Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  Hugo considered him a moment. His father had had the benefit of an education but he’d never been considered on an equal footing with his schoolfellows. He wanted this for his son more than he wanted anything else; hence the tortuous years at Eton, the miserable rounds of trying to mould him into the man his father wanted him to become.

  “I should not care where she dragged me so long as she was my wife.”

  The chasm between them had never yawned so deep. In the middle of a room boasting the trappings of wealth without softness, expense without taste, his father was as much a victim of his success as generations before him had been of their poverty.

  He ran a hand through his thick white hair and his lustrous, salt and pepper moustache twitched. His watery blue eyes regarded Hugo with dislike. “I hope she knows you’ll not get a penny of your grandfather’s fortune if you wed her in haste before you leave.”

  “Oh, she knows it well. But in less than two years I’ll be free to do as I choose.” Hugo turned at the door. “And I’ll be right back here. In London. Begging her to make me the happiest man alive and marry me. Romantic tosh, eh, father?” Hugo offered him a parting smile. Or, at least, the parody of one. “I’m the first to admit that it is inconvenient to have a heart, at times.” He pushed back his shoulders. “At least I can live with my conscience. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He decided against taking a hackney the few blocks to his cousin’s townhouse and when he arrived Cyril was in the hallway donning his hat and coat.

  “A good thing I caught you,” Hugo said, amused at the flare of anger in the other man’s face and the way Cyril’s hand went protectively to his nose, still swollen after the previous night.

  “I hadn’t expected to see you again.” Cyril turned his back to pick up his umbrella before heading down the steps to the street.

  “You weren’t going to see me off?” Hugo pretended surprise. “Good riddance and all that? Leaving you to enjoy what I can’t take with me?” He lengthened his stride so he was level with his cousin before gripping his elbow and jerking him so he was facing him, pressing him against a brick wall beneath an old bridge. Passersby looked at them strangely.

  “I swear that if you touch Charity…if you cause her a single moment’s anxiety, then yesterday will be nothing compared with the way I’ll make sure you suffer when I return home.”

  “You know I didn’t touch her yesterday, either.” Cyril sounded sulky as he pulled back his arm and carried on walking.

  “Not for want of trying. I heard you visited Madame Chambon’s the very day after I told Charity I had to leave.”

  “Curiosity. What well-intentioned cousin wouldn’t want to see if such a girl could be as pure and true as she was made out to be?”

  “She’s known only me.” Hugo wasn’t saying it to boast. He couldn’t bear the idea that anyone should imagine that what he and Charity shared was any less pure than a union sanctified by God. “And one day she will be my wife.” He looked at his cousin while he fought the poison within him. “Just remember that. Thanks to you, that day will be longer coming than I intended.” He drew in a breath through his nose, his expression, he hoped, reflecting the force of his hatred. “Regardless of my father’s desires to the contrary, and your collusion, it will happen.”

  Cyril seemed disinclined to be engaged. Taking advantage of a cooper’s wagon lumbering by, he dashed in front of it, swinging around angrily when Hugo followed him. They’d reached a small, fenced park into which Hugo was channelling him so as to be out of the public eye.

  “For God’s sake, Hugo, leave it and go! As always, I get the blame!”

  Hugo clenched his fists while he fought his temper. He’d never been quick to anger, unlike Cyril, but tomorrow he’d be sailing to a land far from Charity and the world he wanted to inhabit with her. His dreams had been cruelly dashed and his nemesis was before him.

  He glared at Cyril. “It might have been Papa who put you up to this but you were a willing party. I don’t know what, exactly, he asked you to do but you leapt at the first opportunity to ruin me. Why? So, my father would have an excuse to send me away?” He heard his voice shake and was angry at himself. Why should he care that Cyril, with his broad shoulders, glib tongue, and clever cunning was far more the kind of son his father wanted than the dreamy, namby-pamby boy he’d derided from the cradle.

  Hugo couldn’t help himself. He’d tried to have as little as possible to do with Cyril and the society he kept. He’d tried to hold himself to higher ideals. Ideals which should have precluded him saying bitterly, “Well, hasn’t he always favoured you? And weren’t you so willing to get into his good books by destroying what I had with Charity? Papa couldn’t bear that I should marry a girl he considered as lowly as his own mother but you were the first to step up and do his bidding. You didn’t care that you were hurting a girl who was tricked into crossing Madame Chambon’s threshold. A girl whose father came from the very world into which our own fathers wish to be accepted. Ironic, isn’t it? In terms of the blood that runs through her veins, Charity is better born than either of us. Yet, because she’s a woman and she’s illegitimate, she has none of the protections or ability to forge her own way in life, that we take for granted.”

  “God, but you’re insufferably self-righteous, Hugo!” Cyril flung at him as he turned to confront his cousin. “I couldn’t care less about any of this! Not who you marry or where she comes from or what your father wants or doesn’t want for you.” He threw out his arms in frustration, his umbrella spinning in the air. “The only reason I agreed to help your father see you sink a fortune was so that I wouldn’t be forced to spend the next year in a God-forsaken country learning the family trade. It’d be bad enough having to leave the comforts of London but having to spend any time in close proximity with my father would be like living a thousand deaths.”

  Hugo squared his shoulders. “And you think I deserve that?”

  “At least he won’t beat you senseless at every opportunity. I imagine you’ll be spared that since you’re only a nephew and will be required to get up and do a day’s work rather than be made an example of. He has no great expectations of you.”

  He said it as if Hugo had never been considered up to much by the rest of the family. Cyril, by contrast, had enjoyed his rugby, cricket, and boxing.

  Hugo chewed his lip. His anger had dissipated somewhat but his uncertainty was as great as ever. “You promise you won’t prey on Charity?”

  “Prey on her? What do you think I am? A monster as bad as my father?” He gave a short laugh. “I might be a cheat and a bounder but I don’t go about forcing myself on vulnerable females and defiling any pretty thing that takes my fancy.” He hesitated. “I’m the first to admit that she’s a fine filly, your Charity. A real stunner. What she sees in you, I can’t imagine.”

  “I can’t either,” Hugo said, dolefully, turning to leave this unsatisfactory conversation.

  But the change in Cyril’s tone when he next spoke was far from reassuring.

  “However, old fellow, if your sweet Charity chooses to avail herself of the comforts I can provide her which you — obviously — will be in no position to, then that’s her choice.” He chuckled. “How many weeks have you secured for her maintenance? No more than eight, is my guess. Well!” He sighed. “A girl’s got to live, hasn’t she?”

  Chapter 10

  For just a few moments more, Charity could revel in the warmth of Hugo’s body pressed against hers, his overcoat shielding them both as they stood in a sheltered corner of the dockyard.

  Then he’d weave his way amongst the throng of tearful well-wishers who crowded the quay and say the no-doubt gruff and loveless farewell that would see him part from his father.

  Salty spray borne upon the stiff breeze mingled with the lightly falling snow.

  “I will never forget you, Hugo,” she whispered into his waistcoat. “Even if I never see you again.”

  The ground was covered in a blanket of whit
e and the sky was already black, heavy clouds obscuring the stars.

  “In two years, I will come back and claim you. One year, if I’m able. You must believe that, Charity.”

  She believed the sentiment was as heartfelt as it sounded but she didn’t believe for one moment that Hugo would appear before her on a cold December day like this one and make good his claim.

  “You must do what is best for you, Hugo, and if you meet someone who — ”

  “No!” He shook his head, his tone fierce. “If I marry, I will marry you, Charity. You must believe it. I might have failed miserably to look after you as I should have done but when I come into my inheritance and am master of my finances, I will do whatever it takes to see you shine in a position that does you honour.”

  He brought his mouth down in a kiss that was as branding as it was tender. Hugo was gentle but he was determined and he was full of fervour.

  And so young. Yet what he lacked in age and experience, he made up for in so many other ways.

  Reluctantly she stepped back. “You must go, my love. Your father is here. I see him looking for you.”

  “Then let him see me with you. It might help reinforce the futility of his reasons for sending me away.” Hugo took her by the hand and led Charity into the open, just as his father turned in their direction. For a moment they locked glances, then Mr Adams looked away.

  With a smile, Hugo brushed her cheek with his hand. “You are exquisite, Charity. I’m never prouder than when I have you by my side.” He bent for one final kiss and as Charity wound her arms about his neck she wondered how she’d ever have the strength to let him go.

  But she did. And only after he’d started walking away did she let the tears fall.

  For Hugo needed to meet his fate with all the fortitude of which he was capable.

  * * *

  It surely was the saddest Christmas she’d ever spent. How could she join in the singing with the other girls at Madame Chambon’s when the carollers stopped beneath their window? How could she smile at the pink-cheeked children who threw snowballs in the park?

  Her heart felt like a cold and empty vessel.

  When Maisie tapped on her door and told her that a Mr Adams desired her company, she was torn between bursting out with laughter at his impudence, or weeping at the irony. What would bring this man, of all men, to her threshold after all that had happened?

  So, of course, she sent a message making clear how unwelcome he was.

  She just hoped and prayed that Madame remained as committed as she had earlier indicated to ensuring Charity’s employment did not include crossing any unwelcome thresholds.

  Of course, Charity didn’t care that her clothes were the cast-offs of Madame’s girls. Or that she’d be engaged in menial drudgery for much of her day. Madame had made it clear that as long as Charity worked hard for her keep, she’d not turn her out. Hugo had paid the brothel-keeper a sum that had made her happy. For now.

  However, on the third day, her faith in Madame’s uncharacteristic fidelity to Charity’s forthcoming Happily Ever After suffered its first major blow.

  First of all, a summons to Madame’s study was an event to strike fear into any of her girls.

  “Mr Adams has paid us his third visit in three days,” Madame told her. She’d always been one to come straight to the point and as she stood behind her desk resembling a lamp post through her posture and lack of emotion and the gimlet look in Madame’s eyes, Charity felt her faith in Madame’s loyalty to her cause, crumble.

  “I’m very glad he’s not come to see me,” Charity said, dropping her eyes to her scuffed boots, swallowing down her fear as the heat rose through her body. Fear. No, terror of why Madame had summoned her.

  “Of course he’s here to see you, girl! He knows the position you’re in and he’ll keep coming back. He’s a persistent one.”

  “I have nothing to offer him.” Charity raised her chin and sent Madame a warning. Didn’t they have an agreement? “Hugo left only three days ago.”

  “And he might never come back. Oh, he’s left sufficient for your upkeep for a short while. I’m not about to send you into the jaws of this wolf, or any other, for that matter. But my dear girl, let me just remind you that money doesn’t last forever. It doesn’t grow on trees. Perhaps it might be as well to cultivate Mr Adams. He is a man of means, after all. And he’s made it clear that he intends to be very generous.”

  Charity couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Cyril was the very reason Hugo has had to leave the country!” she burst out. “I loathe the man. I want nothing to do with him!” She clasped her hands to stop them shaking. “In fact, I will have nothing to do with him. Ever!”

  For six weeks, Charity heard no more of Mr Cyril Adams. Until one evening, Madame summoned Charity once more and bade her take a seat opposite her impressive wooden desk in her study.

  Coins and bills littered the table top and an overflowing pile of receipts spilled out of a silver box.

  Yet despite her apparent carelessness with her wealth, Madame knew how much she was worth to the last penny.

  “You have one week’s rent paid in advance and then you’ll need to start paying your way, like the other girls,” she said. “That is, unless your sweetheart follows through on his promise to send more my way. I’ve heard nothing from him. Have you?”

  Charity swallowed with difficulty as she shook her head. “I hadn’t realised,” she whispered.

  She slunk back to her room and looked through her wardrobe and her jewellery. When she accepted how little she could recover from her poor selection, she sat on her window seat and stared into the dark street.

  In truth, she didn’t care about her poverty.

  But her heart ached for Hugo and the fact she’d received only one letter from him, two days after he’d left. It was now mid-February and the weather was as cold and gloomy as ever. The days were getting a little longer but each day still felt like a grey prison.

  Madame said she had one week left. What did she mean by that? She couldn’t force her to work for her as one of her girls. But if Charity refused, then she’d have to find another roof over her head.

  Was her interview a veiled threat for the fact that beggars couldn’t be choosers? She knew she could make money from Charity.

  And, as far as Madame was concerned, money was the only currency that had any meaning.

  Charity drew her knees up to her chin and hugged herself closely. She’d held firm to the belief that Hugo would not let her down. Perhaps it had made her complacent.

  Now she realised she’d have to make her own plans.

  Finding alternative accommodation would have to be her first priority if Madame threw her out into the streets in a week. And it looked like she would, if Charity refused to entertain a paying guest.

  But where to start looking? Rosetta had said she’d accompany Charity on her rounds but when the time came, she’d had too late a night to bear her company, so she said.

  So, Charity went alone, ill-equipped to drive a bargain with a lodging house keeper. In fact, she was ill-equipped to do anything, she realised. Her whole life had been managed by others.

  Halfway through the park on her way to an address that had been recommended to her she was horrified to be accosted by a familiar voice.

  Turning, she found Cyril grinning at her as he blocked the entrance gate.

  “How very fortuitous. Do you know how hard I’ve been trying to get an audience with you?”

  “We have nothing to say to each other,” Charity said coldly. She wasn’t afraid of him out here, in the open.

  “A little bird tells me you’re fast running out of money and looking for cheaper lodgings.”

  “And no doubt you have a plan to help me? Except that I don’t entertain plans concocted by thieves and swindlers.”

  Cyril smiled pleasantly. “I’d set you up, you know. Very happily, in fact. You have just the degree of fire I like in a girl. You put up a fight when you’re d
riven but you’re essentially a sweet little thing. Meek and mild and pleasing. You’re a beauty, too, of course. You’d have to be. I’m a man of discerning tastes.”

  “And I’m a woman of discerning tastes which is why I wouldn’t deal with you if you were the last man alive. I’d sell the clothes off my back before I had to spend a single minute in your company.”

  He laughed. “I do like the image that conjures up.” Then, glancing at the ring on her right hand. “That’s worth a pretty penny. Sell that for a month’s board and lodging and when your time is up I’ll come knocking.”

  Charity stared at the ring and shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Not for any price? Surely Hugo would rather you sold the tokens of his regard rather than your body.”

  Charity jerked her head up. “My father gave it to my mother and I’m not selling it.”

  Cyril raised his eyebrows. “Ah yes, you did mention he was a man of means and good breeding. Discerning taste, too, it would appear. Forgive me if I remain sceptical. He’s a figment of your imagination otherwise you’d petition him, wouldn’t you?” He paused. “That is, if you knew who he was.”

  A spurt of anger quickly turned to indignation. Charity knew she shouldn’t engage him. “Of course I do!”

  “And does he know who you are?” Cyril sent her a narrowed eyed look that made Charity’s ears burn.

  She shook her head. “I’m not about to sink my pride and go to him again. A girl from a brothel? Do you think he’d want anything to do with me, now? He certainly didn’t when I was a child.” She shrugged. “And while I’d rather not have to sell my ring, I’d do that before I let you touch me. Why, I’d rather sleep with a snake!”

  “Harsh. Very harsh. I’m surprised Hugo fell for you with a tongue like that.”

  Charity sucked in a quick breath. His mention of Hugo was like a whip of pain and disappointment. “Hugo was nothing but kind and gentle with me. I never had cause to speak to him as I do to you.”