from each other, staring like two cats daring the other to pounce. The pause merely reminded Morgana of the weight of the responsibility she carried on her shoulders. She ought to have figured out another way to help the girls. She ought to have protected them all instead of bringing danger and ruin.

But she must not weaken now. She straightened her spine and gave Sloane a steady look. ‘I will see this through to the end, Sloane. I have no other choice.’

His angry expression changed to one more vulnerable, until he covered that over with no expression at all. It was like a cleaver chopping her in two. To save the girls she risked ruining him. And he had wanted nothing more than a good name.

He gave her a curt nod and, without another word, turned away from her and walked out the door.

Morgana dropped her face into her hands, giving in to the grief of knowing how she had wounded him. She could no longer pretend she did not love him. Even if she did not count the physical desires he aroused in her, she loved the man. Loved his strength. Loved the rakish side of him that mocked the very world for which he pined. She could weep for the pain of his family’s rejection and for his longing for friends such as the Marquess of Heronvale. She knew that sort of loneliness.

The agony was, she had put all he desired at risk. His association with her, the mere fact of living next to her, would most probably be his ruin.

Laughter came from the drawing room. She raised her head and squared her shoulders. She must make certain her plans succeeded, no matter how abhorrent they had become to her. She must successfully launch her girls into the world of the demi-rep and hope that they found protectors and ultimate wealth. She would lose them, too, as she’d lost Sloane.

Morgana set her chin. She still must deal with Harriette Wilson.

She returned to the drawing room, where Miss Wilson had the group enthralled.

‘First, always value yourselves very highly—’

‘That is what Miss Hart says, as well,’ Katy broke in.

‘And you must always remember that you choose the gentleman; the gentleman does not choose you…’

Madame Bisou saw Morgana enter and hurried over to her. ‘Miss Hart, Harriette has thought of the very thing to launch the girls. It is a splendid opportunity!’

Harriette interrupted her lecture. ‘It is indeed. Tomorrow night there is to be a masquerade ball at the Argyle Rooms to mark the end of the Season. It promises to be very merry. Your girls will attend. It will be the perfect place to show them off and tantalise potential clientele.’

‘Is it not brilliant?’ cried Madame Bisou.

Katy looked at Morgana as if daring her to refuse. Mary glanced around with frightened eyes. Lucy sat thin-lipped with resignation, and Rose, who was silently fingering the keys of the pianoforte, gave no indication of having heard the discussion at all.

‘I am not certain—’ Morgana began.

Madame Bisou cut her off again. ‘It is time, Miss Hart.’

She sounded so much like Sloane, Morgana thought she would laugh—or weep. As much as Morgana wanted to clutch them all to her bosom and never let them go, this provided her the best chance of making matters right for Sloane. She had no better alternative.

Perhaps they could all move to the country in a little cottage or something of which her father would approve. If she withdrew from society before the scandal hit—

No. What sort of life would that offer them all? The sheer boredom of it would drive Morgana mad, if not the rest of them with her. Except perhaps for Mary. She could offer Mary a chance not to be a courtesan.

‘Well, Morgana?’ asked Miss Moore. She seemed to be as excited about the prospect as Katy.

A masquerade? It seemed a safe enough place to begin. Like at Vauxhall, they could hide behind masks. No one need know who they were, unless they desired it.

‘We will attend.’ Morgana would go with them, she resolved. She would look out for them one last time.

After leaving Morgana’s house in a towering rage, Sloane paused in his hall long enough to pick up his hat, gloves and swordstick before rushing out again. Elliot, who’d heard his noisy entry, had dared try to ask him a question. Sloane had bellowed, ‘I am going out!’

He knew precisely where he was bound.

If Morgana would not end this foolishness, he must do his best to keep the leaking information from engulfing her. He had not needed Harriette Wilson to tell him that Mrs Rice was becoming more and more obsessed about discovering the courtesan school. He knew it from his own surveillance.

There was one leak he could plug and plug it he would.

Sloane strode off to Fenton’s Hotel, where he asked to be announced to Sir Reginald.

When Sloane was admitted into Sir Reginald’s rooms, the older man was still dressed in his dressing gown, although it was nearly noon. Sir Reginald put down the copy of the Morning Post that he’d held in his hand.

‘Good morning, Sloane.’ Sir Reginald gave a cordial smile and gestured for him to sit. ‘A bit early, eh? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Sloane sat and a servant appeared to pour tea. He waited until the servant scurried away into another room. ‘I’ll not mince words.’ He leaned towards the older man, who was just about to take a swallow. ‘You told Harriette Wilson about the courtesan school, did you not?’

Sir Reginald gulped and went into a spasm of coughing before replying. ‘I—I suppose I did. Saw her the other day at Covent Garden—some play or some such. Don’t rightly recall…’

Sloane gave Sir Reginald a menacing look. ‘No one must know of this. No one, do you understand?’

Sir Reginald gave a snort. ‘Cannot see why not. Capital idea, training young women. Imagine a lady doing so!’

‘What do you know of the lady?’ Sloane demanded.

The man sputtered. ‘A Miss Hart—’

Sloane seized him by the front of the robe and lifted him out of the chair. ‘You are never to speak her name to anyone.’

Sir Reginald’s eyes bulged. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’

‘Your word on it,’ Sloane demanded, shaking him.

Sir Reginald stuttered. ‘I… I… I give my word.’

Sloane released him and Sir Reginald landed back in his chair, breathing as hard as if he’d run the full length of Hyde Park.

Sloane rose from his chair.

Sir Reginald cowered as Sloane advanced on him one more time. ‘I shall take my leave. But, mind this, if you loose your tongue again, I will discover it. You will not wish to see what I will do to you.’

Sir Reginald nodded so vigorously the loose skin on his neck shook.

Sloane strode out of the room.

When the door shut behind him, Sir Reginald reached for his tea, the cup clattering in its saucer from his shaking hands.

His manservant crept out from behind the bedchamber door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’

‘No, of course I am not injured,’ Sir Reginald snapped.

‘What a terrifying man!’ His servant picked up Sloane’s tea cup.

‘He is indeed,’ agreed Sir Reginald.

As his man tidied the room, Sir Reginald stared at the Morning Post without seeing a word.

All he could hope was that Sloane never found out he had mentioned the courtesan school at the dolly shop where he tarried after leaving Covent Garden. Just in passing, mind. A harmless comment, no names mentioned. Except Madame Bisou’s.

He rubbed his face and lowered his forehead on to the tabletop with a groan.

That evening Madame Bisou walked through the game room of her establishment, checking that the tables were stocked with cards and other necessities.

She sighed and flung herself into a chair. Toying with a stack of counters, she recalled the look upon Robert’s face when he came to call upon Miss Hart and her girls that afternoon after Harriette Wilson had finished her interminable lesson. Robert acted like a besotted suitor. Was she to lose him? He was such a dear… so… so predictable.

She rued the day she brought him to Morgana Hart’s house so the girls could learn how to be with a man, if one could call Robert a man—a boy-man perhaps, a sweet, harmless thing. She supposed he would take his business to that Mary Phipps as soon as she was established. Some thanks that would be.

Cummings entered the room. ‘You have a caller, Madame.’

He always made everything sound like doom. ‘You know we are not open, Cummings.’ She had no wish to see anyone, even if they were open.

‘It is Mrs Rice,’ he intoned. ‘And she insists upon seeing you.’

‘Oh, that odious Fortuna Rice.’ Madame Bisou waved her hand. ‘Have her meet me in the supper room.’

She followed him out of the door and crossed the hall to the supper room, stepping into the back to bring out a bottle of Madeira wine. If she had to endure Fortuna Rice, it would be with liquid spirits.

She sat and downed one glass before the woman entered the room.

‘Come join me, Fortuna,’ she said, pouring two more glasses. ‘Have some wine.’

‘A choice bottle, I hope. You would not be serving me your cheap wine, would you, Penny?’ Mrs Rice sat across from her.

Madame Bisou bristled, but decided to let the catty comment pass. ‘Only the best for us, Fortuna. We have earned it.’

‘Which is why I am here.’

Leave it to Fortuna Rice to waste no time on niceties. ‘I have heard you are involved in a courtesan school. Is that so?’

Madame Bisou delayed answering, covering up the time it took to contrive an answer by taking a long sip of her wine. She decided the best tactic was avoidance. ‘Why do you ask, my dear?’

Mrs Rice frowned. ‘I have had two girls stolen from me and a third I was about to bring into the house. I want them back.’

Madame Bisou lifted her brows. ‘Careless of you to lose them, Fortuna. I treat my girls well and they stay of their own accord.’

‘I treat mine well, too,’ snapped Mrs Rice. ‘But I have been ill used and I want them back.’

‘I am certain you do.’ Madame Bisou took another sip.

‘Well, what do you know of it?’

Fortuna Rice was an unpleasant woman, the madam decided, and not too smart to have shown all her cards at once. Penny lounged in her chair. ‘I know nothing of it. I am sure I do not know why you supposed I would.’

‘Sir Reginald let something slip about it. Said you were showing off the girls at Vauxhall last night.’

Madame Bisou made herself laugh with great heartiness. ‘Oh, that is famous! What a buffoon!’ She pretended to wrest control of herself again and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she pulled from between her ample bosoms. ‘I was at Vauxhall with some of my girls, all masked! We told him a story and he believed it.’

Mrs Rice put both her palms flat on the table and glared at her. ‘This is not the first I’ve heard of a courtesan school. It was talked of in one of the pubs as well. It is said a man and a lady run it and they teach the girls to think themselves better than they ought.’

It was fortunate that Madame Bisou had nearly a lifetime of telling whatever she wished others to hear, gentlemen especially. She prided herself on sounding earnest and believable, whatever she said. ‘Why, I have heard the rumours myself, Fortuna. Now Sir Reginald thinks the courtesan school is mine. Is that not fun?’

Mrs Rice swallowed the contents of her glass and stood. ‘I do not believe you, Penny, but I make you a promise. I will find where my girls are and I will take them back and no one—I repeat, no one—will stop me.’

She flounced out of the room.

Madame Bisou poured another glass of wine and again downed it in one long, nervous swallow.