Household (4 page)

He hoped his garb would impress Catlin and her coachman. He flushed. He had been well on his way to forgetting that he was a rich and titled Lord rather than an impecunious Honorable, of which there were many floating about the city without so much as a shilling in their pockets. After tonight, he would see about hiring a valet. More than that, he would also purchase a house. If he were to have as beautiful a mistress as Catlin O’Neill, he could scarcely lodge her in a hired set of rooms. He would have to give her her own coach and four. He would pay her bills at the mantua maker and he would buy her jewelry—rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds and pearls. He loosed a long sigh as he envisioned her lying on a white chaise longue with silken sheets... no, those belonged on the bed he would also buy along with the rest of the furnishings for his house. The bed would be a wide oval, resting on swan’s wings. He had seen something similar imported from France. It would have a canopy hung with brocade curtains. It would also be heaped with pillows and upon these Catlin would lie, looking like a Titian painting he had once seen in the house of a friend. However, judging from what could be seen of her shape in the gown she wore for the play, her waist was thin, suggesting slim hips, a nymph rather than a goddess. And nymphs would not have so plump a form or so full a belly unless... he flushed a second time. If she were to bear him children, he would see that his bastards wanted for nothing and...

A small crystalline chime interrupted his ruminations.

He started. The clock on his mantel was striking the half-hour. It was time to summon the coach he had hired, the coach which this evening would bring the beautiful, the exquisite Catlin O’Neill to his door. He took his cloak, also white brocade, from a hook in the hall and flung it about him. He picked up his stick, something he certainly didn’t need but which was another fashionable necessity. He was ready for the theater, for Catlin O’Neill, for love!

The alley which stretched behind the Little Theater in the Hay was narrow, ill-lighted and crammed with tottering old buildings which, to Richard’s mind, must have been there before the Great Fire that leveled most of London 90 odd years ago. They looked as if they were within minutes of falling in on each other, but in spite of their undoubted antiquity, numerous people appeared to dwell in them, befouling the street with their reeking slops and with their no less odoriferous selves. They seemed to fall into two categories—pale, haggard young women with inexpertly painted faces or thin, ragged, drunken men. Both sexes patronized one or another of the small gin shops that vied with the old-clothes merchants for the trade of the quarter. They walked or lurched past Richard, seemingly unaware of him, but a sixth sense informed him that they were like so many jackals, circling nearer and nearer, hoping to knock him down, grab his purse and, before he was aware of it, strip him as clean as vultures at carrion. It was not a pretty notion. It was not a pretty street. It looked even more forbidding at this present moment because of the continuous drizzle which seemed to be getting heavier. Mentally, he chafed at the idea of Catlin being subjected to such sights each night. However, now was not the time to dwell on that. He had just clambered out of his waiting coach at a signal from the huge Irishman.

Richard was really elated. Matters had gone very smoothly. At first, the coachman had been as pugnacious as his appearance indicated, but only at first. Confronted with two golden guineas rather than the pound Richard had originally meant to offer, the scoundrel’s eyes had widened, and he had become shades less belligerent. He had listened to Richard’s plea and later to his plan with a flattering interest. Subsequently, the rascal proved most agreeable—to the point of offering a few helpful suggestions of his own.

“There’ll be a regular crowd at the stage door, and since it be rainin’, I’ll guide her to yer coach and she none the wiser. Ye’d best be standin’ out in the street so she won’t set up a holler when she sees you inside.” He jerked his thumb at Richard’s coach.

“What about the old woman?” Richard demanded, wishing he could strike this reprobate down.

“Oh, you give me another half crown ’n I’ll settle up with her.”

The leer in the Hibernian’s eyes was a bit of a disappointment. Richard had the definite impression that the beautiful Catlin must have been “kidnapped” more than once. However, upon due consideration, the fact that her favors were for sale made him feel much less guilty. The seduction of a virgin had given him qualms, but no one could seduce a whore and, as another new acquaintance had opined, “all actresses are whores, my dear fellow.”

She did not look like a whore, but she was an actress and consequently pretense was one of her tools.

It was beginning to rain harder. Richard wished he had not worn his white silk. He wished, too, that he had brought his heavier cloak, but still he was sure that the white could not fail to make a good impression upon Mistress O’Neill; not only was it becoming, it was costly. She would be assured he could pay well for her favors and... another whistle reached him. She had come out of the theater and soon the coachman would guide her to him.

His heart was pounding somewhere near his throat or even at the roof of his mouth, which was absurd for a sophisticated man of the world. He put a stop to his inner qualms, and his eyes widened. She was only a few feet away from him, leaning on the arm of the coachman. He strode in her direction, and in that instant, the coachman turned, his pugnacious countenance one huge snarl. His fist shot out and connected with Richard’s jaw.

Lightning flashed through Richard’s brain. It was followed by pain; he staggered, trying vainly to keep his balance, and then fell. He had a last look at her before lapsing into unconsciousness. His last thought was that she had seemed shocked and pitying.

Richard worked his jaw back and forth. He did not believe it broken, but it did ache abominably. His back also hurt, and equally painful was the assault to his dignity and the damage to his garments as he lay in the filth of that rain-spattered street.

A group of spectators were standing around him, laughing immoderately and making grabs at various portions of his person. The feel of air on his neck told him that his lace cravat with the accompanying diamond had been ripped away. The fact that he could move both sets of toes assured him that stockings and shoes were also gone. He was mournfully pleased that the diamonds in the buckles were paste. He did not know what else was missing. He had just regained consciousness, and there was no telling how long he had been lying there. Fury shook him as he thought of Catlin’s perfidious coachman, who had cheated and betrayed him! He groaned deep in his throat as a vision of Catlin flashed into his mind; she had looked so incredulously beautiful, even more beautiful than the previous night. She had definitely smiled at him, and he thought he heard her cry out when her coachman had so basely floored him.

“Dear, dear, dear... shocking I say.”

Richard twitched and stared upwards in a surprise quickly succeeded by shock. Bending over him was Sir Francis Dashwood. “You,” he croaked.

“My dear young man,” the baronet murmured, a look of pity in his grey eyes. “But come, let me help you up. You cannot continue to lie here in all this muck.”

Though slight of build, Sir Francis proved to be surprisingly strong. He actually lifted Richard to his feet and, keeping a sustaining arm around him, said, “I’ll take you to my coach.”

“No need.” Richard took an experimental step and winced as he felt the wet cobblestones hard beneath his feet. His head was also going around in circles. Though he had sustained a hefty clout, he could walk, albeit painfully. He said, “My coach is nearby.”

“And its driver did not come to your aid?” queried the baronet, raising thin eyebrows.

“No, by heaven, he did not!” Richard muttered, realizing that the man could not have stirred from his perch nor the footman neither, and they had both been well paid! However, the pair of them had not been very large. Perhaps they had been afraid of the huge Irishman. But afterwards... surely they could have helped him up. Why hadn’t they? He suppressed a groan. His head was aching, and it was hard to concentrate.

“Where’s your coach?” Sir Francis demanded. “You should certainly give the man a dressing down.”

“I shall...” Richard began and paused. His coach had been across the lane, but it was no longer there. “It’s gone!” be exclaimed.

“Dear me. Well, you must take advantage of my offer, must you not? Here, let me assist you.” Sir Francis drew him toward a huge coach standing close by.

“I thank you,” Richard mumbled.

❖

Half-dazed as he had been, he never remembered exactly bow he came to Sir Francis’s comfortable town house. He was even more confused when he awakened in a large chamber paneled in dark wood and filled with morning sunshine. He stared about him in a consternation relieved only by a few flashes of memory. Someone had given him a shot of brandy. He vaguely remembered a bell ringing. A man in livery... grey livery? Yes, he thought it was grey. The servant told him be had been instructed to put him in the east chamber.

“I will be able to go home, if your coachman will drive me.”

“No, no, no.” Sir Francis had entered and suggested the binding of his wounds, telling him he would be better off not going home.

Recalling that he had no valet, he had finally agreed. Afterwards he had been grateful for soothing emollients rubbed on his head and back. Someone had undressed him and put him to bed. Oddly enough the pain he sustained the previous night had largely disappeared, that is the bodily pain. As his mind grew clearer, anger warred with anguish as he imagined how he must have looked to Catlin, once her coachman had laid him low on those filthy streets.

His unwelcome recollections were interrupted by a soft tap on the door.

“Come in,” Richard called.

A small slight, dark man in grey livery entered. Bowing, he said in French-accented speech, “I trust Monsieur has slept well?”

“Very well,” Richard replied, aware now of a soreness in his jaw. He frowned as the sensation set off a score of mingled questions and regrets. These were accompanied by vivid images of Catlin as she came toward the coach with the old woman behind her. She had stared at him, her beautiful blue eyes wide with interest and subsequently pity. Yes, he was sure he had read both emotions in those cerulean depths. How the devil was he to see her again? He could make inquiries at the theater, but even were he to receive her direction, how might he pass the barrier of coachman and nurse? Both were definitely of the dragon persuasion.

The small man cleared his throat. “If Monsieur is feeling more himself, Sir Francis would welcome his company at breakfast.”

Breakfast! Richard suddenly remembered he had not eaten since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. There had been a midnight supper in his lodgings but that must be sadly spoiled by now, and he was ravenously hungry. “Tell Sir Francis,” he said gratefully, “that I would be delighted.”

“But, of course,” Sir Francis said after hearing the whole of Richard’s account over an excellent repast of chicken, roast beef, rashers of bason, scrambled eggs, several side dishes of excellently cooked vegetables, a meat pasty, a bottle of port and a pot of hot chocolate, “You must bring her to Med-menham Abbey.”

“Medmenham Abbey?” Richard frowned. “A Papist retreat?”

Sir Francis laughed softly. “Papist? Bless you, my dear young sir, do I appear to you as one of Roman stripe?”

“No,” Richard answered hesitantly. He was hard put to understand his exact feelings regarding his host. Sir Francis was certainly pleasant and charming, yet something about the man disturbed him. He was not sure what it could be and probably he was mistaken. After all, who else would have taken a chance acquaintance into his home, cared for his hurts, given him a bed, a fine meal and sent his servant to that same stranger’s lodgings for a change of garments? There was but one answer to that. No one else in the whole of London acted out of such disinterested kindness. He said apologetically “’Twas the word abbey that confused me, Sir Francis.”

“But it must not. Oh dear me, no, it must not and will not when you see it,” replied the baronet with one of his soft laughs. “The description is purely facetious. In some aspects, however, it differs little from that crumbling and ignoble institution which its adherents call ‘the holy Catholic church.’ We have our brothers and our sisters, monks and nuns, if you prefer. Also we have our masses and similar solemn ceremonies—with a few distinctive alterations.”

“And what would they be?” Richard asked. “I am not sure I understand you.”

“You cannot understand me until you have been there,” Sir Francis said reasonably. “However, if you wish to be alone with the beautiful Miss O’Neill, there could not be a better spot than Medmenham. And I can arrange matters for you.”

“At an abbey?” Richard still felt puzzled both by the offer and the location.

“Not
an
abbey, my dear fellow. Medmenham Abbey! Our grounds are extensive and full of delightful little nooks and crannies that absolutely beckon lovers. You need only promise me one favor.”

Richard regarded him narrowly. His host was still smiling, but his eyes had darkened and hardened, turning a steely grey in which no smile lingered. There had been a strange intonation to his voice as well, an inflection which seemed almost threatening. For some reason he was reminded of Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus being asked to forfeit his soul, an odd conceit for himself who did not believe in souls.

He said, “What must I promise?”

“We are a secret society. If I reveal any of our secrets to you, it means I trust you. In turn, I expect you to be worthy of that trust. If anyone should learn that you had been my guest at my estate in West Wycombe, I would prefer you did not mention the abbey.”

Richard’s own gaze was hard as he answered coldly, “That is one favor you need not have asked of me, Sir Francis. I am, I am sure, an honorable man.”

The baronet smiled genially. “I know that. I did not intend to impugn your honor in any way, my dear... may I call you Richard?”