Читать книгу Reckless in Pink - Lynne Connolly - Страница 7

Even Val opened his bloodshot eyes wider when Claudia came out with her news. “How daring,” he murmured and subsided back into his pained silence as he continued to drink his way through a pot of coffee.

“You must have it wrong, dear,” her mother said. “Give the letter to your father. Let him deal with the matter.”

Stubbornly, Claudia shook her head. “I want to deal with it. It’s only a small establishment. It must be, because it’s in London.” She would keep the address to herself for now. “It’s from Great-Aunt Dorelia, the one who died at Christmas.”

“Why has it taken so long for the news to reach you?” her mother demanded. “Does the letter say?”

“Yes, it’s because she appointed a new lawyer to deal with her will. He did not hear of her death, because the old one took charge. She has an heir, her husband’s cousin, and he has taken control of the estate. That is unchanged. The lawyer informs me that the heir doesn’t object to the legacy. There’s a letter from Great-Aunt Dorelia, which he encloses.”

“Read it, then, girl!” her father snapped impatiently.

She glanced at him. The marquess id not usually become agitated, especially at the breakfast table. The hubbub of breakfast with the Strenshalls eased to a murmur. She broke the seal on the letter the lawyer had enclosed.

She pored over the spidery script for a full minute before she could interpret it. “It says that every woman should have at least one house of her own as a retreat from a demanding family.”

Her mother gave an exaggerated sigh. “If only that were possible!”

“When you marry, it will go to your husband,” Livia said.

“No it won’t, because if there’s any danger of that happening, it will revert to the estate,” Claudia said. “It’s in trust for me, with the solicitor, so that my husband can’t touch it.”

“Where is this house?” her father demanded. “Out with it, girl! You’ve been havering around that point for the last ten minutes. Every time you come to mention it, you talk about something else. Where?”

She sighed. She’d enjoyed the dream while it lasted. “Hart Street.” After folding the letters, she placed them on the table but kept her hand over them. She might still make something of this. Over the noise that had erupted over the address, she shouted, “It’s mine and I’m keeping it!”

Silence fell again, stony and complete, until her father broke it.

“You can’t, Claudia. You know that. A house in that neighborhood is not eligible.”

Before she could censor her words, she burst out, “They’re not all brothels!”

Dru’s shocked laughter echoed around the silent walls. Nobody else spoke.

Ah, well, in for a penny. “It could be a coffee house or a shop selling something quite innocuous.”

Her mother took a hand. “Claudia, you have already garnered a reputation for wildness. You cannot afford more gossip, so in this case you must hold yourself at a distance. I daresay Lady Dorelia has lived long enough away from London that she does not know the reputation of that area. Did not know,” she corrected herself hastily. “If you sell the house, the money may be added to your portion. Who knows, that might have been the intent of the legacy.”

Claudia shook her head. “Not according to the letter.” When Marcus reached across the table for them, she snatched the papers away. “If I sell the house immediately, the money will go to the estate. I must keep it for at least a year.”

“I always said the woman was mad,” her mother said. “Living on her own, with that odd companion.”

“She loved Violet,” Darius said quietly. “When she died, Great-Aunt Dorelia lost the will to live. The light went out of her life.”

Darius spoke with deep understanding and sympathy. Everyone stared at him instead of at Claudia.

Claudia sent him a grateful smile. Darius had the full support of his family, even after society chattered about his relationship with a young man of good family. Only they knew the truth, and they were telling nobody. It didn’t make any of the people in this room love him any the less.

Of course everyone in the family understood Lady Dorelia had peculiar tastes, but again, nobody discussed the matter. Of all her relatives, Dorelia would be the one to give her a very interesting legacy.

Hart Street might have been a fashionable part of town once, but it was decidedly not so now. The knowledge made Claudia even more determined to see the property, but on her own terms.

She was to visit Vauxhall Gardens tonight with Marcus, Val, and his betrothed. The perfect chance to slip away.

* * * *

Claudia wasn’t sure if her new pink gown suited her, but she wore it anyway, and when her maid produced the powder pot, waved it away. Her gown should clash horribly with her red hair, but for some reason it did not. In any case, she wasn’t so much red as a kind of gold with strong red hints.

Her mother despaired of her twin daughters, their coloring far too flamboyant for fashionable taste, which preferred ethereal blondes and dark, sultry brunettes. Perhaps Claudia’s hair had flung her into more trouble than it might have done had she been born with a more serene coloring, but she doubted it. The devil had been in her from the moment she took her first breath, her mother said. She said it with a smile, unlike the more censorious of society’s matrons.

Having second thoughts, she had her maid apply a layer of powder to her hair. That would help with her disguise later.

Claudia had always longed for somewhere of her own, a place she could retreat to. Nobody would burst into a room she was in or insist she join in something when she wanted a quiet hour to herself. Even she wanted that sometimes.

She could insist that this house remain hers. She had no intention of selling it. Ever, whatever it turned out to be.

She took care to take her thickest most enveloping cloak, secreting a couple of items in the pockets. She’d engaged the services of a pair of chairmen she’d met in the Exchange that very day. No family retainer would report her adventure back to her mother. If she planned this right, she could slip away, view the house, and then return before anyone was any the wiser.

Accordingly, halfway through the tedious concert her staid brother, Val, and his betrothed listened to with avid interest, she begged to be excused. “I will attend Lady Colm’s. Mama is there. The carriage is outside.”

Her maid waited for her in the carriage, and of course two of the sturdy footmen her father employed, so she would not be alone. If she took the carriage, that was. She would say that she felt ill and went home instead and took the chair rather than the carriage so that Marcus and Val could take it. That was likely to earn her a rebuke, but she’d had enough of those to cope with another with equanimity.

Having gathered the cloak around her and put on her hat, she scurried out of the gardens, contriving to lose the footman accompanying her. That proved easier than she’d imagined. As a firework exploded overhead, she took one of the side paths. She scurried straight for one of the side exits, the one where she’d arranged to meet the chairmen.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw two shadowy figures standing by a battered sedan chair covered in dark leather. As she approached, one swung open the door and she climbed in, ensuring none of the gown showed for anyone to recognize her. The color was rather too bright. She should have worn the blue, but the pink made her feel light-hearted. She wanted this adventure to be an enjoyable one.

The time was barely half past eight. If the house proved to be one she should certainly not visit, she could go home or even to Lady Colm’s. Too bad that her ladyship would not be glad to see her. She had set her heart on grabbing Livia for her second son, and Claudia and he had never rubbed along.

She planned to have the men pause outside the house so she could just look at it.

They took her through Covent Garden, an adventure in itself, since at night ladies only travelled this way to visit the theater. Respectable women often passed through with the blinds down on the carriage, lest they damage their delicate sensibilities.

Claudia didn’t consider her sensibilities delicate in the least. She enjoyed the sight of London’s demimonde, already out in force and angling for custom. Brightly clad women wore gowns cut a tiny bit too low and perhaps a little worn and démodé. They’d bought them from the second-hand shops that thronged the large space of the Garden.

Hastily, she fastened on the black half mask she’d brought with her, the plain kind that ladies sometimes wore in the street.

Many of the well-built red brick houses ringing the Piazza were devoted to the life of the demimonde. But at ground level they were shops, coffeehouses, and a few other businesses. Perhaps her house was a respectable one. If she didn’t discover it for herself, she never would. They would sell it and put the money to her portion and that would be that.

“We’re ’ere ma’am,” one of the chairmen said after they dumped the chair down on the pavement.

The jolt made her gasp, but she peered out of the window and took stock. The house was part of a row, of reasonable size but not as large as the ones ringing the piazza. The shutters were up on the single window by the front door, which opened off the street, instead of set back and up a shallow flight of steps like her parents’ London residence.

Trepidation made her throat tighten, but after taking a few deep breaths, she pulled her hood over her head and marched to the front door.

It opened at her knock to reveal a huge man who looked as if a baker had kneaded his face into a new shape. He glared at her from baby blue eyes. “Are you the new girl?”

Blinking at his abrupt question, she nodded. “That’s me.”

Her parents would kill her, but they would do it later. After this man had his turn. She had made a hasty copy of the documents that afternoon. She could show them and prove this house belonged to her.

The door was a smaller, narrower copy of the one she used every day. The black paint was duller but not peeling or old, which she took as a good sign.

A roar of merrymaking rocked the house as she entered. Men’s voices, interrupted by the higher pitch of female, burst from the room upstairs. Down here relative quiet reigned, and she could just make out shapes covered by canvas and covers. A shop, probably. Shop by day, brothel by night.

The man jerked his head to the staircase at the end of the room. “Up there. What’s your name?”

She’d prepared one. “Ellie Franks.” The combined names of two servants at the London house.

“Go and serve some drinks. If a gentleman takes a fancy to you, you can stay. Usual rates.”

She dared not ask what they were. Once she showed her papers to whoever was in charge, she wouldn’t be collecting any drinks or money.

Up the stairs, she found one large room, the narrow supporting arch barely holding up the roof. That would have to be shored up to be safe. The floor was bare boards, well polished but worn, dipping in places where it was most frequently walked on. She could barely see it, because most of the space was taken up. Two long tables stretched widthways with a jumble of chairs, none matching, gathered around them. All were occupied, some of them double.

Men were engaged in drinking, laughing, and fondling. On one corner of the table, two men were engaged in what appeared to be a game of piquet. Their cards were in neat piles, together with tokens that would presumably be converted into money at the end of their play. They were oblivious to the goings-on in the rest of the room. The room was ill-lit, probably on purpose, dark corners providing useful corners for more intimate play.

Claudia had never seen anything like it in her life, and it fascinated her.

The women were in various stages of undress. A man dragged a bodice down and sucked on the girl’s breasts. Claudia stood close enough to hear the growls he made and the giggles from the girl. How could she allow anyone to maul her like that? The bitter flavor of distaste filled her mouth. Even for money, that was taking matters much further than Claudia wanted to go. She couldn’t imagine doing that with anyone, even Lord St. Just.

She dismissed him from her mind. This was most certainly not the time to think of him.

An older lady, wrinkled breasts on full display, approached her. “Yes?” she said. “Did Harold let you in?”

Claudia moistened her lips. “Yes, he did. I have to show you something.”

The lady had shaved her brows, but the penciled ones demonstrated her surprise as well as the originals would have. “You’re not showing enough as it is. If you want to get some customers, you’ll have to tempt them more than that.”

In response, she drew out the copies of her letters that she’d hastily made that afternoon and handed them over.

Claudia had pushed her bodice as low as she’d dared, but she wouldn’t dream of exposing her nipples, as this lady did. Even less talking rationally while having them on blatant display. The more Claudia tried not to look, the more she wanted to, although it was far from a savory sight.

The lady carried an odor with her, a mixture of camphor, lavender, and stale sweat. What wreathed around her nose most was a heavy, thick, unpleasant scent, spiked with a sharper smell not unlike two-day-old fish. Her stomach roiled and she pressed her hand to it. Maybe the lamps in the hall outside were using cheap fish oil.

No, it wasn’t that. She knew what it was, and she hated to admit that she did. Unwashed female. The heavier smell must be the men in the room, although she had no knowledge of what men’s private parts smelled like. If this was a sample, she wanted none of it.

She couldn’t imagine Lord St. Just carried that scent under his pristine, expensive clothes. When he’d kissed her, all she’d smelled was a faint citrus aroma and warm, clean male. She was accustomed to that scent in her brothers, but not the heat and the muskiness. The memory helped to block out the unpleasant ones assaulting her now.

The woman sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand before returning the papers to Claudia. She took them and folded them, taking care not to touch the spot the woman had smeared with her snot. She’d as lief throw them in the fire, but this evening had proved mild and there was none. Besides, it would look decidedly strange. She’d tear them up when she got home. They were only copies.

“You’re the new owner. What do you plan to do with the place?” the woman demanded.

“Nothing,” she said. “I only wanted to see it.”

“What, you couldn’t make an appointment like any normal gentry-mort?”

Fascinated, Claudia tilted her head and wondered what a gentry-mort was. Whatever the meaning, it appeared she was one. “I wanted to see it during…working hours.”

The woman cackled. “Well, here we are. Do you like what you see?”

She moved closer and Claudia was hard put not to step back.

“Some ladies come ’ere of an evening to join in. Are you of that mind?”

Claudia shook her head. Waves of nausea swept over her, and she had to fight to keep her dinner in her stomach. “May I watch? Please, don’t tell anyone who I am.” She could put up with a little stink.

The woman shook her head, the lappets of her cap grazing her bare shoulders. “You shouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t let any of my little ’uns see me in working hours. Whatever is your mother thinking?” She clicked her tongue. “You could get robbed, or worse. Still, Mother Finch’ll take care of you. If anybody asks, tell them you’re reserved and your gentleman isn’t here yet. He’s paid a lot for you, and he wants you to wait. We gets all sorts ’ere. Some like to watch and most gentlemen have their favorites. I’ll send you some wine over. There, in the corner near the fireplace. Don’t sit there like the specter at the feast. Smile and laugh and look like you’re having a good time.”

After a nod, Claudia made her way down the side of the room to the seat the lady—Mother Finch—indicated. A big man who could have been the twin of the one outside, except that the pattern of battering was different, handed her a grubby glass of red liquid. She thanked him and sniffed the contents of the goblet. Wine, for sure, but she had no idea what else was in there. It could be vinegar from the way it smelled. She wet her lips with it and her tongue shrank from the acrid taste.

The sound in the room had continued unabated. A fat, florid man stared at her, his gaze roaming lasciviously over her figure. She wished now she’d worn a less vivid color, for the pink gown seemed almost gaudy in this place. She had a double ruffle of lace at her elbows, not her finest lace to be sure, but too fine for this room. Lace was expensive, so dear that smugglers gained a good price from it. As well she hadn’t worn her gown with the laced petticoat. The people here might have ripped it off her or even killed her for it.

She shuddered and took a delicate sip of the wine.

The man was still watching. His face was red, from wine or the heat of the small room crammed with unwashed, excited people, she didn’t know. He wore relatively grand clothes. Blue and mustard in color, the waistcoat was a little too long for current taste, the sleeves of his shirt even fuller than her brothers had. No, not unfashionable. Foreign. The style was French, or maybe Italian.

She didn’t care. The man had a bulbous nose, no doubt from over imbibing over a period of time, and his pale blue eyes were unpleasantly prominent. His lips were full, almost like a girl’s. He smiled, revealing white teeth, though she wasn’t close enough to ascertain whether they were his own or artificial.

She didn’t care. Looking away, she was just in time to catch the rush of a dark green coat as its owner sat next to her. He smelled of citrus and warm, clean male.

“What…”

With a laugh, Lord St. Just caught her in his arms and pressed a kiss to her mouth, stifling whatever she was about to say.