by Amanda Quick
She was far more anxious this evening than she had been the night she paid the visit to Reeding Cemetery. The threats contained in the note that she had found in her carriage had jarred her nerves as nothing else could have done.
When Iphiginia got close to the sign for Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum, she noticed a painted hand at the bottom. The pointing finger urged visitors to go down the narrow walkway between two buildings.
Iphiginia peered hesitantly into the thick shadows of the tiny alley. She could just make out a flight of steps that led to the upper story of the building.
With one last glance at the hackney, Iphiginia started down the alley.
She climbed the stairs as quietly as possible, her pulse beating more rapidly with each step. Every squeak, every groan of the treads sent a shiver through her. The darkness seemed to grow more and more dense around her.
She should not have come here alone. But there had been no choice.
At the top of the stairs she paused and studied the closed door in front of her. Another sign, this one hardly discernible in the shadows, indicated that this was the entrance to Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum.
The rumble of carriage wheels in the street jolted Iphiginia just as she put her hand on the knob. The hackney was abandoning her.
“No,” she gasped, and turned to rush back down the steps.
The lights of a second carriage appeared. Iphiginia halted, one foot on the landing, one on the first step. Her hackney had not left, she realized. Another one had arrived.
It rolled to a halt near her own. Horses stomped their hooves. Voices echoed through the shadows.
“Wait for me,” a man ordered crisply.
“Aye, m’lord. Take yer time. Brung a gennelman here last week what spent most of the night.” The new coachman chuckled heartily. “Dr. Hardstaff’s goddesses give quite a cure, they tell me. Wonder if it works.”
“I shall not be long,” the newcomer said.
Footsteps sounded on the paving stones. They paused briefly. And then, to Iphiginia’s horror, they started toward the narrow alley where she hovered at the top of the stairs.
Fear ripped through her. In a matter of seconds the man who had gotten out of the second hackney would come down the alley. It was obvious he was en route to Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum. He would surely see her as soon as he mounted the stairs.
She could not go back down the staircase without running straight into the stranger, so Iphiginia did the only thing she could do. She turned the knob that was pressing into her lower back.
The door opened with only a small squeak of its hinges. Intent on watching the staircase, Iphiginia backed into a darkened hall. She closed the door very carefully.
A man’s arm came out of the intense shadows of the hall. It wrapped around Iphiginia’s throat.
She was dragged against a broad chest as a rough palm clamped over her mouth. Her incipient scream was cut off before it could escape.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus muttered. “Iphiginia? She nodded wildly. Relief rushed through her, draining her.
“What in the name of the devil—” Marcus took his hand away from her mouth.
“Someone’s coming up the stairs, Marcus,” she whispered frantically. “He’ll be here any second.”
“Damn.” Marcus released her and grabbed her hand. “This way. Hurry. Don’t make a sound.”
She needed no second urging. The newcomer’s footsteps thudded on the stairs outside.
Marcus yanked Iphiginia down a dark hall, opened a door, and tugged her into a large room that was dimly lit by a single wall sconce.
“What in the world?” Iphiginia gazed about in astonishment. “What is this place?”
The lamplight revealed the most oddly furnished chamber Iphiginia had ever seen. Exotic drapery hung from the ceiling in the style of a Turkish tent. A large bed dominated the center of the room. It was decorated with gauzy hangings and an extraordinary number of pillows. It was surrounded by erotic statuary of the sort Lord Lartmore favored.
The walls were decorated with huge murals depicting classical gods and goddesses from various mythological tales. The deities appeared to be nude. The men were all in a state of extreme sexual arousal. The female figures were voluptuous to the point of being ludicrous.
“Welcome to Dr. Hardstaff’s Museum,” Marcus said as he pulled her across the chamber. “One night in the therapeutic bed is guaranteed to cure impotence.”
“Marcus, what are you doing here?”
“An excellent question. I intend to put the same one to you as soon as we have an opportunity. In the meantime, we must get you out of sight.”
“Good heavens.” Iphiginia stared at a painting that featured several woodland nymphs cavorting with three overly endowed satyrs. “These are the most perfectly dreadful copies of classical antiquities that I have ever seen.”
“I regret that your scholarly sensibilities have been affronted.” Marcus took hold of the edge of a heavy red curtain that stretched the length of the chamber. “You can take it up with Dr. Hardstaff later.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“You are going to get out of sight and stay out of sight.” Marcus jerked aside the floor-to-ceiling curtain and pushed Iphiginia through the opening onto a small stage. Several Greek urns and a scrolled pedestal occupied the platform. There was a narrow door in the side wall behind the curtain.
“But Marcus—”
“Go through that door and hide in the hallway behind it.” Marcus caught her chin on the edge of his hand. His eyes were grim. “Do not come out until I tell you. And whatever you do, don’t make a single sound. Do you comprehend me?”
“Yes, but—” She broke off as she heard the outside door on the landing open. Her mouth went dry. “Oh, Lord.”
“Hush.” Marcus yanked the curtain back into position, concealing Iphiginia from the view of anyone who might enter the chamber.
The heavy curtain cut off the glow of the wall sconce. Iphiginia found herself in near darkness. She started to grope her way toward the small door and struck her toe against the pedestal. She swallowed a grunt of pain.
The door of the outer chamber slammed open. Iphiginia went still, not daring to move for fear she would crash into another object.
“Damnation, Masters.” The stranger’s voice was raw with fury. “It’s you. I didn’t believe it when I got the note. I told myself that it was all a terrible joke. But it seems I’ve been both a fool and a cuckold.”
“Good evening, Sands.” Marcus’s tone was cool to the point of indifference. “I didn’t realize that someone else also had an appointment with Dr. Hardstaff this evening. I specifically requested a private treatment.”
Iphiginia realized that the man who had entered the chamber was the husband of the mysterious Lady Sands.
“Where is my wife, you bloody bastard?”
“I have no notion,” Marcus said quietly. “As you can see, I’m quite alone. I confess I’m disappointed by that fact. I had hoped there would be a bit more to Dr. Hardstaff’s famous therapy than a few bad paintings and some equally poor statuary.”
“You arranged to meet Hannah here, didn’t you?” Sands asked in a seething voice. “That’s what the note said.”
“The note?”
“Someone knows what you’re about, Masters. A note was left in my carriage this evening telling me that if I wished to discover the place where you and my wife carried on your assignations, I should come to Number Nineteen Lamb Lane.”
“Someone has played an unpleasant practical joke on you, Sands. Whoever it was undoubtedly knew that I had an appointment here tonight.”
“An appointment with my wife, damn you.”
Iphiginia started when she heard the side door open. She peered anxiously into the shadows and saw a figure emerge from a dark hall. The woman carried a candle in her hand. The flame illuminated her pretty features, blond hair, and extremely low-cut, diaphanous gown.
She halted abruptly when
she spotted Iphiginia. Then she put her hands on her hips and glared.
“’Ere, now, what do ye think yer doin’?” she demanded in a loud tone. “This is my night to be the Classical Goddess o’ Manly Vigor.”
There was a sudden silence from the other side of the curtain.
Iphiginia stared at the woman and desperately tried to think of what to do next. “I’m sorry,” she managed in a thin whisper. “There’s been a mistake.”
“What’s going on back there?” Sands demanded. Footsteps echoed on the floor as he strode toward the heavy scarlet curtain.
“I believe the performance is about to begin,” Marcus said dryly.
The blond woman gave a small, disgruntled screech and turned toward the curtain. “What’s this? There be two of ‘em out there?”
“Uh, yes,” Iphiginia murmured. “Don’t ye dare touch that curtain,” the blonde yelled. Sheturned to Iphiginia. “Hardstaff didn’t say nothin’ about there bein’ two gennelmen gettin’ the classical treatment tonight. What’s ‘e think I am? A genuine goddess?”
Marcus spoke up quietly. “If I were you, Sands, I would not interfere.”
“What the devil is happening here?” Sands sounded confused.
“I said, don’t ye dare touch that curtain,” the blonde roared. She peered at Iphiginia. “’Old on. Is that why yet ‘ere? To handle the second gennelman?”
“Uh, yes,” Iphiginia whispered. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all right, then. Get yer cloak off and we’ll give these gentry coves their money’s worth. I’m Pony. What’s yer name?”
“Uh, Ginny.” Iphiginia slowly removed her cloak. She put it on top of the pedestal.
“Ye new at this?” Polly surveyed Iphiginia’s delicate white evening gown with a critical gaze. “Yer overdressed.”
“I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this quickly,” Iphiginia said. “I am an excellent student.”
“Enough of this nonsense.” Sands started toward the curtain. “Come on out here, you two. I have some questions to ask.”
“Stop,” Polly yelled. “Got rules against anyone comin’ back ‘ere before the performance, y’know.”
“Now see here,” Sands growled, “I do not intend to be ordered about by a cheap whore.”
“This is a theater, damn yer eyes,” Polly snarled back through the curtain. “And we’re bloody actresses, we are, not whores. And we ain’t cheap. Ye’ll do us the favor o’ treatin’ us with some respect or ye can just plain forget about gettin’ any o’ Dr. Hardstaff’s special treatment tonight.”
“I am not here to see your damned show,” Sands snapped. “I’m here to find someone.”
“Ain’t no one backstage ‘ere except us professional actresses. Now either sit down to enjoy the performance or get out o’ ‘ere.”
“The lady has a point,” Marcus said. “I would very much appreciate it if you would remove yourself, Sands. I paid good money to be entertained this evening.”
“Entertained?” Sands sounded disgusted. “You call this entertainment?”
“I was told it was somewhat amusing,” Marcus replied. “Inspirational, even.”
“We’re about to start the bloody show,” Polly announced through the curtain. “If ye two fine gennelmen want to get the treatment together, that’s yer affair. But I warn ye, it’ll be double the price.”
“Unless you’re willing to pay your share, Sands,” Marcus said, “it’s time to leave.”
“I am not leaving,” Sands said furiously. “Not until I can deduce what in blazes is going on here.”
“If yer stayin’, ye can make yerself useful,” Polly snapped. “Put out the lamp near the door’.”
“I believe I will do that,” Sands said coldly. “Let us see just what is going on behind that curtain.” His footsteps rang out once more as he turned and strode back toward the door.
“About time. No respect fer professional work anymore.” Polly bent down to light a row of lamps on the stage. They flared to life.
Then she reached out and hauled mightily on a long, heavy cord.
The heavy red curtain moved to the side, leaving a very thin muslin drape in its place.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus muttered.
Iphiginia realized that the lamps on the stage were producing strong silhouettes of both herself and Polly against the gauzy curtain. She stilled.
“Interesting,” Sands said laconically. “How much did you say you paid for this, Masters?”
“Too much,” Marcus said. “I fear I may have been fleeced.”
“They’re all critics at first, y’know,” Polly said. “The whole lot of ‘em. But they change their minds soon enough.” She straightened and frowned at Iphiginia. “Get yer urn. ‘Urry up, now.”
Iphiginia took a deep breath and forced herself to move. She picked up one of the large urns that had been positioned on the stage. It was surprisingly light. “Now what?”
“Strike yer pose. Don’t ye know anythin’ about this business? Dr. Hardstaff gets right cranky if the patients don’t get their money’s worth.” Polly picked up her urn and struck what she undoubtedly believed to be a classical pose.
It finally dawned on Iphiginia that she and Polly were performers in a transparency show.
The transparency curtain acted as a veil, concealing the details of her features while it revealed the clear outline of her figure.
The lamps, strategically situated behind the two women, produced a ghostly scene.
Iphiginia had seen a handful of such productions, but they had all been of an educational nature. The last one, which she had attended with Amelia, had featured an extremely edifying tableau illustrating the classical ruins of Herculaneum. But the scene staged by herself and Polly tonight was clearly designed to be of a much less elevating nature. Iphiginia had a horrible suspicion that her gossamer white silk skirts afforded little or no modesty. The flaring lamps were placed so as to render Polly’s attire virtually transparent.
Iphiginia clutched her urn more securely and held it directly in front of herself. She prayed that it was large enough to cover a goodly portion of her torso. With any luck only a hazy view of her legs, head, and shoulders would be visible through the gauzy transparency screen.
“The goddess on the left isn’t bad,” Sands drawled with icy sarcasm. “But the one on the right is a bit slender for my taste. What do you think, Masters?”
Iphiginia flushed as she realized that she was the goddess on the right.
“I’ve never been fond of transparency shows,” Marcus said. “If I had realized that Hardstaff’s famous production consisted of something this tame, I would have found other ways to amuse myself this evening.”
Iphiginia looked helplessly at Polly. Polly winked. “Don’t ye worry. We’ll impress ‘em. She altered her pose to one that displayed her ample bosom to better advantage. “Personally, I’m, real fond o’ the job,” she whispered. “Much easier on a girl than workin’ flat on her back.”
“I can imagine,” Iphiginia muttered. “Give ‘em a few good poses and they’ll go off ‘appy as larks.” Polly shifted her urn slightly, arched her back, and thrust her bosom upward. “They always do.”
Iphiginia did not dare move. She kept her urn positioned firmly in front of herself.
“Seen enough, Sands?” Marcus asked. “I have. My curiosity is satisfied. Dr. Hardstaff’s miracle treatment is not nearly so entertaining as I had been led to believe.”
“I’ve seen more than enough,” Sands said roughly. “Now it’s time for a few answers.”
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the curtain again. Sands was coming toward the stage.
“Damnation.” Marcus’s bootsteps thudded on the floor behind Sands. “Don’t touch that curtain. You’ll upset the actresses.”
“Do you think I give a damn about these wenches? I want to know why someone sent me here tonight. I’m through playing games.”
Iphiginia saw Sands’s h
and appear at the edge of the gauzy curtain. He grabbed a fistful of the fine fabric and yanked hard. The delicate transparency curtain ripped loose from the books in the ceiling.
Iphiginia and Polly were fully revealed. “See ‘ere now,” Pony scolded, outraged. “What do ye think yer doin’? Yer goin’ to pay fer that curtain, not us.”
Sands ignored her. He stared at Iphiginia astounded. “Mrs. Bright. What the devil are you doing here?”
She smiled weakly. “Good evening, Lord Sands. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Rest assured I know who you are, madam,” Sands said grimly.
Iphiginia blushed. “Yes, well, as you have no doubt guessed, I am part of the treatment Dr. Hardstaff designed especially for Masters.”
“His treatment?” Sands shot a scathing glance at Marcus, who raised his brows slightly but said nothing.
Sands turned to Iphiginia. “Forgive me, Mrs. Bright, but I find that a little difficult to believe.”
“But it’s true,” Iphiginia said quickly. She cast a quick, urgent look at Marcus, who offered no assistance. “Dr. Hardstaff stated that the results would he more immediate and far more dramatic if I assisted in the treatment.”
“Hardstaff is a damned quack,” Sands said. “Everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t,” Iphiginia said. She gave Marcus another urgent look, but he appeared bored by the entire affair. She began to grow annoyed.
“Come now, Mrs. Bright,” Sands said. “Every gentleman in Town is well aware that Hardstaff’s so-called treatments for impotence are nothing more than titillating transparency shows. They are staged by pretty little whores who make themselves available after the performance.
“‘Ere, now,” Polly snapped. “That’s a bloody lie, it is. I’m an actress.”
“That’s certainly one word for your profession.”
Sands agreed. Iphiginia concluded that, in the absence of any assistance from Marcus, she had no choice but to take an aggressive tack. “How would you know whether or not Dr. Hardstaff’s treatments were legitimate unless you’d taken one, my lord?”
“Aye, that’s a bloody good question,” Polly said. “And I ain’t never noticed you in this chamber o’ the Goddesses o’ Manly Vigor before. Stands to reason ye don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”