Now Simone had another sin, blasphemy, to atone for.
*
The old stone building was a short walk away. It was cold inside, but not as cold as the look on the curate’s face when Ruby arrived with her face painted, Sir Chauncey dropped his flask, pregnant Alice wore no ring, and Sandaree wore a gold-flecked sari.
The young man’s voice shook, his hands shook, until Gorham put a leather pouch in them. Claire insisted on a hymn, which she sang alone, before allowing the poor curate to rush back to his wife and children and Sunday roast. No, he could not stay to dine with the house guests. They could hear him thanking god, fervently, on his way out.
After the meal, the women either rested or practiced at the archery range. Claire decided that bows and arrows were suitably decorous for a Sunday, if no one wagered on the contest. No one wagered with her, at any rate.
Again, Sandaree was at a loss. She’d never held a bow and arrow, but neither had Miss Hanson, who refused to learn, saying her fingers were too valuable at the pianoforte to chance a blister. Alice’s Lord Comden was teaching her how to hold the bow, which looked like more like an excuse to keep his arms around her. Susan Baylor, the ballet dancer, knew the rudiments, but refused to let her protector, Sir Chauncey, improve her form or her aim. He would likely kill them both, she said, since he was already swaying on his feet. Danforth took over as instructor, sneering at the tosspot and at Sandaree who could not string her bow, had not made the proper responses in church, and would not eat the ham served for luncheon. She was a failure at the tournament, he said out loud, and everyone understood he was not pleased with her in bed, either.
Poor Sandaree was near tears. Simone started to go to her side, but Mr. Anthony got there first. While showing her the basics of the sport, he told her tales of hunting crocodiles with bow and arrow. “Bullets would ricochet, don’t you know. Never hit a man-eater, but managed to wound the water several times.” He had her smiling again.
Ruby was competent, Maura was clumsy but good-natured about missing the target her first tries, but Daisy was good. Her father had taught her to hunt rabbits and birds on the farm. Daisy’s lover, Captain Entwhistle, made sure Claire’s back was turned before he raised his bet with Miss Hanson’s banker. Miss Connors, the actress who was to perform that night, was a surprise. She’d been part of a traveling troupe and had learned to shoot an arrow while playing Diana, goddess of the hunt. And while poaching game along the road.
Lord Ellsworth had found a new female companion at the inn but Claire recognized her as the lass who’d won the archery contest at last year’s village fair. She refused to permit the girl to enter the event. She was not one of the original contestants, Claire insisted, so she could not take part now. Ellsworth and his cheat wandered off to the gazebo.
Claire did not bother practicing, which discouraged everyone.
Harry did not come watch. He was busy with correspondence again, Metlock had told Simone, which she took to mean he was conducting government business. She still wished he were beside her.
She was out of form, unfamiliar with the bow that was provided, and wearing a constricting corset. She’d learned from her father, though, and managed to practice while she was a governess, teaching the young girls in her care. Her last employer before the baron was a devotee, and his son, the one who assaulted her and cost her that job, was on his university’s archery team. They had a target set up in the garden, which meant she could not let the children play there, and another in the long gallery, for practice at night or in poor weather. Two ancestors’ portraits had arrow holes through their foreheads.
Simone had not held a bow since, and took her time learning the one she was given, its pull, its grip, the “thwang” of its taut string. She had not forgotten any of her skill and her aim was still as true. Now all she needed was to remove the tight corset and get Harry to wager some of her money for her. She did not wish to lower her odds by showing just how good she was, so she went to find him after changing into a more comfortable gown without ribbons or lace to catch on the bowstring.
Harry was with Daniel in Lady Gorham’s sewing room, according to the disapproving butler. Simone could see why. Daniel was unshaven and his boots were muddy. He looked as if he’d been carousing all night. So did Harry, although his neckcloth was tied better than the spotted kerchief Daniel wore.
“Have you news of Madame Lecroix?” Simone asked when both men rose to their feet at her entrance.
A glance passed between the two blue-eyed Royce relatives. Harry nodded. It was all right to discuss the matter in front of Simone.
She learned that the government did not need the Frenchwoman’s confession. They found enough evidence at her house to see her hang, along with two others she named. The traitor, Gollup, was certainly guilty of shipping guns to France, his confiscated records showed that, but both of them refused to say who had paid for the weapons, who had financed the current plot, or who was to carry out the mayhem they’d planned. Whitehall and the intelligence service had not given up, although they were fairly certain the scheme was foiled.
“That’s a relief, then.”
Both men said, “amen” and raised their glasses.
Simone wandered around the room while Harry made more notes to give Daniel for posting. Then he sent his cousin off to get some sleep and finally turned to Simone, although he’d been aware of her every step.
“We need to make notes for my performance,” she said, as an excuse for interrupting his important work.
“There’s time enough, and some of my information keeps changing.”
“Hmm.” Simone was staring at the portrait of Harriet, Lady Gorham. The severe woman still looked familiar. “Has she aged much?”
“I only saw her once or twice. I have only been in polite society since Lord Royce came back to town, after all. Even then, the lady was too proud to entertain the earl’s son from the wrong side of the blanket.” He stood next to Simone, looking at the picture. “I believe her hair has gone gray and she has put on considerable weight since this was painted. I think, yes, I am certain, that one of her teeth has fallen out. She always keeps her mouth closed.
The missing tooth, that was how Simone remembered where she’d seen the woman. And heard her.
*
Mr. Black raced ahead on their way to the archery range. Sir Chauncey almost shot an arrow into him.
“Who let that fool hold a bow anyway?” Harry muttered. He called the dog to his side and fastened the new collar and lead on him, to keep him close and safe. Then he asked Simone how he should make his own bets. “Do you think you can take first, or should I put my money on you for second place?”
Simone watched Claire take a practice shot. She hit the target, to much applause, but missed the bull’s eye by an inch, despite having a bow of better quality than the ones provided to the others.
“First,” Simone said. “I intend to win.”
Nine targets were set up, with each woman shooting five arrows. For once there was no room for cheating, since the distances to the target were exactly equal and everyone could see precisely where each arrow landed. The top six archers were to move to a second round, at a longer distance.
Sandaree, Maura, and Alice were eliminated at the first go-round. The targets were moved. Ruby, Miss Connors, and the ballet dancer fell short. That left Claire, Simone, and Daisy.
This time only one target was set up still farther away. Each woman was given three arrows, feathered differently to identify the archer. They were to shoot one at a time, in turn.
Daisy went first, and missed the center ring of the target. Simone’s arrow hit the mark, but not dead center. Claire’s did. Ellsworth came back in time to place wagers with the banker. Money changed hands, but Claire was too absorbed in the contest to care. Sir Chauncey fell asleep behind the wagon that held a cask of ale and a pitcher of lemonade, and Danforth and Sir Chauncey’s dancer disappeared. The dog barked until Harry tossed him a peppermint. Sandar
ee stood by the nabob, cheering for Simone.
Gorham did not appear worried. Harry did.
Daisy caught the edge of the center with her second arrow. Captain Entwhistle consoled her. “It’s the distance, pet. You could best them all at closer range. Claire must have known that.”
Of course she did. She’d seen Daisy hold up a magnifying glass in the chapel when no one was watching.
Simone’s second arrow was perfect, edging Claire’s a fraction off the center.
Claire was so angry, she told Gorham to step away; his incessant advice made her tense. She missed the center by a finger’s width and blamed him. “I told you to stop hovering at my shoulder, dash it.”
Daisy’s last try was close, but too far away from center to be in contention.
Harry kissed Simone’s cheek and handed her her third arrow. “Think of the target as that baron’s heart. Or that son of a swine who would have raped you.”
Simone’s last arrow was so close to her second one that a hair could not have passed between them. So she had three in the bull’s eye ring, with two in the exact center of that. Claire had only one at dead center so far.
Gorham stepped forward to hand Claire the last arrow and give her a kiss for luck the way Harry had done, but she pushed him away. “And make sure that stupid dog doesn’t bark. And stop that fool Phipps from snoring and your sacrilegious friends from shouting out odds. How can I concentrate?”
Someone shook Sir Chauncey awake, a servant led the dog away, and the men stopped changing their bets. Gorham held his breath. So did Simone.
Claire’s arrow hit Simone’s directly at the center, and fell off!
“Another round!” Claire shouted. “I demand another round.”
“But you made the rules, Miss Hope,” Harry told her. “Three rounds, three arrows for the final set, the best three arrows in the target. In the target,” he repeated, “not on the ground.” He held his hand out to collect Simone’s ten-guinea winner’s purse.
Luckily Claire had no arrows left in her quiver.
*
Lord Gorham introduced the entertainment for the night. In keeping with the Sabbath, Claire had scheduled the more serious, cultural performances. Miss Mary Connors of Drury Lane Theater was portraying Shakespearean women; Miss Sandaree—“Deuced if I can pronounce the rest of her name”—would demonstrate some of her country’s arts; Miss Alice Morrow was going to read from the bible.
Ellsworth left, along with Lords Caldwell and Bowman. Sir James Danforth looked like he wished he could, but since his own mistress, the female he had brought, was going to perform and he had money on the contest, he stayed and scowled. He’d seen enough of melodrama, religion, and heathenish manners.
Mary was a fine actress. She became an affecting Desdemona, a determined Lady Macbeth, a tragic Ophelia.
“Damn if she had to pick the saddest women in all of literature,” Sir Chauncey complained, then hiccoughed. “I thought this was supposed to be amusing. Those characters all die at the end, don’t they?”
Claire tried to hush him. “This is high-toned entertainment, you cork-brained drunk.” A servant handed Sir Chauncey a glass of wine, and the bottle. That kept him quiet until Juliet’s last speech, at which he started to weep into a large handkerchief.
Simone was impressed, not just because Mary’s performance had made a grown man cry. The man was Sir Chauncey, after all, but Mary’s acting was far better than Simone’s own. All Simone had to do was lean against Harry’s shoulder and smile up at him adoringly. That wasn’t acting at all, she feared.
After the applause for Miss Connors ended, Lord Comden helped increasing Alice out of her chair. She padded toward the front of the room, a bible in her hand. Sir Chauncey groaned.
Alice told him to dub his mummers, which offended Claire.
“Please, we are ladies and gentlemen. At least some of us.”
Alice opened the bible and apologized for being out of season. Then she read the story of another babe, another birth to another surprised mother. Sir Chauncey wept loudly, and Simone felt tears well in her own eyes. Harry handed her his handkerchief.
The story did not take long. Alice did not read all of Luke before shutting the bible and curtsying to polite applause. She wasn’t finished, though. She pulled a deck of cards from her pocket and started to shuffle them in an arc in the air.
Claire leaped to her feet. “Miss Morrow, that is not suitable fare for a Sunday.”
Alice kept the cards flying through the air above her head. “Why not? We are all sinners here anyway, trying to pretend we’re better than we are. And who are you to talk, with a married man’s hand up your skirt and your dugs hanging out like a cow’s udders? I may have been raised in a gaming hell, but you were the one who tried to cheat at half the events. If you think that makes you any kind of lady, you are far off the mark. Asides, my mum always said the good lord had to have a sense of humor. Else why would he create a man? And, Miss Hoity-toity Hope, I am still reading the bible, only in my own way.”
She shuffled the deck again, sifting the pasteboards into a face-down fan. Then, without looking at the cards, she pulled out three kings. “The magi.”
Alice cut the deck, and showed the amazed audience that she had exactly twelve cards in her top hand. “The apostles.”
She flipped the deck again and held up the bottom card, a three. “The Trinity.”
When she shuffled the cards the next time, the jack of spades was sticking out. “The knave, Judas.”
In quick succession, she pulled out a seven, for the day of rest after the creation, and a five, for the books of the Old Testament.
Everyone sat forward on their seats.
“Now that’s more like it!” Sir Chauncey called.
Alice walked toward him and told him to select a card, without looking at it. “The commandments.”
He looked. “By George, it is a ten. I’ll be damned. Well, I’ll be damned anyway, ’cause I’ve broken more than half of them.”
They all applauded, astounded at what they’d seen.
Claire wanted a rematch of the piquet game. Anyone who could handle cards like that, she insisted, must have cheated.
Alice just laughed. She fanned the cards and pretended to study them. Then she pulled one out. “Ah yes, the queen of hearts. The queen of the courtesans.” She tucked it down her cleavage and curtsied. Comden rushed forward to help her back to her feet.
During the pause everyone wondered how Alice did that, how they could learn, and how many card games they could win if they had her skill. Then Sandaree came forward, wearing her new woolen cape. Two footmen followed her, carrying a folding screen and a large basket to the front of the room.
Sandaree stepped behind the screen while the audience was still marveling at the card tricks, and Lord Comden made much of Alice. Then they all fell silent when Sandaree came out from behind the screen.
Claire gasped. “No, no, no. That is absolutely pagan. Not edifying at all. Not fitting for a Sunday.”
“Oh, put a sock in it,” Gorham told her, eyes glued to the Indian slave girl.
Sandaree wore her gauze pantaloons, a short vest, and nothing under either but a jewel in her navel. She had bells on her ankles and wrists, no shoes, and a veil hiding the lower part of her face. A gold cord held the veil in place, ending in a tassel that trailed down her nearly bare back. She held a tambourine-like instrument, and began to shake it and beat on it softly while her feet started to move. Her belly moved in a different direction. Her hips moved in five different directions at once.
“Is that possible? Sir Chauncey asked no one in particular.
“Sshh” came from all sides.
Sandaree lifted a long silk scarf out of the basket and danced with it like a lover, draping it around herself, then sending it swirling in the air to settle over her again, while she kept gyrating and twirling until the tassel flew in circles. She took the veil off her face and let it float down so she could pick it up
from the floor, showing that her posterior was as fluid as her front. She replaced the tambourine with tiny finger cymbals so the tempo was sharper, her feet and her muscles moving faster. With a gazelle-like leap she vaulted over the basket, pulling out a carved wooden flute. She began to play toward the basket as if she were an Indian snake charmer, only she was the snake, coiling, writhing, swaying. The men were charmed, her captives. The women cooled themselves with their fans.
Again Sandaree danced with her midriff, the jewel flashing, then slower and lower until she concluded with a salaam in front of Lord Danforth’s feet.
Ruby asked no one in particular: “Do you realize how much money a girl can make like that?”
Miss Hanson wanted to know if Sandaree could teach her to dance that way, if she taught Sandaree to waltz.
The ballet dancer wrinkled her nose and walked out. None of the men did.
“Lud,” Mr. Anthony said, “voting for best talent is an impossible task.”
Claire did not see why. “This performance was not proper or ladylike. Neither was that card nonsense.”
“But a courtesan is supposed to amuse, and damn if I didn’t enjoy both of them.” Gorham quickly added, “And your singing, of course, my dear.”
“What did you think, Harry?” Simone asked.
“I think that was an incredibly erotic dance, and Danforth does not appreciate what he has.”
“Look at him, barely telling poor Sandaree how good she was. He almost looks angry that she’s half naked in front of the other men.”
“No, he is embarrassed that he’s aroused by the dance. A British lord does not show emotion, you know.”
A lot of British lords were showing plenty, in their tight trousers and their rush to bring Sandaree a glass of wine, a lemonade, a diamond bracelet if she’d come to their rooms later.
But Mr. Anthony was correct: judging arias and oranges was not going to be easy. Sleight of hand was no ladylike accomplishment, and heaven knew Sandaree’s dance was no debutante’s cotillion. They both had talent and they both had kept the audience entranced. What Simone proposed was just as unlikely to be seen at Almack’s, but she’d keep to her plan, if she could get Harry to help.
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Page 24