The Pleasure Merchant (23 page)

“What a ridiculous little fellow,” said one of the woman’s companions, a stylish and handsome young man whom Tom hated immediately. “Is he all right in the head, do you think, or shall we escort him to Bethlehem?”

“Stop it, Fenris,” she said, shooting a warning look his way. “My apologies, Mister… ah, I’m sorry…?”

“Dawne,” supplied Tom. “Tom Dawne is my name.”

“And I am Miss Rasa,” she said, and bowed. “Allow me to apologize again for any wrongs resulting from my actions. But apologies are not enough—not in
this
case. I would speak with you about this matter.” She glanced at the company, who were all on the edges of their seats, every one, watching the two of them. “Let’s… go somewhere else and talk.”

“Don’t go,” urged the molly. “Sit down, Mr. Dawne, make your self at ease. I shall buy your next cup, to make amends.” She tittered.
He
tittered. Whatever.

“Yes,” said a fellow who looked more like a well-to-do farmer than a proper gentleman, “it’s not often Miss Rasa agrees to talk about what she does for a living.”

“We’d be just
fascinated
to hear more,” said Fenris the Fop.

“More importantly, Miss Rasa,” said an older gentleman, “will you be safe on your own with this… person?”

“Ohhh, I suspect our girl knows how to take care of herself,” leered Fenris.

“Ignore them,” said Miss Rasa, taking Tom by the upper arm and leading him away from the merry throng. She seemed neither annoyed nor disgusted by their insinuations, as any true lady would have been—but neither did she jeer back at them with some bawdy retort, as a prostitute might. Her manners were intriguingly unlike those of any woman Tom had ever met.

This whole affair was becoming more interesting by the moment.

She
was becoming more interesting by the moment.

“Where are we going?” asked Tom, as they shoved their arms into their coats.

“There’s a pub close by, the Turk’s Head. It’ll be busy, but we won’t be…
observed
.”

“Come back, my love!” cried someone, maybe Fenris, but Miss Rasa ignored the sally, and ducked outside without a word.

The air was shockingly cold in Tom’s lungs when they emerged from the warm coffee-house. He gasped; coughed. While he was very pleased to be going somewhere with this fine-eyed, straight-backed, lovely young woman, part of him wished they might have remained inside.

“It’s not far,” she said, hearing him struggle to breathe.

“I’m fine,” he managed, eyes watering. He brushed away the tears, and saw she had already begun to walk. He elected to remain behind her for a moment or two, instead of trotting after her—it gave him a chance to watch how she moved. She might look just like Callow, especially with that aristocratic nose, pouty lips, and piles of chestnut locks, but the figure beneath the coat she’d shrugged on was decidedly feminine. Her shoulders tapered gracefully to a narrow waist, and she was tall in the leg.

With a start, he realized she looked just like the phantasmal girl he sometimes dreamed about—and followed yet closer after that, fascinated by her.

“Miss Rasa,” he said, after they’d been walking for a few minutes, “please understand how impatient I am to learn something about this entire affair. Can we not speak as we walk?”

“Yes, all right,” she said, slowing her pace. “What would you like to discuss?”

“Well… to begin with… who are you?”

“You know my name.”

“Yes, but…”

“Mr. Dawne.” She stopped in the street, turning to face him. In the dim moonlight her face was yet more angular, and he could see the boy from the wig shop looking out from behind the more feminine appearance her hairstyle and clothing lent her. “I do not plan on telling you my life’s story simply because you were injured in the course of my work. I will help you in any way I am able, as we try never to harm third parties, but that is the whole of what I will do for you.”

“Yes, yes of course… but Miss Rasa, I wasn’t asking for your life’s story, not really… I don’t care where you were born, or who your mother was, or the names of your brothers, or what you all had to live on a year, or do to procure it.” She frowned at him, and he was surprised to see she looked a little sad. He amended himself quickly, “I suppose I meant to ask what sort of
work
sent you to Dray’s, pretending to be someone you are not? Who sent you there—or was it your own design? And… and did you rig that wig to humiliate Mr. Mauntell?”

She sighed. “This is going be a long night.”

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, not appreciating her tone. “Because of you, I was dismissed from my living, lost the woman I loved, and was forced to change my line of work!” Tom knew he was slathering it on a bit thick, but she’d never know the whole truth. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” she said thoughtfully. “
Some
explanation, at any rate.”

“Some?” She’d begun moving again, and took off after her. “Why not all? My lady—if you would be so kind, do answer one question before you raise another!”

She smiled over her shoulder at him, a warm, lopsided smile that was breathtakingly casual and beautiful as a sunrise. Tom’s heart beat a little faster. It was not surprising any longer that this ‘Callow Bewit’ had figured so prominently in his nocturnal escapades, though he had only seen the creature the once. He must have known, somehow, what she was.

They had arrived, and the sign of the Turk’s Head swung above them in the slight breeze. She turned, looking him in the eye—they were the same height.

“I have already said I will right the wrongs done to you, but I cannot violate a client’s confidence—nor my master’s. You must understand—and you must promise not push me.”

Tom would have agreed to just about anything, just to spend a few more moments in her brilliant company.

“Miss Rasa,” he said, gallantly offering her his arm, “please—won’t you come inside with me? It seems we have much to discuss.”

And that, as you have likely guessed, is how I came to be acquainted with Tom Dawne.

***

“So, you refuse to tell me what you do, who you work with, who hired you, nor how you rigged that wig to humiliate Mr. Mauntell.” Tom drained his pint of bitter. “But you
will
confess to impersonating Callow Bewit, at the request of ‘someone,’ for the purpose of infiltrating Dray’s… in order to get at that particular wig?”

“No, I won’t confess to even that much,” laughed Miss Rasa, who was sipping on a glass of claret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dawne. I was indeed that boy, that day… and I came to Dray’s for a purpose other than purchasing hairpieces. I shall not say for certain that Mr. Mauntell’s wig was my object… but I assure you—
you
were not.”

There was that crooked smile again. She was lovely—bewitching—the handsomest woman he had ever seen in his life, and the most obscure. They had been sitting together for scarcely an hour, leaning towards one another with their foreheads almost touching in order to be heard over the noisy rumbling of the pub, but already Tom was enchanted. How, he wondered, could he have ever felt affection for pale, distant, and insipid Sabina Dryden, when a warm, lively woman such as Miss Rasa existed in the world?

He had tried to draw her out in every way he knew, tempting her with compliments, sob stories, and indignation. But she would not say more than she would.

“Oh, and speaking of those hairpieces…”

“Yes?”

“I believe I still owe you some money for them. Five guineas, was it?”

“Five guineas! Upon my word, Miss Rasa, but five guineas is not much to offer a man who’s suffered so much on your account.”

Tom had meant to replicate her delicate and light banter, but drink had made his tone a touch surly. She raised her left eyebrow at him in a slow and exaggerated fashion. It made him blush. He had so hoped she would come away with a favorable impression—why did he had to go and ruin it all trying to be clever?

“Forgive me,” she said, “but it seems to me that my interference landed you rather… well… if not in the
lap
of luxury, at least somewhere around her knees.”

“At one time, perhaps.” Tom swirled the dregs around the bottom of his tankard. “The return of he whom you pretended to be has put an end to much of that luxury.”

“So you would go back to Dray’s? If you could be assured everything would go back to the way it was—or as close as possible?”

The way she asked, it was obvious this was more than just a casual question—but he was not prepared to give more than a casual answer. Licking his wounds by contemplating returning to his apprenticeship was one thing; to declare it his absolute will, another.

“How could it be?” he asked, stalling for time. “I do not believe Mr. Dray would consent to my returning without evidence that I was innocent. Even having found
you
, I have learned nothing would serve to allay his doubts that I am a wig-tamperer and bribe-taker of the worst sort.”

“If you wish it, on my honor I will see it done.” She shoved her fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and combed it, so that the waves fell more fully—and artfully—over her shoulder. “You have my word, Mr. Dawne. If I did as you suspected as regards Mr. Mauntell, do you think me incapable of convincing a wig-maker to take back the boy who had been his faithful apprentice for six years?”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“…want another pint.” He lurched to his feet. “Get you anything?” She shook her head, her curls spilling off her shoulder and tumbling once again down her back.

He felt a sudden, intense urge to stick his face into the curling wildness of her mane. Queer as she was, the girl had absolutely enchanted him.

She’d alarmed him, too, by declaring she would clear the path for him to return to Dray’s. He needed time to think about that—which was mostly why he’d proposed a second round.

The thing was, Tom could not say if he could ever again be happy in a shop, taking his orders from someone so much less important than Mr. Bewit, or even Hallux Dryden; being bossed around by fops and lowlifes without the compensation of the sorts of comforts to which he had become accustomed at 12 Bloomsbury Square. He’d be back to sleeping upon the thin mattress in his garret, waking up early to bathe in cold water and bolt a crust or two before laboring all day; his chief pleasures would once again be receiving the compliments of a handsome lady, or enjoying a brief visit from Hizzy at night.

And would Hizzy visit him again? She had every right to spit at the sight of him, after the way he’d jilted her—yes, that’s what he’d done, he could no longer deny it. He’d abandoned her to enjoy the charms of other women… but then again, she’d never know about that. He could play it all off, he supposed—it would be relatively easy to pretend his triumphant return was a surprise he’d been planning for her. After spending his summer charming the noblesse, misleading a common chit like Hizzy would present few challenges.

Indeed—the real question was, did he want Hizzy? Surreptitiously glancing at Miss Rasa across the way, Tom doubted he could settle for someone as prosaic and uninspiring as a wig-maker’s daughter. What had once been his brightest dream was now nothing but a consolation…

But a consolation was better than nothing. The situation at Mr. Bewit’s was fast becoming unendurable…

Half a loaf, and all that. He would do it. He would tell Miss Rasa to do… whatever it was she was promising to do. For some reason he could not explain, he believed her when she said she could and would affect it.

Pint in hand, he wound his way back through the smoky, crowded public house. Pushing between two laborers, he spied her, quiet and entirely happy by herself. She looked so self-assured in her isolation he was almost sorry to disturb her.

Almost.

By Jove, he wanted her—wanted her very much indeed. Over the course of an hour she had affected him more than Hizzy ever had; more than any of those Somerset girls, either. He wanted to sit down, not across from her, but beside her; to whisper in her ear that she should finish her wine, and then usher her out of the pub and into his room to peel off her clothing, layer by layer, push her down upon his bed, call her by her first name, whatever it was. He wanted all of that and more.
Much
more.

As Tom watched her from the shadows it occurred to him that if he said yes—if he accepted her offer—she would help him, and then they would be done with one another.
Forever
. He got the impression that after the completion of their transaction he would never see her again. After all, what cause would they have to reconnect?

But if he were to stall—if he were to express uncertainty, request more time to consider her proposition—they would have to meet again, at least once; more, if he could manage it. And that way, they could not but help becoming better acquainted…

“Cozy, this place,” he said, sliding along the bench across from her. “Do you come here often?”

“I wouldn’t call myself a regular.”

“Where do you usually go?”

She replied by raising her left eyebrow again.

“Didn’t mean to pry,” he apologized. “It’s just, you know… I had a very bad night, as I told you. It’s difficult to say what I want, for sure… and I must think of my current master, as well.”

“So you don’t wish to go back? What is it you want, then—money? Or… I could arrange for a place for you to meet your wig-shop girl. You could carry on a liaison behind your master and her father’s back? Name your desire, Mr. Dawne—”

“Tom—please, call me Tom.”

She smiled again, and he dared to hope she was flattered by the intimacy. “Name your desire,
Tom
, and it shall be yours.”

He absolutely would not name his desire. Not yet. He could already see he would have to come at her from the side—she, unlike Miss Gill, was too aware of the world and its workings to fall for his usual tricks, he saw that now. He would have to seduce her without seeming like he was seducing her.

“You’re very generous,” he said, “but I cannot decide. Not tonight, not all of a sudden. Can we… can we discuss this again, sometime? I just need a few days, you understand—don’t you? Let me sober up and think it over. I couldn’t possibly leave Mr. Bewit before Christmas… or even before Twelfth Night. It wouldn’t be Christian.”