In the Flesh (13 page)

“See. I told you to wait, and now they’re ready, and no harm done.”

“That’s what you say,” shot Polly at him, straightening her apron and cap in the little mirror at the foot of the stairs. “But just look what you’ve been able to get away with in the same amount of time.”

“He means her nothing but good,” persisted Jamie. “Believe me.”

Polly wished she
could
believe him. She
wanted
to believe him. But all the same, she’d keep a lookout for her mistress.

And maybe for her master too, the way things were.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dark Thoughts and Whiskey

I SHOULD HAVE had you when I had the chance.

Eustace Lloyd splashed whiskey into crystal and then cursed when droplets of it flew out onto the cards spread on the table. Dabbing furiously with his pocket handkerchief he managed to repair the damage, which was just as well—they were the last set he possessed until he used the plates again.

He knew he shouldn’t drink this early, but still he took a heavy jolt of the smoky amber fluid and stared down at the image in his hand. His favorite composition. Beatrice Weatherly on a tiger skin with her hand between her legs.

Eustace’s cock kicked heavily in his drawers, even though neither his own hand, nor any other part of him had ever managed to get anywhere near that peerless body.

“Siren of South Mulberry Street, my arse.”

Apart from that one afternoon, when he’d plied her with champagne and laudanum, the beautiful Miss Weatherly had been tediously virtuous, granting him only the occasional mild, stolen kiss. Eustace knew now he should have pressed her for more favors, but he’d been canny, or so he thought. Believing that the sale of Westerlynne had left her and that fool brother of hers well set up, he’d bided his time, hoping to snare her as a blushing, willing bride bringing with her a sorely needed fortune.

Ah, the plans of mice and men. The Weatherly parents had been as imprudent and spendthrift as his own, and their offspring were as penniless as he. Worse, Charles Weatherly was a loser at cards, at the races and on the stock market. So much so that the insolent pup had been looking to tap Eustace for funds once they were brothers in law.

But that was all water under the bridge now.

At least I got these. Poor as a church mouse you are, Beatrice my dear, but you’ve still made me a tidy pile of money.

Indeed, even though his hobby of photography had proved extravagant, useless and expensive at first, it was now turning him a nice little profit; all garnered from the anonymous sale of racy, erotic cabinet cards. And bizarrely, his libidinous customers seemed to be able to tell the difference between a whore brought in off the street to pose for a shilling or two, and a refined gentlewoman who’d been tricked out of her clothes.

The cards featuring the exquisite Beatrice Weatherly, the newly dubbed Siren, brought in twenty times as much coin as any others. If only he’d been more circumspect with Beatrice and ladled on the honey a bit longer, notwithstanding the fact that she wouldn’t open her legs for him, and she didn’t have a bean. The demanding connoisseurs who frequented the private pornography shops in Holywell Street were crying out for new and more daring poses from their luscious Titian-haired favorite.

But it wasn’t the loss of potential income that cut Eustace now. Nor even the fact that his desire to attend to his photographic plates had allowed the drugged girl to struggle into her clothing and quit the studio in his mother’s summer house before he’d returned to round out the occasion by fucking her.

No, it was something else, not entirely unrelated, that drove Eustace to reach for the whiskey decanter and slop another enormous measure into his glass.

Edmund bloody fucking Ellsworth Ritchie.

That bastard. Why him? Now he’s started pawing her, I’ll never be able to effect a reconciliation and get a few more juicy poses out of her.

Eustace hated Ritchie. Resented him probably even more than any other wealthy man in London who seemed to have all the right assets and financial connections that Eustace himself didn’t possess. Why should a man like Ritchie have all the advantages? Eustace had more right to them. He had minor aristocratic associations, and that cur Ritchie was just “trade” or worse dressed up in the glad rags of fine tailoring.

It had started last year at the Earl of Plenderley’s house party. If the accursed Ritchie hadn’t been so fond of that clod of a servant of his, well, Eustace knew that he might have got away with a certain matter.

Yes, a gentleman would have taken another gentleman’s word, and dismissed the man out of hand. Valets, footmen, maids, they were always swiping the odd bit of cash and blaming each other, and that ass Johnny Brayford had been a fool to leave so much of it lying about in his room, unattended and apparently uncounted. Having lost heavily at cards, and with no way to cover the debt, Eustace had taken a chance, slipped in and stolen fifty quid. No loss to someone who was heir to an Earldom.

But alas, Johnny
had
counted his money, and had raised a mild kerfuffle about the theft, leaving Eustace having to think fast lest suspicion fall on him because his room had been next door to Brayford’s. As luck would have it though, Eustace’s man had picked up a useful titbit of gossip in the servants’ hall. Ritchie’s own rather dubious-looking manservant had been in trouble with the law at one time. Which should have made him the prime candidate for this bit of thieving.

It all should have worked out so neatly. But it hadn’t. Eustace’s discreet accusation against Brownlow had been dismissed out of hand. Not only had Johnny Brayford accepted Ritchie’s defence of his servant without question, it seemed that some sly housemaid or other had seen Eustace sliding out the young viscount’s room, so suspicion had indeed fallen his way.

Nothing had been said, at least not overtly, but his blood still boiled at the memory of Ritchie and Johnny Brayford, laughing over brandy, eyeing him slyly, both so assured and untouchable and blasé about the loss of fifty pounds while he was suddenly out in the cold. It was the fact that the whole affair had really meant nothing to them that rankled the most.

Eustace detested them all, these confident men, but Ritchie most of all, with his obscene millions and his ideas above his station and his friendships with the great and the good.

And now, to cap it all, the filthy upstart had apparently been invited to Lord and Lady Southern’s Summer Ball as an honored guest too, when no invitation had been forthcoming for more worthy members of society.

Eustace ground his teeth. Late last night, a couple of fellows at an after-hours drinking establishment he frequented had described to him how they’d seen the bastard
en tête à tête
with the beautiful Beatrice, then later they’d observed him whisking the now notorious beauty away to God alone knew where. The man had a dog’s reputation with the women, and the fact that wealthy society belles threw themselves at Ritchie with their drawers wide open made Eustace resent him all the more.

“Fuck you, Ritchie! Fuck you!”

Eustace slammed his glass down on the desk. It didn’t break, and he didn’t even spill whiskey on the cabinet cards, because it was already empty. As he filled it up again, he took that as a favorable omen.

He’d bloody well get his own back on Ritchie, and then he’d lure Beatrice Weatherly back as well somehow too, and find a way to maneuver her into modeling for him again.

And he’d fuck her bandy-legged into next week in the bargain.

Eustace smiled at last, sipping his third large measure of the morning more slowly as he considered whether to take himself in hand as a celebration.

There was a way to do it all.

He had connections of his own, although far less salubrious than those of the likes of Ritchie.

And he’d heard rumors, delicious rumors, priceless rumors that lifted his spirits and lightened his dark thoughts.

If what had been intimated were true, he couldn’t have asked for Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie to have a more priceless and ironic Achilles’ heel.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Madame Chamfleur Recommends

“YOU CAN TALK TO ME
, my dear. About anything. It won’t go further than the two of us, and believe me, you won’t shock me at all.”

Well,
that
I can certainly believe.

Itching to smile, Beatrice kept her face straight. No, she probably couldn’t shock Sofia Chamfleur in the slightest. Not after that performance she’d witnessed last night.

How nice it was to do something normal like taking afternoon tea with a woman friend. With so many outré events taking place in the past twenty-four hours, Beatrice was beginning to wonder if she’d accidentally stumbled into a strange, debauched dreamworld, perhaps a very grown-up version of Mr. Lewis Carroll’s “Alice” adventures, where Ritchie and herself were the only two characters.

But if I’m Alice, who are you, Ritchie? Surely not the Mad Hatter or the anxious White Rabbit…in fact, that entire confection seems a bit whimsical for you.

Hungry, she reached for a slice of cake before rising to Sofia’s encouragement. Unsettled by what had transpired with Ritchie this morning, and by a traumatic confrontation with Charlie later, she hadn’t been able to eat her lunch. But now she was starving, and Cook’s seed cake was one of her more successful offerings.

“I’ve done something, Sofia. Something scandalous.” Beatrice paused to chew, and the other woman’s fine eyes widened, the ostrich feather on her smart chapeau bobbing as she leaned forward. “It’s even more daring than posing for those dratted photographs.
Much
more so…
I
can’t believe I’ve done it myself, but I have.”

Sofia Chamfleur sipped her tea, not once taking her eyes off Beatrice. She was clearly dying to know what the scandalous thing was, but she wasn’t a woman to press. Unlike some of the other members of the Ladies Sewing Circle, Sofia always waited patiently for the choicest items of gossip.

“I expect you know Mr. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie?”

Sofia’s mouth curved. “Indeed I do, Beatrice. He’s a good friend to Monsieur Chamfleur and I. A fine man indeed.” Her eyes narrowed and took on a knowing cast. “I saw you talking to him last night at Arabella’s do. What did you think of him? He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

Beatrice took another bite of cake and chewed it quickly. Anything to fortify her. “Mr. Ritchie propositioned me last night. He offered me a large sum of money, and proposed to pay off all our debts provided I’d become his mistress for a month…and…um…do anything he wanted me to…in the bedroom.”

There. It was out. And she felt so much better. Laughter bubbled up and she couldn’t help but let it out. Sofia laughed too and reached out to pat Beatrice’s hand.

“Goodness, that is rather scandalous, isn’t it?” Her brown eyes were merry, and not in the slightest bit disapproving. Not that Beatrice had expected them to be. “And you said yes, I’m assuming? I do hope so, because he’s really a decent, generous man despite his reputation, and he’ll certainly honor his word in respect of the money.”

“I did say yes.” Beatrice shrugged. “After all, what have I got to lose? Those photographs have ruined my reputation and my standing in society, so I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. And we do so need the money. I simply couldn’t refuse it.”

Sofia nodded sagely. “Well, I shouldn’t worry about society, my dear. I have a large number of friends who are much more interesting than the usual cliques of nincompoops, and I can assure you’ll get plenty of invitations.” The older woman reached for the teapot as she spoke, and played mother, topping up both their cups. “The important thing is that you like Mr. Ritchie. You do like him, don’t you?”

Do I?

“I’m not sure what I feel about him, to be honest, Sofia. He’s…
he’s
not like anyone I’ve ever met before. He’s very forceful. He…well, he somehow bowls one over. It’s impossible to say no to him, regardless of one’s intentions and one’s misgivings.”

Sofia Chamfleur’s eyes glittered knowingly. “Ah, you
do
like him. I can tell. And who can blame you. He’s very handsome and virile, isn’t he?” She winked. “If I’d never met Monsieur Chamfleur, I might be tempted to set my cap at Ritchie myself.”

If Beatrice hadn’t been wearing her corset, she would have slumped like a badly set jelly. Sofia’s warm opinion of Ritchie was a relief. She was a shrewd woman and if she approved, he couldn’t be all that bad.

Sofia’s brown eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. “Seriously though, Bea. I knew that Ritchie was interested in you. He has been since he saw your photograph.” Her chin came up and she gave Beatrice a very level glance. “Who do you think urged Arabella to invite you and Charles to the ball. You were asked to attend specifically in order for Ritchie to look you over.”

Beatrice frowned and took a gulp of tea. It was a bit too hot, and she felt as if she was burning up inside her layers of linen and whalebone and black silk foulard.

“You could have warned me, Sofia, although I imagine it wouldn’t have made any difference. Mr. Ritchie clearly always gets what he wants.” She paused for more tea. “But I do feel like a prize heifer that’s been paraded before the stud bull.” She put her cup aside and returned Sofia’s frank stare. “And I don’t know whether to feel insulted…or rather pleased with myself because I passed Mr. Ritchie’s inspection!”

“The London season is a cattle market even for the most prim and proper misses, Beatrice.” Sofia sat back a little, cocking her head on one side, her expression unapologetic. “At least your transaction with Ritchie is based on honesty. You both know what you’re getting out of it, with no subterfuge.”

Ah, the pragmatic view. Beatrice felt a flutter of guilt. Ritchie probably wasn’t getting exactly what he was expecting. So much for honesty.

She drew in a breath, wishing the Oolong was actually a rather large glass of sherry or Madeira.

“Ah, but I’m afraid Mr. Ritchie probably isn’t getting quite what he expected. I’m sure he thinks I’m brazen and experienced, posing like that…when in fact I’m not.”

Sofia frowned, then tapped her fingers together. “Ah, I had my suspicions. There’s a certain languid, somnolent quality about those postcards. Were you drugged? Tricked into posing?”

In another world, Beatrice might have collapsed onto Sofia’s bosom, sobbing uncontrollably and admitting all. But somehow, since last night, she wasn’t in that world and she was a very different person. Ritchie had changed her utterly. Much more so than anything Eustace Lloyd could have done to her, or even the loss of dear Tommy, when she’d lived back at Westerlynne.

The moment she’d set eyes on Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie she’d
become
the Siren of South Mulberry Street. Passion, and his fingers, had tempered her, made her strong and daring. The small matter of her virginity wasn’t going to prevent her from making the best of their arrangement and she certainly wasn’t about to admit she’d been drugged by Eustace Lloyd.

“Not drugged. Just a little champagne, to relax me. It was such a lovely afternoon, I think I may have nodded off.” Sofia looked dubious, so Beatrice hurried on. “But I’m still a virgin…well, technically. I’ve never had congress with a man, but I’ve had…um…feelings. And as a young woman, in the country, I rode astride a good deal, and I think that may have, well,
affected
me. If you get my meaning?”

Beatrice’s face flamed to what she guessed was approximately the color of Sofia’s deep rose pink walking dress.

The other woman’s smooth forehead puckered. “Well, thank goodness for that! At least you’re better prepared than most young women.” The pucker became a frown. “But this photographer… You’re absolutely sure he didn’t interfere with you?”

“No, I’m quite sure he didn’t, he didn’t have the time. He seemed more interested in his precious plates…and—” she tripped on the words “—I certainly didn’t
feel
different afterward and I’m sure I would have been able to tell.”

“Good…that’s good.” Sofia leaned forward, patting Beatrice’s hand again. “You mustn’t associate the sensual act with shame and misfortune. Take it from me, it’s a source of exquisite pleasure and happiness, especially in the hands of an experienced lover like Ritchie. There’s nothing to fear. You must simply relax and keep a very open mind.”

An open mind, eh? Just what she’d deduced.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I plan to do, Sofia.” Still blushing, she felt oddly confident. “It seems to me that Mr. Ritchie is an imaginative man. Not one to confine himself to the more conventional…um…pastimes.” She fixed her friend with what she hoped was a knowledgeable look.

Sofia laughed. “He is indeed, but I’ll wager he’s met his match in you, Beatrice. I think you and he will do very well together.” The older woman nodded her head, as if making a decision. “But I think you need a little help. A little guidance. And fortunately I’m just the woman you need for that. Now let’s have another cup of tea and while we drink it, we’ll make some plans.”

Over the next thirty minutes, Beatrice’s jaw dropped a dozen times.

Madame Chamfleur, it seemed, ran an establishment for ladies who wished to learn more about all matters erotic. Furthermore, it also catered to wives who weren’t receiving adequate fulfillment in their marriage beds and were looking to obtain it elsewhere. And a good many of the Sewing Circle members were amongst Sofia’s regular patrons.

No wonder the talk there is so frisky! You sly old devil, Sofia. I do believe you run something very like a brothel for ladies. And yet you look so demure and just like a respectable married woman. Who would ever have guessed?

“You must come to our house in Hampstead for a little tuition, my dear.” Sofia beamed. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m merely suggesting you study certain publications we have there, and perhaps view a demonstration or two.”

Demonstrations? Good grief!

“But you live in Belgravia, round the corner.”

“Ah, but I mean our
other
house. The one my husband owned before our marriage. It has always been his place of business since he took over the establishment from his mother.”

“It’s a family business?” Whatever next?

“Indeed, the original Madame Chamfleur, God rest her soul, was most progressive.” Sofia took out a small leather-covered notebook from her capacious handbag. “Yes, you must come on Wednesday. We’ll make a day of it. I’ll take you to my modiste and my cosmetician and we’ll have a tour of all the best stores, then retire to Hampstead for spot of late lunch and a little education.” She jotted in her book, then snapped it shut with a satisfied smile.

But when she slid the book back into her bag, she looked more solemn and pursed her lips.

“Now, that’s all settled. But I must ask you something more serious. Does your brother know what’s occurring? He will have to know sometime, otherwise how will you explain your sudden good fortune?”

Beatrice’s heart sank. This was something she’d been trying not to think about. The confrontation with Charlie over her “arrangements” had not been pleasant, but she’d been compelled into it almost immediately, because her brother had seen Ritchie leaving this morning.

“He knows. And alas, having to tell him wasn’t very nice.”

Charlie’s face had been a picture of outrage when she’d blurted out the reason for Ritchie’s visit and what she’d agreed to. He’d shouted and stormed about, looking pale and flushed by turns as Beatrice had revealed the reality of the situation to him.

“I think it was having to accept the fact that
he’s
let me down that hurts him the most, rather than me letting him down with such a brazen act of impropriety.” Beatrice pleated the silk of her skirt between her fingers, still seeing the bleak resignation dawning in Charlie’s eyes as she’d staunchly pressed home the fact that her solution to their terrible debts was probably the only one available. “In an ideal world, it would be kinder to him if there was some other way to salvage our finances. But alas there isn’t and he’s got to accept a more radical solution.”

“And did he?” said Sofia quietly.

“Yes, I believe so. He seems resigned. He knows he’s failed as my guardian and protector and provider, but at least he seems to have the wisdom not to resist.”

Poor Charlie, he’d looked like the survivor of a storm at sea by the time she’d finished with him, but he’d hugged her and, despite tears in his eyes, he’d thanked her for her courage.

Beatrice bit her lip. “I hadn’t the heart to tell him that I was planning to
enjoy
my scandalous month. It didn’t seem appropriate. He’d be even more upset. He’d probably think I’ve descended into the pit.”

“Well, he’s to blame for your financial embarrassments, Beatrice. He must accept that responsibility.”

“Oh, he does…he does. And I think he’s learned his lesson.” Beatrice let out a breath, a sigh. “And I think in a strange way, he does feel better that we’ve faced our problems. In fact, I expected him to start over again when I told him about Ritchie’s disposition of our household arrangements, but instead he seemed positively perky. Especially when I told him we’d be getting a new domestic steward for a while. There’s a lot to be said for losing the weight of responsibility and the chains of all our debts.”