Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella) (2 page)

The prince was nearly a child, it turned
out, but a handsome one, and not that bright. She knew she’d been his first.
And his second, and his third, during the four hours she’d spent in his bed.
He’d seemed mindblown by the pleasure she’d introduced to him. She couldn’t
help the sense of fondness that crept into her thoughts when she remembered.
But a week had gone by and nothing. Did he think any wren would wring such
ecstasy from him? No, she’d always had a talent for men and their pleasures,
discovered at age fourteen when a farmer in the croft east of her parents had
shoved her hands down his trousers and forced her to touch him intimately.

He’d been the aggressor the first time,
but after that he’d been little more than a beggar for her favors. In the end
he’d paid for the cloth in the dress she’d worn to meet the prince. She
wondered how she’d held onto her virginity for so long, but it had been for
this, to give it to the prince and make her way in the world. Her parents had
been wrong to object to her coming here, since they had had little else to
suggest.

She’d thought she’d known what to expect
in the prince’s bed. But truth be told, she’d still been more innocent than she’d
realized, more surprised by the sensation of intercourse, than she’d expected.
The excitement of bedding the prince had made it painless enough, though. His
own meager talents would not have been up to the task of making it pleasurable.
He hadn’t even quite known where to put it in.

His bottom sheet had come untucked
during their tussling and she’d managed to kick it to the floor and then hide
it under her skirt when she left. Is that why she hadn’t been invited back?
Because she’d taken it? Only to hide the evidence of her shame, though she had
to admit that once she’d washed the stains out in the creek it made a fine bed
for her in Moira’s nest.

But that was a week ago. Nellie kicked
the dust from her shoes as she ducked out of the nest and set off for the pub
where the officers spent time. Not just any wren was allowed inside, just the
freshest, prettiest ones. As she walked down the lane, careful not to dislodge
any pebbles that might stir up dirt, she debated how long she should wait
before offering her favors to another man. She must be practical, despite her
daydreams. Her sister’s future depended on her choices now. Her instincts told
her to wait until she had her next courses. That way, if she found out she were
pregnant, she’d know it was by the prince and that would change her life.

Not that this was her goal—anything but.
No, she wanted out of Ireland. The prince wouldn’t stay here long. That suited
her fine and she wanted him to take her with him. A mistress
en titre
would have a fine life. Surely the queen, in her forties and worn out from
childbearing, would be dead within five years. Then Nellie’s life would truly
begin, even though Bertie would, of course, marry another royal. But Nellie
would be the fun one, feted at balls and other entertainment. The prince would
confide in her. She might even be able to influence policies toward Ireland.
The queen hated the Irish, but her son did not.

Nellie expected her courses in a few
days. Would half of her payment from the prince hold out that long? She
mentally counted her funds versus her expenses and decided it would. Fantastic,
she could hold her head high, and only flirt if she saw one of the subalterns
who knew the prince. Unfortunately, she saw no one that night.

Three nights later, she visited the pub
yet again. She’d attracted a great many followers over that time, and was
keeping note of who might be willing to be her protector rather than just a
lover or a quick coin. She had not surrendered her plans.

Several voices greeted her as she entered,
and a third son of a baronet was quick to purchase her a glass of what the pub
owner claimed was sherry. But she was too proud to allow a drink to buy her
attention, and she kept her gaze roaming until finally she spotted her quarry,
the older, more sober subaltern, Cornet Mills.

He saw her too, and carelessly quirked a
finger in her direction, calling her over as he took another swallow of his
drink.

What the—she stared at him for a moment.
What did he think she was? Furious, she tossed her head and turned her gaze
onto the baronet’s third son, running a finger over his buttons as she
fluttered her eyelashes. This had the desired response of forcing the subaltern
to actually stand up and come directly to her.

He didn’t look happy when he got there.
She didn’t care.

“I need to speak with you,” he rasped
into her ear.

She pulled away and sniffed. “I don’t be
needing to speak to you, sir,” she said saucily. “My lad,” she said to the
baronet’s son, “you need this button fixed or you’re going to lose it.”

The third son looked down at the button
she was playing with, then grinned foolishly at her. “If I get you some thread
and a needle, would you fix it?”

“Ha! Would that thread and needle be in
your rooms?” she teased.

He grinned bashfully, but her view of his
face was interrupted when the subaltern took her arm and spun her around.

She jerked out of his grasp. “I did not
give you permission to touch me.”

“The prince wants to see you.”

She tossed her head, instantly
softening. That
did
make all the difference. “Oh he did, did he? Why
didn’t he come himself?”

“You know that’s not how it works,
Nellie.”

“I have a specialty,” she said
stubbornly.

“Then consider your work still
unfinished. He’s the Prince of Wales. Surely you would prefer to service him
over that young popinjay, no matter how many buttons he needs sewed on.”

“I beg your pardon, sir!” the baronet’s
son protested.

She patted his cheek. “Have your drink,”
she told him, “while I lend my ear to this fellow.”

That business taken care of, she took
the subaltern’s arm and drew him into a corner of the pub. “I’ll come with you,
but I have a price.”

The soldier snorted. “My goodness, but
those laughing eyes have gone serious. Might I hope your price is a romp with
me after you’re done with the untutored prince? I know my way around a woman’s
body.” He somehow found her nipple under her gown and tweaked.

She pulled away with a gasp, horrified
that someone might see her being treated like a common wren. “By the holy
Virgin, if you ever do that again I’ll slap you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his lips
twisting. “You’re nothing.”

She lifted her chin. “I know my own
worth.”

“You’ve slept with the prince once.
Don’t let it give you airs.”

Sherry on an empty stomach made her
restless. “I’ll be his mistress if that’s what he wants, exclusive even, but he
has to take me to London.”

“London?” He laughed.

“London,” she said with a wild smile.
“He must promise.”

“You’re a
whore
,” he said,
dwindling patience evident in his tone. “You have no power in this
transaction.”

“He sent you for me, didn’t he?” She
repeated herself. “London, or you can go back empty handed. He has a taste for
me now and you don’t want to disappoint him.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Yes, you can.”

They stared at each other, the procurer
and the whore. He glanced away first and she knew she’d won. She, Nellie
Clifton, would be
important
.

December 10, 1861 London, England

London was no Dublin.

It was bigger than anyplace Nellie had
ever seen, and dirtier, too. To get there she’d done a little magic and a
little bed talk and poof! before too long, she’d packed the few things she had that
she could call her own—with more in store, with a little more promise and
wheedling—and crossed St. George’s Channel with the prince and his retinue.

The crossing she could have done
without, frankly. It was the first time she’d ever been on a boat, and she
didn’t particularly care for the swaying. She had nothing of the sailor in her.
There was a storm that the ship ran into on the way, and before she had much of
a chance to acclimate, the violent motions knocked her off her feet and she
felt queasy for a while. She’d taken Irish Patented Sailing Compound and the
uneasy sensations in her stomach had immediately been quelled, but none of the
other passengers, English to the point of stupidity, used Irish brand products.
They all had Gaelic packaging and were rumored to be made under the moon by
crones chanting old pagan charms so no Englishman or woman would touch them.

She encountered at least half a dozen
fellow travelers upchucking as she took a walk on deck. These were supposed to
be seasoned voyagers, so their reaction to the storm made her feel superior.

England didn’t impress her much at
first. The greenery looked like the outskirts of Dublin, and the way they spoke
wasn’t like English, even. Nellie found out the language there was Welsh, and
the way they wrote it was mystifying. She’d made it a point to learn to read
and write English, but learning how to read and write Welsh must have been
torturous.

By the time Nellie, as part of the
prince’s retinue, arrived in London, she had gone farther and seen more of the
world than her parents and her grandparents and great-grandparents combined.
The city was big, yes, and it was dirty, and it was filled with English, but no
place was perfect. 

She loved it.

London was brighter and noisier than
she’d ever experienced. The streets were thronged with a heady mix of sellers,
workers, ragged children and animals pulling carts and carriages. She already
liked it by the time she arrived at the apartments the prince had arranged for
her. The rooms were finer than anything she’d ever seen, let alone lived in,
and by herself! This was all for her! Room after room, and it was all so
beautiful. Wallpaper so colorful and rich, and furniture of all kinds, and even
servants. For her own! She could ring for a meal and someone would deliver it.
It was a dream.

Nellie saw Bertie perhaps twice a week,
and she made sure she was worth every visit. She made herself read the papers
so she could stay current on the news and the gossip and have plenty of topics
with which to converse with the prince. He seemed to appreciate her attempts to
amuse, even outside of the bedchamber, because he always came to her looking tired
and depressed but went away cheered. After each visit she would receive a gift,
and it would be something bright and beautiful. Like her.

The most recent gift was something
fairly simple, and she thought it the best yet. It was a vibrant shawl, woven
of the softest and finest silk she’d ever seen and touched—not that there had
been that much—and embroidered with finely worked miniature flowers on the
edges. She could honestly tell him he’d given her the most beautiful, soft, and
warm garment she had ever seen in her life. It cheered her up just looking at
it. She hoped that Bertie had something that cheered him up in the same way.
And maybe that was her. Who knew?

Right now, she was wearing it as her own
personal talisman. In the midst of this sumptuous party, filled with
beautifully dressed English, the shawl made her feel as though she belonged.
No, better than that, the shawl made her feel worthy.

But she was still bored. She never would
have thought it. Surrounded by money and power, and even fitting in—to a
certain degree—she was bored.

“There’s only so many of these crushes
that one can attend before ennui sets in, wouldn’t you say?” she heard a voice
behind her remark. The accent was familiar, unique amid the sea of
self-important and overly eloquent odd turns of phrase that the English toffs
reveled in.

She turned to see a man a little older
than she was, hair as red as any she’d seen in the heart of Kildare, eyes
twinkling as brightly as the stars above, but dressed in evening kit like the
English toffs. She liked him instantly. “I do, sir,” she said. “Not many I’ve
been to, but they blend into each other, sadly enough.”

He laughed. “And sadly enough we
continue to attend, hoping for something new and wonderful to present itself.
So here you are. I am Dr. Cian O’Connor, my lady,” he said, bowing over her
gloved hand. “If someone were here to introduce us, I would scruple to find
him, but since no one here knows me and I know no one, I must take it upon
myself to do the honors.”

It was on the tip of Nellie’s tongue to
ask how he was here if he knew no one, but she never got to ask, for he went on
without pause. “I understand you are the other Irish in these waters. I hope if
nothing else, you found the musical performance charming.”

“It is,” she said, still trying to catch
up with the man’s patter. “I am Miss—“

“Nellie Clifton. Of Dublin,” he said.
“Do you miss Abbey Street and Raglan Road, Miss Clifton?”

At the names of familiar avenues of
Dublin, she laughed. “At times like these, very much,” she confessed. “But
London has its charms.”

“That it does. If you have the
opportunity, madame, you should travel the Continent,” he said. “There are so
many places to be explored and studied for dreamers like us.”

She smiled and tilted her head. “One
place at a time,” she said. “And I am young yet.”

“So you are. If you find yourself
desiring to leave the
demi monde
, madame, come find me,” he said, that
twinkle in his eye sharpening. “You’re meant for better things, and I can point
you in the right direction.” He looked beyond her shoulder, bowed again, and
said, “Pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

She looked over her shoulder to see what
had taken the Irishman’s attention and before she had turned back, he had
disappeared into the crowd. She was disappointed; she had missed the Irish lilt
more than she had imagined.

Just then, over her shoulder, she heard,
“Miss Clifton?” Randall Ecton, the prince’s dear, much older, friend, handed
her a glass of champagne.

She took it gracefully, but curled her
other arm across her shawl to hold it in place. Though Mr. Ecton had been the
soul of kindness to her, she didn’t like the way he looked at her bosom. It put
her hackles up. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure to do anything for
you. I see you are wearing the new shawl.”

“He gave it to me.” Who “he” was, of
course, was a given.

Ecton smiled. She saw one of his teeth
in front was quite dead. “I chose it, madam.” He touched a bit of embroidered green
vine that mixed in with the flowers around the hem. “Matches your eyes.”

She felt her eyes narrow, but kept her
smile pasted on. “It’s himself who has the right of looking at my eyes, sir.”

Ecton inclined his head. “Of course. I
merely do his bidding, as his friend.”

Friend, my foot
. She already
knew about friends like him. Men who would serve the prince, waiting for his
time of power, power that would reflect onto themselves, giving them whatever
they had craved. And if Queen Victoria lived a long life, they would go crooked
with that longing, twisting in the wind with unfulfilled desire. She, on the
other hand, would stay strong, warm in the prince’s affection, without asking
for much more than she had now.

“You should mingle,” Ecton said, leaning
his head close to her ear. She could smell the heavy fumes of port as he
breathed.

It was that she didn’t fit in. She knew
that. Even dressed in the most sumptuous clothing and surrounded by those who
were used to such things, she could only talk about what she had read in the
papers. She discovered the rich and powerful did not read. It turned out that
few of them ever read the papers, and they didn’t gossip, because they were the
topic of gossip. With her current position, she too was a topic—but not by
name. The papers had mentioned her, repeating what someone had called her, “the
princess of wales.” It was a dangerous title and she wasn’t sure she
particularly liked that, but then she was in it for a penny and a pound.

“I’m not sure I like these people. And
they don’t like the Irish.” The hoity toits, she was discovering, were a stultifying
bunch. They were barely polite to her, but she didn’t mind, because she didn’t
expect much else. No one asked her to dance, which she did regret, as dancing
was a true pleasure for her.

“You are an actress,” he said,
displaying that dead tooth again with his knowing smirk. “Change your accent.
Start again. Pretend the lilt was an amusing joke from your Curragh days.”

And deny everything she was? She
straightened, dropping her arm to her side. “I am Irish, Mr. Ecton, and proud
of it.”

“Then find something to like about this
place, or you will go mad, and that won’t do. The Prince likes you because you
amuse him.”

When she wasn’t being bored stiff, or
with Bertie, she at least got the chance to explore the sights and wonders of
London. The city was worth every single bit of the slights and oversights that
the toffs gave her, and was worth everything she had given up to get there. The
music halls alone. She could stand in a corner and let her feet tap, cozy in
her red shawl.

But this party had lost its luster. It
was just as well she could go home. Home, with windows and curtains and food on
order!

She had her duties, though, and could
not quite please herself. “Does the prince require me to stay?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Go home, Miss
Clifton. Ready yourself. I’m sure he’ll be along.” His long chin descended to
his neck as his gaze lowered to her cleavage.

She nodded to him, pretending she hadn’t
noticed his leer, and left the ballroom to find a footman. She stifled a
shudder as she took her leave from the cold stone palace of a duke—an elderly
man with bleary eyes who seemed to sniff a great deal. She gave a final,
decisive toss of the end of her shawl as she exited.

After she stepped outdoors, she looked
up at the nighttime sky, trying to see past the rolls of yellow fog and gray
mist that had obliterated the stars. She missed Irish skies. With the exception
of the heart of Dublin, she could see the stars from anywhere. Once more, there
were rumors about odd creatures afoot in London at night, same as she had heard
about in Ireland, but so far, she had nothing to be afraid about. The lower the
class of the newspaper, the more torrid and dangerous the stories were. That
ought to tell her how little she should believe the tales. They were there to
titillate the lower classes.

As she waited for her carriage to be
brought round—oh, the pleasure and leisure of her own carriage!—she reminded
herself that such things as carriages were her compensation for not seeing the
evening skies. Her compensation after a lifetime of walking everywhere. When
the conveyance arrived, she wrapped the shawl around her. On the journey home,
she wondered what to do now. The prince would not be along for hours. Perhaps
she shouldn’t have left the mansion.

She touched her midriff. She knew what
she would be doing in a few months. But now? Not a clue. And that was a luxury,
really, for a poor Irish wren.

December 15, 1861

The new parlor maid came into the
sitting room with quick light steps just short of running. A petite girl, she
could be mistaken for a child though she insisted she was fifteen. She was a
pretty thing, with a glint in her eye that Nellie found disturbing.

“Mr. Ecton to see you, miss.” She
presented Nellie the silver salver with the man’s card on it.

Nellie glanced at the merry flames in
the little tile fireplace, wishing her household included more than just women.
Ecton had told her the prince’s budget didn’t extend to male servants, but it
left her feeling exposed. Still, she had her wits about her and that was
something. No one would take advantage of her good nature. “Send him in.”

The maid trotted out. What had lit a
fire under her? Nellie stood, placing a chair between herself and the door as a
bit of armor. She placed a hand gracefully across the top and clutched her
shawl to her throat with the other.

Mr. Ecton appeared, filling the doorway.
As he moved toward her with a sinuous grace that belied his paunch and graying
sideburns, she noticed a black armband on his upper arm. She had been in
England long enough to know what that meant—someone had died.

“Miss Clifton,” he said when he reached
her, stepping around the chair she had attempted to place between them. “My
dear, have you heard the sad news?”

She shook her head and took a step back,
holding out her hands as if to warm them at the fire, keeping as much of a
distance as she could between them. “What news, sir?” Perhaps it was a death in
his family, and he would be away for a while. She could only hope.