Frost Fair

by Edith Layton

  Once there, Arthur shook them off. “Don’ need help. Don’ wan’ sympathy. Don’ want your damned house neither!” he declared to his brother. “Place’s haunted by Uncle. Don’t wan’ him neither! He didn’t wan’ me, did he? Ha!”

  He shook a fist at the sky, and then stood stock still, growing pale, as though hearing some divine retribution for his insolence. His eyes rolled up in his head. Lucian managed to catch him as he began to fall, and rolled him to his bed, where he collapsed.

  “Saved you a job of work,” Lucian told the valet, looking at his unconscious brother. “Let him sleep in his clothes. But I’d keep a bucket by the bed, were I you. It’ll save you cleaning the floor. On second thought, stay by him tonight. There should be someone near when he casts it all up. Good night, I’ll let myself out.”

  Since the bedchamber was at the back he had to walk through Arthur’s entire apartments to get to the door, looking around as he did—two bedchambers, a dining room with a small pantry adjacent, servant’s room, sitting room and a study. High ceilings, decent woodwork, good floors and well kept. But not lavish, nor lavishly furnished. Lucian noted a familiar landscape, and a pair of chairs that had been part of his childhood landscape at his country estate, a settee and inlaid table from his Mama’s house in London. It was very like his Mama to feather her fledgling’s nest. He didn’t care; she might be partial, but not blind to the entail specifying what was now his. Even if she was, he didn’t begrudge his brother a few sticks of furniture, however fine.

  His brother’s rooms were in a respectable district. But not so established as Uncle’s. His furniture was too elegant to be considered cast-off. But it was not new, and not of Arthur’s own choosing, and might not legally be his. Lucian could understand his brother’s disappointment. The place was comfortable, but not so comfortable as a whole house, and never as satisfying as something entirely, indisputably his, would be.

  Arthur could serve dinner in his rooms, even if he did have to get his hot meals baked at a cookshop. He could bathe in an iron tub in his pantry if he didn’t feel like going to the public baths. He could use a modern convenience at the end of the hall on the first floor, instead of going out to the yard or always using a chamberpot. He only had to take those stairs because water didn’t rise to the second floor in this district. He lived better than most people in London did. But not so well as he could in the house Uncle left to his brother. Lucian resolved Arthur would have that house, one way or the other.

  But that would have to wait until tomorrow, and that seemed very far off. It must have been the excitement of the masquerade, Lucian thought as he reached the pavements. Because he was wide awake now, and it was nearly midnight. Fortunately, this was London. A man didn’t have to sleep his nights away here.

  He paused on the pavement, undecided.

  The theaters were closed now. But entertainment was just starting other places around town. He could go to St. James Street. The most distinguished clubs had gaming. But the most distinguished gentlemen gambled at such dens as the Two Sevens, the Pigeon Hole, and the well-named Mrs. Leach’s house, or any of the new hells that kept opening there. He could sip champagne and dine on lobster patties as he tried his luck with the sheer luck of Faro, Baccarat, Rouge et Noir, or the dangerous illegal Hazard tables. Or try his skill with Piquet, Cribbage or Billiards.

  He could take in a cockfight or a ratting and do his wagering there. Or go to a tavern, find friends, place bets on anything and spend hours gossiping about nothing. Sad stuff, he thought. He needed something more active.

  He could drop in at several parties that were doubtless still going on. Balls in the best parts of town lasted until dawn. Whenever he arrived, he’d be welcomed. As a noble widower, he was eagerly sought. He had only to stop at his house and take an invitation from the stack on the table in the entry hall, where his butler left them for his consideration. There was always gaming at the most tonnish parties too, for the benefit of bored fathers, husbands, and gentlemen who weren’t hanging after any one female. Or he could flirt and dance, perhaps meet up with an interesting woman. He frowned. He’d done that tonight. It had done nothing but unsettle him.

  Lucian paused, testing his restive mood, measuring his needs. Still—a woman. There was a thought. It was cold and getting colder. The winter tightened its fist over a man’s heart these nights. He didn’t feel like dallying indoors or out. He made up his mind. He climbed back into the hackney he’d told to wait for him and gave the driver the direction of his newest townhouse, and his latest mistress.

  She’d gone to bed, her maid said. But she threw on a dressing gown and welcomed him with delight. Well, but she had to, he thought as he removed his greatcoat and gloves. They both knew he paid for the maid who took his coat, the wardrobe it would be hung in, the room and the chair he sat in pretending polite chat before he got down to what they both knew he was here for tonight. But it would be vulgar to simply bear her immediately back to bed. He could, if he wanted. She wouldn’t protest. But he wouldn’t. The illusion of her choice in this was what he paid for too.

  “I haven’t seen you for so long,” she pouted, and paused, prettily confused, because they both knew she shouldn’t nag. That was for wives, or lovers. Not for the likes of her.

  She was young, but not so young as his Mama thought. Fair and rounded, she had pretty doll-like good looks that made her seem almost innocent. She was far from that. She’d danced her way up from the slums to Drury Lane. After meeting some of the gentlemen who trolled for their mistresses in the Green Room backstage, she’d found private entertainment paid much better. She’d had several patrons. He was only her latest one. He provided her income, clothing, a servant, occasional jewels for good behavior, and a place to live and oblige him. She provided him exclusive use of her person. She was delighted to serve him. Or so he’d thought until he remembered Spanish Will’s advice about lovemaking.

  “How glad I am that you are finally here,” she said, wriggling in her chair.

  He gazed at her and was suddenly reminded of his horses, eating their heads off in the stables for all the weeks he couldn’t take them driving. They too had been restive, uncomfortable, unused to not doing what he kept them for, and eager to be taken out and used again. He was appalled at his unbidden thought, and ashamed of it.

  “Would you care for some tea?” she asked.

  Enough was enough. He was bedeviled tonight. “I think we both know what I’d care for,” he said in a deep voice, and winced inwardly. It was a thing a villain in the melodrama would say.

  She didn’t think so. She giggled, took his hand and led him to her bedchamber. She slipped off to her dressing room with a whispered promise to return soon. He didn’t mind the delay. She used a sponge to prevent consequences of their act, and needed privacy to insert it. It pleased him, and marked her as a professional. So professional that she didn’t remove her gown until she came back. Then she made a slow enchanting show of removing it for him. She sank to the bed and smiled as he came down to her level. He was lean and well made, and best of all to her, clean.

  In the lamplight he could see she was all pink and gold, her lips and breasts sweetly swollen, ready for whatever he wished to do. He kissed her lightly, and touched her gently, and then less so. She slid down his body, using her hands and lips to drive him to the edge. He drew her back again, feeling her squirming with eagerness. But he paused at the last minute. He knelt on the high bed, looking down at her, his long eyes narrowed with thought. She looked at him questioningly.

  “I was only wondering,” he said, only slightly out of breath, because the wondering was cutting into the pleasure of it, “is there anything you’d like me to do?”

  She looked as adorably puzzled as a naked woman could to an equally naked man in his position. It was a difficult question for him to ask, for that and other reasons. But he needed to know.

  “Do?” she asked.

  “For you,” he said, and then more impatiently, “to you. T
o make it better for you. What,” he finally ground out, “specifically, would give you pleasure now?”

  “Oh,” she said, very much relieved. “I’d like to make you happy, of course.” She beamed, like a child who knew she’d given the right answer to her teacher.

  “Apart from that. Aside from that. For you. What would feel good now?”

  “To make you happy,” she said a little nervously, puzzlement marring that fair brow.

  “I mean,” he tried again, “is there anything you’d like me to say, or do? Any place you’d like me to touch or caress you? Anything else that would give you more pleasure?”

  She looked very worried. She was. She took her pleasure in knowing she pleased him. She didn’t know what else he could be thinking about. She told him that.

  He came to her then, as much in anger as in desire, and was instantly sorry for it. It wasn’t her fault; he wasn’t a man who used force. He too liked to think he made her happy. He did. It was over quickly. For the first time he felt vaguely cheated.

  He patted her, and thanked her. She smiled, pleased with herself and him. When he came back from washing up in her dressing room, she was asleep. He gazed at her. But didn’t join her again. It wasn’t her fault. They’d nothing in common but their needs. His for sex, hers for money.

  A woman he could talk to in bed would have to be one of his own class. Or so he’d thought until he’d met the little mermaid. But that was clearly an impossible liaison. An affair with a married woman of his own class was possible, but he wouldn’t be able to speak freely with her. He couldn’t expect a woman who cheated her husband to be faithful to him in any fashion. If she were a widow he couldn’t fully open his mind to her either, lest he raise her hopes of marriage. If she were unwed it didn’t matter how close they were, if he took her to bed he’d have to marry her—fast. So he was stranded with the likes of his mistress. Still, there were lightskirts who were less beautiful but more clever. He resolved to find one.

  He dressed silently, and quietly let himself out.

  He was frozen to the bone when he got home, and still restless. He kept thinking of too many things he could do nothing about tonight. Important things and foolish ones. Uncle’s murder and all its consequences, Spanish Will’s advice, the mermaid, and his mistress too. He read for a while. He drank a deal of brandy. Short of bludgeoning himself into unconsciousness, he could do no more. He didn’t have to. He went to bed, closed his eyes and waited for morning. Astonishingly, he slept.

  *

  Maggie Pushkin pounded her pillow and spun it round again. It needed new feathers, it needed a new case, it needed a different head on it tonight. She couldn’t sleep. Nor could she go down to the kitchens and make herself an infusion of anemone, or even take a snippet of valerian to put in hot tea to help matters. She’d wake Jack. He slept on a pallet by the hearth now, and young boys needed their sleep. She didn’t want him wondering why she was waltzing around the house this hour of the night. He helped around the shop now, but still worked for Spanish Will, however nominally. But her legs twitched, and she stirred uncomfortably.

  The dancing should have tired her instead of making her want to rise and dance some more. But it wasn’t dancing she wanted. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was. Her body tingled. Her skin thrummed. She prickled and pouted. She was restless and fidgety, as far from sleep as from peace in her own body, with yearnings in places she’d forgotten…

  Was that it? Letting a man do that to her again? She wanted that? She sat straight up and locked her arms over her knees, scowling. But she hadn’t liked what Bernard did. She never wanted anything like it again. The desire she’d felt for Tom was a distant memory. She suspected she liked seeing him now exactly because he was married and eager to cheat his poor wife and so the thought of doing that with him was repugnant. …Desire? For a man?

  Desire for children, yes. Oh, yes. Every month she sorrowed at the loss of a child she hadn’t begot, and felt her fruitful days passing, and grieved for it. But that? Bernard had made it brief, but it was never brief enough for her. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night, unless she was having her courses. Sometimes it hurt, and sometimes it ached after. But not if she prepared herself first. A dab of Jessamine or Tansy in slippery salve, as Grandmama had said, could ease the way for a woman and help them have a babe or a man. But she’d had to take care. Too much and he’d take too long.

  He’d turn out the lamp, turn to her instead of turning on his side to go to sleep. He’d pull up his night shirt and ruck up her shift. He had a hairy chest and a flabby belly, and smelled of fish, of course. She’d hold her breath for as long as she could. He’d crawl over her, take himself in hand, part her, insert himself, and then push and puff. It was done before she could count to seventy one. Sometimes, she’d repeat that rhyme in her head if he took longer. Sometimes, he’d touch her breasts, to start himself. Sometimes, then, she’d be shocked to find she liked that. It never lasted long enough for her to wonder about. Then he’d go to sleep and she’d wash herself and be free for another two days.

  But it would be different with a different man. The subversive thought surprised her. A man like Spanish Will, say.… He was strong, tough and firm and yet his skin looked like it might be satin to the touch. And he was so proud of himself, he might even want her to touch him too… Her cheeks flamed. She looked around the dark room guiltily, as though someone might hear her thoughts. She made herself change the subject. Or a man like the viscount, who might say things to inflame her before he brought that lean body to hers, and smile down into her eyes, and kiss and stroke her, taking a long time with those long hands…

  Maggie was appalled at herself. Dreaming of such things with a Bow Street runner? And a Peer of the Realm? And Maggie Pushkin? As if she could do that with either man. Even if she ever let herself, which of course she never would. But if? Why, they’d scorn her as soon as they left her, and never want to see her again. The runner because he was too sure of females. So long as she remained chaste with him, he’d treat her well. And the viscount! He’d think her a drab, a slut, a common fishwife. Which last, at least, was exactly what she was. The other things too, if she ever crawled into bed with either man.

  She saw the folly of it, and laughed to herself, albeit weakly. She settled back again. But maybe, a man with Spanish Will’s dark allure, his vitality. A man who also had the cool, easy grace and subtle humor of the viscount?

  Aye, a man who was two in one, and neither one. A dream fellow, made of the best parts of both men, and with no real male part at all. Now there was the fellow for her!

  Desire evaporated as suddenly as night sweat from a bad dream, leaving only a residue of shame. And only a taste of regret. There were worse things than longing for things in the night. There was loss of independence. That came from having that with a man.

  Maggie stretched luxuriously. The bed was wide and hers alone in all directions. As was her life and her future. No one suspected her of anything anymore. Except maybe of being easy prey because she was a widow. But that was nothing new. She yawned. Yearnings were like dreams. If you went on with your life, you forgot them in the morning. Her desire was not forgotten. But put where it belonged. She closed her eyes, and slept. Dreamlessly.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Not just yet, my lord,” Spanish Will said.

  Lucian cocked an eyebrow. He was ready to go out on inquiries with the runner again, but Spanish Will did not move from behind his desk. Instead, he leaned back, eyeing his visitor thoughtfully. “I’ve kept my end of the bargain. But now, as to yours….”

  Lucian tilted his head to the side. “Behold me here before you, Mr. Corby. At nine in the morning, at Bow Street. An almost obscene hour of the morning, best viewed from the other side of night. I was up late last night because of the masquerade. Yet see? I make the sacrifice gladly. You said you were going to look into, ah…‘knocking shops’ next. I’m prepared to go with you. What part of the bargain could you be speaking of?”


  “The part where I accompany you someplace I would feel as out of place in as you will in a ‘ah…knocking shop,’ my lord.”

  Lucian nodded. “I see. No knocking shops today then?”

  The runner’s expression grew serious. “I’ve been hearing rumors. Nothing I can act on, or believe me I would. No, what I keep hearing is the kind of rumor that’s floated from person to person so that by the time it gets to me it’s too watery to hold water, do you know what I mean? Enough to make me wonder, though. So what I’d like to do today, with your help, is interview a relative of yours.”

  Lucian’s face grew still.

  “I could take him on myself, of course,” Will said, “but I wouldn’t get far. I never do, not with the gentry or their servants. See, soon as I say ‘Bow Street,’ all know I work for His Majesty. But so does a hangman. And they’d no sooner invite me into their parlors than the Newgate hangman. I frighten the lower classes and shame the upper. I can talk to the lower fast and easier. All I have to do is make faces at them. The gentry have ways to hide from me, and when they do talk to me, it’s down. I don’t care about that. But I care about how much cooperation I can get from them. You could help just by standing at my side, my lord.”

  “I said I’d help,” Lucian said coldly. “Is it too much to ask just who you’re talking about?”

  “Did I not say it? Forgive me,” Will said amiably. “Your cousin, Sir James St. Cloud.”