Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  “We have lots of dreams here, Minette.” Hope dragged herself up against the pillows and turned over the letter, trying not to feel excited for she knew the letter could not be from the only person she wished to hear from.

  A newspaper clipping dropped onto her lap, and she stared at it, a clutching fear in the pit of her stomach as her sister’s name caught her eye.

  Who had sent this? And why?

  Her fingers were trembling so much she had to rest the clipping on the counterpane so she could read the announcement of Charlotte’s engagement to Lord Hartley, heir to a vast family coal empire. A gala ball was to be held the following Saturday, hosted by his Lordship’s family.

  Heavens, this was a love match?

  Hope’s heart began to skitter. Their father had been a poor clergyman. Hope had left the vicarage to become a governess. At the time, Charlotte had been only fourteen. A schoolgirl with long flaxen plaits and a sweet disposition. She was to follow in Hope’s footsteps. Lord! Not the one Hope had ultimately taken, but as a governess, for there would be no money to launch Charlotte with the wardrobe she’d require as a debutante.

  That is unless Great Aunt Catherine had done for Charlotte what she had not for Hope. Relaxed her purse strings just a little and funded a small opportunity for the child of her long-dead brother’s daughter. It didn’t sound likely but what other explanation could there be?

  But what did the whys and wherefores matter if Charlotte had found a man who loved her sufficiently to ignore her lack of position and dowry.

  For the third time, Hope read the clipping, desperately trying to understand more than the words would divulge.

  But as much as she exulted in this great opportunity for her sister, a dull sense of inevitability was gnawing away at her core.

  Who other than Wilfred would have sent her this? He was the only person who knew Hope’s whereabouts. The clipping had been unaccompanied, but it wouldn’t be long before he would send a repeat of his menacing threats in a different form.

  Hope clenched her fists as the old rebellion rose up within her. She would resist. She would not be Wilfred’s emissary of evil if it meant harm to either her sister or the man she loved. Mr Durham was an innocent. Uncorrupted and pure—unlike her. If he was tormented by his feelings for another woman, taking relief from opium was no worse than blanking out the nightmares with a few drops of laudanum. Laudanum had been Hope’s undoing but it had been a long time before she’d been able to cure her addiction. Initially, she’d used it to block out the disgust she felt at herself until she’d started hallucinating and then lost her vigour. Laudanum was most definitely not the cure-all it purported to be.

  Carefully, Hope tucked the letter into its envelope and slipped it under her pillow. She had no illusions that something terrible would follow such good news.

  * * *

  The demand came the next day. Hope took the letter from Madame, who’d summoned Hope to her private sitting room in order to ensure the communication contained no money.

  As expected, it was a threat from Wilfred which only hardened Hope’s determination that she would never be Wilfred’s plaything ever again.

  When Minette entered Hope’s room at four o’ clock that afternoon to help her with her evening’s toilette, Hope was in tears.

  The young servant was used to finding Madame Chambon’s girls in tears, so she just sighed and asked Hope if she’d like to lie down and she’d get her a few drops of ‘tincture’.

  Hope, dressed in an apricot and cream silk dressing gown edged with lace, continued to pace between the iron bed with its elegant rose satin bedspread and the window and shook her head. “I need to think clearly; I need my wits about me.” She waved the note in her hand, not looking at Minette. “I must make an important decision.”

  “Yer overset, miss. A little laudanum never did no one any ’arm.”

  But although the girl loyally unstoppered the little glass vial on Hope’s dressing table and poured a few drops into a glass of water, Hope knew the danger the innocent-looking tincture of opium represented. Tempting though it was, she needed to be sharp-witted. Sharp enough to outwit Wilfred.

  Yet how was she to manage this when she’d thought Wilfred had already done his worst?

  With another sob, she smoothed the crumpled cream missive on which Wilfred had penned his evil demands, and her vision blurred by tears, read it for the hundredth time.

  It began as if he and Hope were old friends. Couldn’t she just imagine his delight at Charlotte’s engagement, and that he’d been invited to attend the grand event at Lord Hartley’s family home the following Saturday. What a sad thing it was that Hope could not go, despite the bonds that bound the younger sister to Hope who adored her so.

  Wouldn’t Charlotte be devastated to learn to what depths of vice and depravity Hope had sunk? But not to fear, Wilfred would never hint at Hope’s whereabouts much less her employment.

  Indeed, Wilfred would be assiduous in ensuring no taint of scandal attached to Charlotte that would blight her extraordinary matrimonial conquest.

  All Hope had to do in order to rest easy on that score was whatever Wilfred told her to.

  And so, outlined in Wilfred’s letter, was another demand that she return to Mr Durham’s lodgings and, by whatever means available to her, secure what she’d failed to do the first time.

  “Mr Durham’s pleasure was purchased at great expense, but you failed to deliver upon your obligations, other than be the whore to surprise and delight him,” Wilfred had written. “From what I hear, Mr Durham’s addled wits at the time rendered him insensible to your true identity. This time, your visit will be at your expense for I have not the ready to outlay such an exorbitant sum for your dubious charms. But service him, you will. Otherwise, all of London society will be speaking in hushed and horrified tones about sweet, innocent Miss Charlotte Merriweather, tainted forever by the sister who can be bought by anyone with a fat enough pocketbook.”

  * * *

  There was no alternative, of course. Hope had explored every avenue, including disappearing into the night, but without friends and family she had no one to aid her, and the inevitability of living in the gutter before too long prevented her from leaving her current employment.

  As for any possessions for which she might redeem a few coins, Madame had covered this too. The girls’ wardrobes were kept under lock and key, while payment was dealt with by the proprietress. Even when girls returned from a job, Madame took measures to ensure they secreted no tips upon their person by having them searched by her assistant, a bony, elderly woman called Mrs Whippet who looked like a dirge-singer and carried out her duties as her name suggested.

  Therefore, it was with weary resignation that Hope presented herself upon the doorstep of Mr Durham’s lodgings the following afternoon, her heart hammering as she contemplated in what state she’d find Mr Durham. Though more to the point, how he’d find her.

  “Miss Moore, what a pleasant surprise.” Mr Millament, charming and dapper and not two sheets to the wind as on the previous occasion, raised his eyebrows in enquiry as he invited her in, using her assumed name. “Felix is a changed man. He’s seen the brightness of the future beckoning him when the past threatened to weigh him down forever.” He led Hope up the now-familiar corridor of a much quieter house. At Mr Durham’s door, he stopped and turned. “He’ll be delighted to see you again. Felix spoke as if you were too good to be real, but obviously, he must have been convinced you were not a figment of his imagination. Nevertheless, it is a surprise to see you at this time of day since he said nothing of it to me, but I am his friend, and I do not judge.”

  If this were meant to be reassuring it had the opposite effect. Yet there was no other time Hope could have come. She had a client that evening and now was supposed to be her rest time. But Wilfred had given her no option to resist his strictures if she were to save Charlotte from her shame by association.

  Unable to answer with more than a wan smile an
d brief nod, Hope put out her hand to balance herself against the flock wallpaper. The silence was oppressive and her knees were shaking, but she hoped her fear was not branded on her face. She’d perfected the art of looking impassive. In fact, her ability to show no emotion had driven Wilfred to violent fury on more than one occasion.

  “Thank you, Mr Millament.”

  “Not at all! I’m just glad you’re here for I know you’ll do my friend the world of good.”

  Nervously, Hope worried her lower lip as a sluggish dread enveloped her. What else could she do but follow through? She was imprisoned by what Wilfred had turned her into. And that was compounded by the need to prevent a great tragedy befalling the one person in the world Hope would sacrifice her life to protect.

  Hope was about to stay the dreadful inevitable with a question, but before she had a chance to even open her mouth, Mr Millament had thrust open the door declaring, “Felix! Your angel has returned,” before closing it abruptly, plunging Hope into gloom.

  Chapter 5

  Only the light from outside penetrated the window, below which she could barely discern the figure of Mr Durham seated at a writing desk.

  Hope felt for the support of a nearby table, afraid her legs would give way before she was able to hold herself tall and erect.

  Meanwhile, straightening at the intrusion, the handsome profile had transformed into a fully rendered man, the brooding dark eyes and sensitive mouth of a poet providing a fascinating contrast to the strong jaw and broad shoulders of a pugilist. Still half in shadow in the recess of the window embrasure, he regarded her with a puzzled frown. She could see by the creases in his forehead and the tilt of his head that he hadn’t recognised her.

  Yet.

  Hope half turned. There was still time. She could leave now and he’d be none the wiser. She’d been too weak to do so the last time, but she’d survived, unrecognised and with her dignity intact.

  She’d not succeed this time. Mr Durham was fully in charge of his wits today. He looked as if he’d been intent upon some business, his demeanour alert, his movements charged with purpose as he’d folded the page upon which he’d been writing as he turned.

  Hope wasn’t sure what to do. Surely there was some other way to discharge Wilfred’s demands without exposing herself and destroying what little pride she had left?

  Awkwardly, she stood near the end of the bed, a few feet into the room. It was late afternoon. Perhaps, in the poor light, he’d not recognise her. After all, it had been so many years. More than two, for the other night didn’t count when he’d thought her a figment of his dreams. A ghost blazing through his imagination.

  “Miss Merriweather!”

  His exhalation of astonishment made her freeze in shock. He couldn’t have recognised her from afar. From such a distance?

  He rose, his expression one of the greatest shining pleasure, as if she truly were the incarnation of his dreams, his wildest hopes. “Good Lord, is it really you? After all this time?”

  He took a step towards her, his smile tentative, hopeful, while he extended his hands. “Is it really you? Why…you are as lovely as the day I last saw you.”

  Hope didn’t know what to say. The truth would extinguish the light in his eyes, and at the same time obliterate the least bit of pleasure she was about to derive from this exercise. Yes, most definitely it was better to retreat now. She could just pull down her veil and hurry out of the room and up the passage, letting him believe he’d imagined her all over again.

  Before she could decide upon an action, he was striding across the room, one hand outstretched as if he feared she was about to do just that, and he was determined to stay her at any cost.

  “Who brought you here? Surely not my friend Millament who obviously thought you…someone else.” With a look of horror, he glanced over his shoulder at the bed behind him, muttering, “Dear Lord, forgive the error! Please, let me usher you to the drawing room. I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person when I’ve searched for you for so long.” There was both unutterable relief as well as uncertainty in his expression. And his concern for her reputation was as keen as if…

  She was still the innocent governess he remembered.

  Hope stood her ground, calmly putting her hand on his wrist when he would be too forceful in implementing genteel manners as she prepared to utter the most difficult words of her life.

  “I was here the other night, if you recall, Mr Durham.” Her shoulders dropped an inch, but she didn’t drop her gaze from his face. He needed to know the truth. The truth of what she really was. And that she wasn’t the incarnation of all his fanciful day dreamings in which she was the angelic creature he’d set upon a pedestal. That’s certainly how it looked as if he’d interpreted it, and it was not an easy image to destroy.

  He paused, seemingly suspended between the greatest excitement and a slowly dawning reality of what she was trying to tell him. Very slowly dawning, she could see.

  She clenched her gloved hands, concealing them in the folds of her skirts. Better get it over with. After all, she’d come here to destroy his illusions.

  Taking a deep breath and pushing back her shoulders, Hope put both her hands upon his forearms and looked up into his eyes. It was an strangely intimate gesture given that the only physical intimacy they’d shared was when he’d held her on the dance floor following their almost kiss after she’d been thrown from her horse. Yes, that had been a day of intimacy she’d remember forever; two images of sweetness and purity that had sustained her through the many tawdry episodes since. For wasn’t sleeping with a prince tawdry if she didn’t love him—even if she’d lined her pockets—or rather, Madame Chambon’s—with five hundred pounds to give him the pleasure?

  “Miss Merriweather?” It was a question. She’d not given him much to go on, and he’d not wish to draw the association.

  Lord, but it was hard to wipe the smile—uncertain thought it was now—from his handsome face. However, she had no choice.

  “Yes, Mr Durham. It is me.”

  It was time to redraw the lines of their relationship. If he were a man who enjoyed transient pleasures like most of her clients, then he’d be in heaven very shortly.

  The trouble was, she knew he wasn’t—unless he’d changed.

  The shadows had deepened in the few minutes she’d remained standing near the door. Mr Durham continued to gaze at her, his rapture tinged with increasing puzzlement.

  Hope knew she was at the peak of her beauty and powers in what she could offer a man. Madame Chambon had turned her into a rare prize who could entertain the most discerning client as much with her wit, her scintillating conversation, and her sharp mind as with her body. She’d had to pass many a test before she’d been accepted into the inner sanctum. Half of Europe’s royalty had been her reward and, before her retirement in a few years, she could hope for a handsome annuity as the favourite courtesan of one of those who’d formed a special fondness for her. It was the way it worked for the lucky girls at Madame Chambon’s, and the best Hope could aspire to.

  Did Mr Durham know how it worked? The rules?

  She forced herself to remain strong while she awaited the moment of revelation.

  He shook his head. “You say you came here…before?”

  Was he pretending he didn’t remember their night of madness? Of impassioned lovemaking?

  Of course he was. He simply couldn’t reconcile it with the Miss Hope Merriweather he’d daydreamed of kissing in the shadows outside the ballroom where they’d hurried to be alone for a few moments.

  Fate hadn’t favoured them, for Annabelle Hunt had issued from the brightly lit ballroom and, like a homing pigeon, discovered them making plans. In the church vestry. Tomorrow. Before you catch your train. He’d gripped her hand and whispered the suggestions, though Hope had not had the opportunity to confirm anything before Annabelle had insinuated herself between them.

  Shortly afterwards, Mrs Merriweather had bundled up her daughter into a warm ca
pe and hurried her to their carriage. Why could she not be happy for Hope? Mr Durham was the finest catch in the neighbourhood and exactly what Hope imagined she’d want for her girls. Why would her mother object to Hope establishing something more than polite friendship between herself and Mr Durham, the future lord of Foxley Manor, before he returned to Cambridge while Hope was to begin her working life as a governess?

  Hope put her hand up to her hair and twisted a ringlet around her forefinger. Her curls were natural, her hair a glossy dark mahogany; a fine contrast to her unnaturally pale skin and sparkling blue eyes. Men loved the combination. She could tell Mr Durham did too, but then, he’d loved her when she’d been simple Miss Hope, the penniless vicar’s daughter.

  How innocent they’d both been in those days.

  Clearly, Mr Durham had changed a great deal since then. She could see it in the shadows of weariness beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the nervous tic that worked at the corner of his mouth. This was not the carefree young man she remembered. This was a man who had endured much.

  Very softly, he asked, “What are you trying to tell me, Miss Merriweather?”

  And very softly, she replied, “That I am no longer the innocent Miss Merriweather you once knew.”

  The inference was implicit, but she realised she needed to spell it out otherwise he’d continue to hold out hope that she couldn’t really be the fallen creature she so brazenly presented. Why did men have to make goddesses out of earthly creatures who were every bit as susceptible as they were to life’s dangers and temptations?

  “Nor am I an innocent governess who has lost her way.” She gave a soft laugh, adding, “Though I daresay it could be argued that indeed I have lost my way.” She shrugged. “No, Mr Durham, I did not leave you to follow a path of virtue, and I do not stand before you as the woman you remember.”

  “Then…why are you here?” He looked desperate. “I don’t understand.”