Byron's Child (13 page)

“It won’t.” Jodie was positive. “I had not thought about it, but 1816 became known as the year without a summer. Tambora erupted last year and threw so much junk into the atmosphere that it’s keeping out the sun’s heat. Frosts in July and…”

“I do not think I want to know,” said Emily, putting her hands over her ears.

Giles agreed with her. If he and Jodie were to be stuck in the past, he had no desire to learn more of the future than the vague overall picture of English history that he remembered from school.

After dinner that evening, they discussed where to start their exploration of the seamier side of London. Jodie wanted to go to the Cockpit, “to get it over with,” but Giles insisted that she must practise the role of footman somewhere innocuous first. Emily supported him. Though shocked by the whole enterprise, she did her best to help, accepting that standards would be different in the future.

Giles was proud of his great-aunt’s understanding and discernment.

In the end, he and Jodie decided to go next evening to the City coffee-houses. Jodie begged off the rout to which the others were going, claiming that she needed to bring her journal up to date. With Dinah’s assistance they slipped from the house unseen.

Giles waved his cane to summon a passing hackney and they were on their way.

Somewhat to his surprise Giles enjoyed their tour of the City coffee-houses, the Rainbow, Jonathan’s, and Don Saltero’s, where merchants and lawyers and clerks dined. He found the business discussions as dull as in his own time, but the political talk and the gossip about the latest news were interesting, particularly in comparison with the views of the Beau Monde. Jodie was fascinated. Her fingers twitched in her eagerness to write down her impressions.

No one spared her a second glance in her livery.

“It worked,” she crowed as they headed homeward. “But I cannot see how anyone could bear to powder their hair. It itches abominably. Thank heaven the Faringdales have a shower bath.”

Dinah let them into the house. Most of the servants were already abed, and the family had not yet returned. With care and luck, Giles decided, they might get away with a few more expeditions.

Anything was better than taking the risk that Jodie might go alone.

Chapter Eleven

The Cockpit was on the south side of St. James’s Park, where the pleasure grounds of the upper classes met the slums of Westminster. The crowd in attendance when Giles and Jodie entered the hall reflected this dichotomy.

Bucks of the Fancy in elegant coats made by Stultz or Milne rubbed shoulders with disreputable characters who looked as if they had found their rags in the gutters. Jodie’s was by no means the only livery present. The hubbub of voices shouting out wagers, or vituperation, or encouragement to the contestants ranged from cant in the refined tones of Mayfair through the slow speech of countrymen to near incomprehensible Cockney. Occasionally, a whiff of sandalwood breached the fetid odour of unwashed bodies and tallow-dipped torches.

“Great,” breathed Jodie in Giles’s ear.

Fighting the urge to hold his nose, he wondered whether she spoke ironically or if the opportunity for research outweighed the atmosphere.

The aisle they stood in was as full of people as the benches on either side. Being taller than most, Giles could see that the tiered seats ringed an arena, where even now a dead bird was being removed and fresh sawdust scattered over a pool of blood. Feeling sick, he turned away.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to find you a seat where you can see,” he said, his head close to hers to be heard above the racket.

“I prefer not to see the ring. Brad took me to a bullfight in TJ once.”

“TJ?” It was really Brad he wanted to know about, but he decided to stow the name away in his mind for future consideration.

“Tijuana. It’s just across the Mexican border from San Diego. The corrida was quite the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen and I’m sure a cockfight is as bad. It’s the people I want to watch here.”

“Unless you close your eyes, you can hardly help watching the people,” he said. “Some of them are pretty disgusting too.”

“‘Ere, mate, watch ‘oo you’re insulting,” genially protested a ferret-faced man in a short coat and a hat with a drooping brim. “Want a tip fer the next main? You lay yer blunt on the blue an’ you won’t regret it, or my name ain’t Jem Bloggs.” With a wink, he slipped away through the crowd.

Giles disregarded this advice. He had little money in his pocket, for despite Roland’s generosity he refused to take a shilling more than he absolutely had to. In theory it might be his own inheritance, but in practice it belonged to the present viscount and was not Giles’s to gamble with.

Grasping Jodie’s braided sleeve, he battled his way along the nearest row of benches tugging her behind him. A broad-beamed fellow who looked like a prosperous farmer stood up as they approached him and hallooed to someone in the opposite direction. Giles dodged into his seat as he stumped away with the irresistible impetus of a rolling boulder, eliciting catcalls as he trampled feet in his path.

There was room for Jodie to squeeze in beside him. She took off her hat and fanned herself.

“I am dying of heat in this coat.”

“Don’t you dare unbutton it.”

She sighed. “I suppose I had best not, though I cannot believe anyone would notice.”

Giles stood up and looked around, carefully averting his eyes from the mayhem going on below.

“There’s more space up higher, but it will be hotter,” he shouted down at her. “Oh hell!” He sat down abruptly. “Lord Alfred, and he’s seen me. He’s coming this way. Keep your head down, Jodie.”

“Lord Alfred? That guy I danced with the other night who trod all over my new slippers?”

“Yes, the one who interrogated me about the War of 1810.”

“1812.” Jodie giggled. “I’ve never in my life heard so many platitudes about international friendship spouted in a quarter-hour. What is he doing here? He struck me as a nice, naïve boy who would not hurt a fly, unless it happened to get under the sole of his shoe.” She jammed her hat on her head, tilting it forwards to shade her face.

Unfortunately Giles’s neighbour departed at that moment and Lord Alfred took his place.

“Good to see someone I know,” he said, somewhat breathless after his struggle through the crowd. “What d’you think of the sport?”

Momentarily Giles debated his answer. Honesty won. “I consider it an abomination and I’m about to leave. I must confess to some curiosity which is more than quenched, so I hope you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

“It’s those iron spurs they put on the cocks nowadays have spoiled it,” said the young man agreeably. “Give me a good terrier and I’d rather go ratting. Mind if I go with you?”

“Not at all,” said Giles, unable to think of a reason to object.

Jodie appeared to be examining her knees with the greatest interest. He stuck his elbow in her ribs and hissed, “Follow us,” then pushed past her, heading for the exit. At frequent intervals he turned his head, purportedly to speak to Lord Alfred, actually to see if Jodie was managing to make her way after them. The black tricorne bobbed along in their wake.

It was raining when the trio emerged from the building. What rotten luck to land in the year without a summer, Giles thought gloomily, looking around for a taxi. A hackney.

“What say to supper at the Piazza?” suggested Lord Alfred with unabated good cheer.

Jodie tugged on Giles’s coattail, an unmistakable but uninterpretable signal. Probably she wanted to go to the Piazza coffee house, which she had mentioned as a haunt of Byron and his friends. She must be mad. In a well-lit room Lord Alfred was bound to recognize her.

“Thank you, my lord, but I’d best be getting home, if I can only find a hackney.”

“Won’t hear of it, my dear fellow. My man will have my rig round in a trice and I’ll run you home. International friendship and all that nonsense.”

“That’s good of you, only I have my footman with me.” Noting his lordship’s surprise, he added, “I’m not too familiar with the town as yet.”

“So that’s what the fellow’s up to skulking behind us. He can hop on behind with my groom. Here they are.”

A light town carriage drove up, splashing dirty water from a string of puddles so filthy they failed to gleam in the wavering light of the oil-burning street lamps. Giles eyed the high perch at the back with some misgiving. Jodie would be soaked to the skin, yet he could not ask for her to ride inside, nor even help her up without arousing suspicion.

He grinned as she cast him a fulminating glance and scrambled up to join the groom. This whole caper was her notion; she would have to abide by the consequences.

To his relief, Lord Alfred did not interrogate him about America again. It was almost as difficult to avoid accepting any of the many invitations the young man proffered. He managed to escape without committing himself to anything specific while leaving the impression that he would be delighted to join in a spree with his lordship and his cronies.

“My compliments to Miss Judith,” said Lord Alfred as the carriage pulled up in Grosvenor Street. “I’m not much in the petticoat line but I like a filly with a bit of spirit.”

“I’ll convey your compliments to my sister,” Giles assured him, stepping out into the downpour.

He dashed for the shelter of the front door overhang. Dinah would be waiting down at the basement door in the area, but it would never do to let Lord Alfred see him go down there.

Glancing back to make sure Jodie was following, he saw her start down the area steps. A moment later a very twentieth-century curse floated up to him. The carriage was moving away, so he hurried down, to find Jodie seated on the flagstones.

“That was the only bit of me not totally sodden,” she said crossly.

He was shaking with silent laughter as he helped her up. She hobbled ahead of him towards the door that Dinah was opening.

“Oh, miss, you’ll catch your death,” exclaimed the maid, predictably.

“To think I thought that wretched man was cute,” Jodie growled.

“He asked me to convey his compliments,” Giles told her. “He likes a spirited filly.”

“A what?” she demanded in disgust, helping Dinah unbutton her coat. “Did he really say that? I shall never speak to him again. Do you realize he left his unfortunate groom huddled in the street waiting to run for his carriage the minute he stepped out of the cockpit? And that the reason he dislikes the use of metal spurs in cockfights is that they kill the birds quicker? I was never so disillusioned in my life.”

“What, never? What about when Brad took you to the bullfight?”

“He thought it was gross too. If he hadn’t, I’d have dumped him like a ton of hot bricks. Probably. He was a cool guy, mostly.”

“Was?”

“Was. We had a disagreement about my coming to England,” Jodie answered tersely.

It was impossible to be jealous of a past relationship, Giles assured himself as they sneaked up the back stairs. Nonetheless, knowing the name of her boyfriend disturbed him in a way that knowing she had slept with some unnamed male had not. He did not subscribe to the double standard prevalent in this age they were stranded in, yet he wished Brad had remained anonymous.

~ ~ ~

Jodie was absolutely determined to see the Royal Saloon, but Giles had been avoiding the subject for days. One morning she pounced on him as he was about to leave the house to go to Dover Street to consult Cassandra, as he still did most days.

“I am going with you. It is time I paid my respects to Mrs. Brown. I am already dressed for walking and Dinah is ready to go too, so there can be no possible objection.”

Giles smiled his crooked smile. “Have I voiced any objection? I shall be glad of the company. You won’t need Dinah, though. I’m only going to drop off some calculations for Cassandra to check against her own, then I‘ll walk back with you.”

For once it was not raining, though the sky was grey and an icy wind whistled round the corners. Jodie hugged her warm cloak about her.

“Charlotte and Roland are going to some grand affair tomorrow to which we are not invited,” she opened as they turned down Davies Street. “It is the perfect opportunity to go to the Royal Saloon.”

“I’ve been asking around and I gather it’s not the most respectable of places even for gentlemen.”

“I told you, it is frequented by half the peerage.”

“That just means it’s more likely that someone will recognize you. We can’t count on getting away as easily as we did with Lord Alfred at the Cockpit.”

“Easily! Speak for yourself. I was snuffling for three days and the bruises on my rear end lasted a week.”

“That proves my point. You don’t want to go through that again.”

“No one cast a second glance my way at Tattersall’s, which was swarming with gentlemen, nor at the coaching inns.”

“Which were swarming with pickpockets,” Giles snorted. Jodie grinned. A footman’s pockets had not been deemed worthy of picking. “You only lost a half crown,” she soothed him. “And when the next one tried, you caught him a crack with your cane he will not forget in a hurry, I vow.”

“There are worse hazards than pickpockets at the Royal Saloon. Harry Font told me it’s notorious for card-sharping, drunkenness and debauchery.”

“Unless you mean to play or drink or chase the Cyprians, there is nothing to worry about.”

“But you…”

“I have no intention of doing any of those things, I promise, especially not the last,” Jodie teased. His concern for her was endearing but irritating. “Nor will seeing them hurt me, if that is what upsets you. I doubt there is anything worse than what I have seen on TV or in the movies. You are absorbing the values of the day as you said I was. Remember—I have no refined sensibilities.”

“None at all.”

His remark hurt her. Still, if he thought her hard and unfeeling, changing her mind would not change his. She pressed on. “Please, Giles. I promised not to go alone, and I shall not, but I have had to give up hope of White’s and Watier’s and the other clubs, since you can only go in as guest of a member. The Royal Saloon is the least disreputable of the gambling hells open to the public.”