Darker Than Love (28 page)

Marldon crossed to Clarissa, who was curled on the floor, snivelling. ‘Are you ready to pose?’ he enquired, offering her his hand.

For a while she did not move, then sullenly she accepted his help and rose to her feet.

‘Let him go,’ she murmured, cupping her hands behind her neck to shield her breasts with her arms.

‘But I want some pictures,’ replied Alec. And he did. He wanted the lovers to sit in concentrated silence, to drink in each other’s beauty knowing it was not theirs – only yards away but far out of reach. He wanted thoughts of broken love and lost futures to eat away at their innocent young hearts. And most of all he wanted Gabriel to continue spurning Clarissa with his indifferent façade. The sooner she realised she had lost the boy’s passion, the sooner she would accept the alternative: life as Marldon’s countess and plaything.

‘Mr Ardenzi,’ said Marldon. ‘I trust you are also ready. Because, if you aren’t, then I shall not hesitate to force you. Rape is the threat that appeals to me the most, and I see you as a man who treasures his anal virginity. Am I correct?’

Clarissa made a choked noise of shock and fear.

Gabriel shrugged, attempting aloofness. ‘Exactly how many drawings of the girl do you require?’ he asked indifferently.

Marldon smiled. Ah, yes, Clarissa was definitely his.

Kitty had been working at Madame Jane’s for over a week. It was a dandy place, full of sparkling lights and deep-red silk, and a stone’s throw either way to the Haymarket or Leicester Square. The customers were well-to-do fellows: lords and society types. Most of them were all right and easily pleased, although there were one or two Kitty didn’t much care for. But she’d scrubbed enough floors in her time to know that you didn’t have to concentrate on a job to do it.

She sat now in a wooded alcove of The Royal, one of the Haymarket’s better cafés. Decent girls didn’t go into Barron’s or The Blue Post, and Kitty, for all her sins, was still a decent girl. As was Laura, her companion. They
didn’t spend their afternoons prowling the streets and arcades in search of lusty gallants. They worked late into the night, and that was plenty. The days were for sleeping, eating and shopping in Regent Street.

‘Let us have a wee peek, then,’ said Laura, nudging at the large brown parcel on the table between them.

Kitty smiled and, moving aside their glasses of negus, untied the string and folded back a little of the wrapping.

‘There,’ she said proudly, ripping at tissue paper to display a triangle of her new gown.

The sunlight, softened by the frosted windows of the bar, gleamed on the watered silk. It was gin-bottle green, and quite the loveliest thing Kitty had ever owned. Lucy and Octavia had started her up with a fine enough wardrobe, but this she’d bought with her own money and it was all the more special for that.

‘Ah, that’s a lovely cloth,’ cooed Laura in her lilting Irish voice. ‘Will you be wearing it tonight?’

Kitty said she would, if the creases fell out, and if Laura wore scarlet. Laura had thick sandy curls and a sprinkling of freckles, almost the same colour as her hair, and a tiny upturned nose. She was one of the prettiest girls at the nighthouse, and together they made a dazzling pair. Parading about the dance hall in green and red, they’d be sure to catch many a gentleman’s eye.

‘Very well then, scarlet it is,’ said Laura. She took a few healthy sips of her negus then set down an empty glass. ‘We ought to be getting back soon. Drink up.’

It was their turn to go out that evening, which meant lots of preening and an early start. Sometimes they just stayed at Jane’s, entertaining whoever came in; other nights they wandered around the West End, visiting casinos and dancing saloons, luring back those who had money to burn and lust to spend.

Kitty drained her glass and tidied up the wrapping of her new gown. Outside, the low sun was bright after The Royal’s wooded darkness. The two women saun
tered along the busy Haymarket, Kitty holding her cumbersome parcel in a tight embrace. A gang of grimy-faced street urchins danced around them, offering to help the lady with her parcel. Laura shooed them away, scattering a few farthings on the ground when they persisted.

‘I shouldn’t be much surprised if Lord Marldon pays us a wee visit soon,’ said Laura. ‘Let us hope it is tonight or another when we’re about on the town.’

‘Oh?’ replied Kitty. ‘Why’s that then?’ She trusted Laura but was under strict instructions not to tell a soul her reason for working at Madame Jane’s. She did her best to appear conversational and casual.

‘Because I can’t be doing with the man,’ declared Laura, raising her voice above a swell in the clatter of cabs and shouts of costermongers. ‘Ah, a nasty piece of work, that he is. He swans in, checking this, changing that, and he looks at a girl so hard it sometimes makes your blood curdle. And he surely puts Jane’s back up. I tell you, the last time he came, he –’

‘No,’ interrupted Kitty. ‘I mean, why do you think he’ll be visiting us?’

They reached the corner where, as usual, a crowd of men gathered around the local trickster, jostling to get a view of whatever was set out on his box. Kitty and Laura skirted past them, ignoring one or two jeers, and turned into Panton Street.

‘The season’s coming to an end,’ answered Laura as the noise faded behind them. ‘He always pays us a visit before disappearing to the country. Business isn’t nearly so good in the autumn, you know. For the moneyed ones, they all go off hunting. But at least his lordship doesn’t pester us, and you have to be thankful for small mercies.’

Kitty felt a pang of alarm. She hadn’t banked on Marldon going away. Was he planning to take Clarissa with him?

‘They reckon he’s to be wed,’ continued Laura.
‘Though, myself, I cannot see it. One look’s enough for anyone to see the fellow’s a wicked old pervert. Who’d say “I do” to that? Not me, that’s for sure.’

‘The bride might not have a choice,’ suggested Kitty, trying to tease out more information. ‘He might have some sort of power over her.’

Laura gave a little laugh. ‘God love you. You mean he might have got her in the family way? Well, even so, if it were me, I’d sooner suckle a bastard then marry one. Wouldn’t you now?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ mumbled Kitty, unsure of what she did mean.

Clarissa’s friends had never agreed on whether she was a willing guest at Asham House or a prisoner. Octavia had said it was easy to rescue someone if their body had been captured but, if their mind had been captured, then it was much more difficult. It was all rather odd to Kitty. But, now that Mr Ardenzi had gone missing, she was sure something was badly wrong.

She was growing impatient with this half-baked plan, and the others didn’t seem to be doing much in the way of finding out more information. She wished Charles and Alicia Longleigh would return, but that wouldn’t be for another month or so. They’d know how to sort it all out.

She hoped they wouldn’t mind that she’d left her old job.

The two women reached the small sidedoor of Madame Jane’s. Downstairs, on the large glass windows, green and gold lettering spelt out, so Laura had said, ‘Wines, Beers and Spirits’. Officially it was The Balmoral and it looked, for all the world, like any other café. You could just drink and sup there if you wished. But if you had the right face and enough money, then you could go on up to the real Madame Jane’s with its glittering dance hall, its bawdy shows, private gallery and booths.

Laura unlocked the door and led the way along the dim corridor. As they climbed the flights of stairs, Kitty
wondered whether she ought to confide in her new friend. Laura knew the clients and the other girls better. Perhaps she could find something out.

‘So,’ she began tentatively, ‘is it true that this Marldon … Well, it’s just I heard he sometimes took girls from here to be his servants. Is it true?’

‘Ay,’ replied Laura. ‘But you needn’t worry yourself. It’s only the truly bad ones, and only if they want to. There was a wee lass by the name of Charlotte and she went away with him, oh about a year ago now. And before that there was – Eleanor, I think her name was, Eleanor Gracely. Now she was a scandal, I tell you. In love with her brother, so they said. Or was that Charlotte? Jesus, I can never remember.’

Laura gabbled on. Kitty scarcely heard a thing. She felt relieved that she wasn’t likely to be whisked away and made to be a servant once more. But she felt dreadfully worried too. Poor Miss Clarissa. How were they meant to get help to her now?

Kitty and Laura entered the lodging part of the building on the upper floor. In the low-ceilinged drawing room, a few of the girls sat around, reading, mending clothes, chatting idly. Madame Jane, seated in her great leather armchair, looked up from her book as the two of them strolled in. She raised her pince-nez to her eyes, and gazed intently at Kitty.

‘Come here, would you?’ she said, her voice kind rather than commanding.

Kitty set down her bulky parcel and crossed to stand before her.

‘You’ve been in service, haven’t you, Katherine?’ said Jane.

Kitty nodded. Jane insisted, for the sake of dignity and distance, that everyone in the brothel used their full name. It still sounded strange to Kitty’s ears.

‘Housemaid,’ she replied. Then she added, ‘Upper,’ although it wasn’t true.

‘Then you won’t have any trouble carrying trays of
drinks and responding when someone clicks their fingers?’ said Jane.

Kitty eyed her a little warily, half-fearing she was about to be fired. Or, worse still, that Lord Marldon was after employing her. Had he heard she was truly bad? She shook her head, frowning.

‘Good,’ declared Jane. ‘Marldon’s been here today. He wanted to check you over but I said you’d be fine. He trusts me.’

A couple of the girls sniggered. It was an open secret that Madame Jane cooked the books and creamed off some of the earl’s profits. They were all grateful, for they benefited as much as she.

‘He wants a few girls to go to Asham,’ continued Jane. ‘He’s having a bit of a party. You too, Laura.’

Laura threw herself on to a couch and groaned. ‘I’m not dancing,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m absolutely not dancing, no matter what he’s paying.’

‘No need,’ said Jane with a sympathetic smile. ‘The dancers are organised. You’ll just have to wait on and entertain his guests.’

Kitty gnawed at her lip. This was more than she’d ever hoped for: just a party; no clearing grates and beating dust from carpets. But the prospect frightened her. The responsibility was immense. She’d have to send word to Lucy. And she would definitely have to confide in Laura.

‘When is it?’ enquired Kitty, her voice coming as a nervous squeak.

‘The night after next,’ stated Jane. ‘And I recommend you don’t wear such a scared rabbit expression when you’re up there. His lordship might take a fancy to you.’

There was more knowing laughter.

‘Well, Jane,’ said Laura with a resigned sigh. ‘What’s the devil celebrating this time?’

‘His betrothal,’ replied the madam, returning her attention to the book on her lap. ‘Apparently some woman by the name of Longleigh has agreed to marry him. Damn fool whoever she is.’

Chapter Twelve

CLARISSA HAD MOVED
bedrooms. This one, with its silk hangings, gilt flourishes and painted ceiling, was, according to Lord Marldon, more befitting to a countess. And it led directly on to his room.

At least, thought Clarissa wryly, she would not have as far to walk when he cast her from his side in the dark hours.

‘
Voilà
,’ declared Pascale. She tossed the shaving blade into the bowl of soapy water and sat back on her heels. ‘
Regardez
, mademoiselle.’

Lord Alec sat, elbows on the chair-arms, fingertips pressed together, watching Clarissa with a remote smile. He looked, not at her nudity and her newly bared mons, but at her face.

Even now, she could scarce believe he was to be her husband. But she could see no other choice. The loss of her virginity was enough to ensure no decent man would ever touch her; and she had lost far more than that. She had lost Gabriel. She had seen it in his eyes, so hard and contemptuous; felt it in every deep, bitter thrust he had taken inside her. She had lost him, and because of that she had lost what little will she had left to fight.

‘Take a look,’ said Marldon, nodding to the mirror. Obediently, Clarissa padded over to the cheval glass and hesitantly eyed her reflection. Gone were the dark curls cloaking her sex, and instead was a moon-pale mound, split by a high line. Her torso seemed strangely elongated, its unbroken whiteness drawing attention to the lascivious lips of her vulva.

‘
C’est magnifique
,’ sang Pascale proudly.

‘It’s obscene,’ countered Clarissa, her mouth turning in a sullen pout.

And it was. Yet the image, so wickedly unabashed, caught at those black delights within her.

‘Then it suits you,’ said Alec, standing.

He walked to her and touched a finger either side of her sex. His face impassive, he stroked along the smooth pouch of her labia, stirring an eager pulse in her heart and her loins. She wished her body did not thrill so to his detached mastery, yet it did. She craved his cruelty, courted his humiliations, and for that she hated herself almost as much as she hated him.

She moaned faintly as his slender fingers played within her folds, teasing and questing, rocking her clitoris. He did it because Pascale watched, to stimulate that excitement which flourished from her shame.

There could be no other man but he who would understand her base desires. He cherished and nourished them; he satisfied them. Gabriel could never do that. When he had shared in her abasement, he had seen the pleasure she’d struggled to quell, and he had loathed her for it. She was lucky to have Marldon.

He caressed the shaven swell of her pubis, his fingertips tracing gentle scrolls over the satin-soft skin.

‘Very nice,’ he whispered, his lips moving to her neck.

Clarissa stretched away from him. Marldon laughed and drew back.

‘How pleasing,’ he murmured. ‘You can still manage those moments of reluctance. I’d thought you beyond such charming affectations.’