❖
By the time he was in his parlor, Richard had forgotten about Dashwood in contemplating what he would wear to the theater that evening. He had three hours in which to make this momentous decision, the play not commencing until six. However, he had reasons for wanting to look his very best—rather, a reason.
Her name was Catlin O’Neill. She was appearing in The Lover’s Stratagem, a play he had seen on Tuesday evening, Wednesday evening and would see again tonight, Thursday evening, when it would close, having had, in the eyes of some spectators, far too long a run for the indifferent farce it was. Richard, however, could have seen it every night in the week, even though he must needs suffer through the ludicrous work that preceded it—something about a Dane named Hamlet, whose indecision almost proved his undoing, had it not been for his best friend Laertes, brother of Ophelia to whom Hamlet was engaged. It was Laertes who warned Hamlet that his uncle was preparing to poison him. Consequently Hamlet turned the tables on Claudius, spearing him, and marrying Ophelia, who had supposedly drowned, but actually had swum to safety, collapsing on the river bank and being nursed back to health by a friendly fisherman.
It was a great mystery to Richard why the audience preferred this work to The Lover’s Stratagem. He usually slept soundly through it and, indeed, had slept that first night waking up just in time for the face of Catlin. Ah, Catlin, Catlin! It was a name that warmed his heart and heated his blood. He had gone backstage to the Green Room to meet her, only to be informed that she had left the theater directly after the curtain fell. This information was provided by the Ophelia, who, judging by her winks and smiles and flutters with her fan would not have been adverse to his company. However, Richard, who judged her old enough to have been a young aunt or an elder sister, if not his mother, ignored the lady’s blandishments and persisted in his desire to meet the charming Miss O’Neill.
“You’ll not be having much luck with her,” snapped the affronted Ophelia. “She be an Irisher and they’re all crazy! This one brings her nurse to the theater along with the old lout who purports to drive her here in her own coach. To my notion, he’s keeping her though he don’t look like he has two groats to rub together. And I warn you, he’s a tough one.”
Last night, Richard had managed to get to the Green Room in time to see the beautiful Catlin who, unlike Ophelia, was even lovelier without her makeup. Unfortunately, she was met by a grave, elderly Irish woman in a shawl, obviously the nurse, who elbowed her way through the crowds to join the girl. Seizing her arm, she hustled her past a group of young men, which Richard found himself eyeing just as sternly as the nurse. Their remarks, directed at Catlin, were probably intended as compliments but they bordered on the obscene. If he had not been so intent on following Mistress O’Neill, he would have made them pay for those ill-advised witticisms. He came out of the stage door just in time to see an immense man join the woman and her charge. This new arrival had bright red hair, bright blue eyes and a pugnacious expression on a wide, freckled, snub-nosed face. There were rolling muscles on his arms that not even a frayed green coat could conceal. With the help of the nurse, he whisked the young actress into a waiting coach and they were off.
Tonight, Richard vowed, would be a different matter. He had learned his lesson. He would linger outside until it was time for Mistress O’Neill to emerge. Meanwhile he would bribe the pugnacious coachman. A pound should do it. Judging from his threadbare appearance, the huge Irishman would pocket it gladly. And after he had Catlin in his grasp... Richard frowned.
He had not really decided what he would do once he was face to face with the ravishingly beautiful girl and eventually side by side with her in the coach he would hire for the occasion. He could, of course, kiss her passionately but while such an action was delightful to contemplate, he was not precisely sure how it would be received. She might yield immediately. That would be wonderful, but also disappointing. Much to his surprise, he found he did not crave an easy conquest. He wanted a show of reluctance on her part, even fright. Then he would soothe her, assuring her that he meant no harm. Once she trusted him, he would take her to supper and afterwards...
He was angry at the heat he felt on his cheeks and forehead! A man of 22 was blushing at visions which should have been realities four years earlier, save that there had been Christina four years earlier, and he himself had been the perfect knight, Chaucer-style. Later, though there had been rawboned lassies wandering about the kirk, he had still been too much in love with faithless Christina to attempt anything so bold as a kiss. As for the lassies, they giggled when he passed but seemed too awed by his occupation to give him so much as a come-hither look, not that he wanted one. Eventually, he had lost his uncomfortable virginity at an inn with a mob-capped maid-servant, who also giggled but was eager and surprisingly accomplished. That relationship had sufficed until she married. There had been no one since Meg; her name, he recalled, had been Meg MacDonald. It was difficult to affix a face to the name since their meetings had always taken place in the dark.
Richard stopped thinking about Meg. It seemed almost obscene to couple his faceless paramour with the beauteous Catlin, even in his thoughts. He set about deciding what he would wear to the theater. As yet, he had only two choices—back or white. He wished he had hired a valet. Most of them were knowledgeable about clothes, but he had been too eager to see the various sights of London to cool his heels in an employment office. Besides, the thrifty habits he had learned while an underpaid minister in an out-of-the-way kirk still remained with him. He was able-bodied, and consequently he could bathe, shave and dress himself! And, at this juncture, he was better off without a servant. Servants gossiped, and it would not help Catlin’s reputation to have her name bandied about. If she partook of a midnight supper with him, he must needs serve it himself.
He decided on the white suit.
Two hours later, standing in front of a long glass, he surveyed himself with pardonable pride. There was a fall of fine lace at his throat, a diamond glittering amidst its folds. His vest, a cream-colored brocade, was patterned with large, stylized chrysanthemums. A silk braid edged his buckram stiffened vest. His coat, also brocade and pure white, stitched with silver, was similarly stiffened. Though not really comfortable, it was certainly fashionable. His breeches matched his coat. His stockings with the dark embroidered clocks were silk, white, of course, as were his shoes. He did not wear high heels. Though these were the very epitome of fashion, they were uncomfortable, and he did not need the extra height, being two inches over six feet. However, as a concession to the occasion, he wore red heels and buckles studded with seeming diamonds.
He hoped his garb would impress Catlin and her coachman. He flushed. He had been well on his way to forgetting that he was a rich and titled Lord rather than an impecunious Honorable, of which there were many floating about the city without so much as a shilling in their pockets. After tonight, he would see about hiring a valet. More than that, he would also purchase a house. If he were to have as beautiful a mistress as Catlin O’Neill, he could scarcely lodge her in a hired set of rooms. He would have to give her her own coach and four. He would pay her bills at the mantua maker and he would buy her jewelry—rubies, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds and pearls. He loosed a long sigh as he envisioned her lying on a white chaise longue with silken sheets... no, those belonged on the bed he would also buy along with the rest of the furnishings for his house. The bed would be a wide oval, resting on swan’s wings. He had seen something similar imported from France. It would have a canopy hung with brocade curtains. It would also be heaped with pillows and upon these Catlin would lie, looking like a Titian painting he had once seen in the house of a friend. However, judging from what could be seen of her shape in the gown she wore for the play, her waist was thin, suggesting slim hips, a nymph rather than a goddess. And nymphs would not have so plump a form or so full a belly unless... he flushed a second time. If she were to bear him children, he would see that his bastards wanted for nothing and
...
A small crystalline chime interrupted his ruminations.
He started. The clock on his mantel was striking the half-hour. It was time to summon the coach he had hired, the coach which this evening would bring the beautiful, the exquisite Catlin O’Neill to his door. He took his cloak, also white brocade, from a hook in the hall and flung it about him. He picked up his stick, something he certainly didn’t need but which was another fashionable necessity. He was ready for the theater, for Catlin O’Neill, for love!
The alley which stretched behind the Little Theater in the Hay was narrow, ill-lighted and crammed with tottering old buildings which, to Richard’s mind, must have been there before the Great Fire that leveled most of London 90 odd years ago. They looked as if they were within minutes of falling in on each other, but in spite of their undoubted antiquity, numerous people appeared to dwell in them, befouling the street with their reeking slops and with their no less odoriferous selves. They seemed to fall into two categories—pale, haggard young women with inexpertly painted faces or thin, ragged, drunken men. Both sexes patronized one or another of the small gin shops that vied with the old-clothes merchants for the trade of the quarter. They walked or lurched past Richard, seemingly unaware of him, but a sixth sense informed him that they were like so many jackals, circling nearer and nearer, hoping to knock him down, grab his purse and, before he was aware of it, strip him as clean as vultures at carrion. It was not a pretty notion. It was not a pretty street. It looked even more forbidding at this present moment because of the continuous drizzle which seemed to be getting heavier. Mentally, he chafed at the idea of Catlin being subjected to such sights each night. However, now was not the time to dwell on that. He had just clambered out of his waiting coach at a signal from the huge Irishman.
Richard was really elated. Matters had gone very smoothly. At first, the coachman had been as pugnacious as his appearance indicated, but only at first. Confronted with two golden guineas rather than the pound Richard had originally meant to offer, the scoundrel’s eyes had widened, and he had become shades less belligerent. He had listened to Richard’s plea and later to his plan with a flattering interest. Subsequently, the rascal proved most agreeable—to the point of offering a few helpful suggestions of his own.
“There’ll be a regular crowd at the stage door, and since it be rainin’, I’ll guide her to yer coach and she none the wiser. Ye’d best be standin’ out in the street so she won’t set up a holler when she sees you inside.” He jerked his thumb at Richard’s coach.
“What about the old woman?” Richard demanded, wishing he could strike this reprobate down.
“Oh, you give me another half crown ’n I’ll settle up with her.”
The leer in the Hibernian’s eyes was a bit of a disappointment. Richard had the definite impression that the beautiful Catlin must have been “kidnapped” more than once. However, upon due consideration, the fact that her favors were for sale made him feel much less guilty. The seduction of a virgin had given him qualms, but no one could seduce a whore and, as another new acquaintance had opined, “all actresses are whores, my dear fellow.”
She did not look like a whore, but she was an actress and consequently pretense was one of her tools.
It was beginning to rain harder. Richard wished he had not worn his white silk. He wished, too, that he had brought his heavier cloak, but still he was sure that the white could not fail to make a good impression upon Mistress O’Neill; not only was it becoming, it was costly. She would be assured he could pay well for her favors and... another whistle reached him. She had come out of the theater and soon the coachman would guide her to him.
His heart was pounding somewhere near his throat or even at the roof of his mouth, which was absurd for a sophisticated man of the world. He put a stop to his inner qualms, and his eyes widened. She was only a few feet away from him, leaning on the arm of the coachman. He strode in her direction, and in that instant, the coachman turned, his pugnacious countenance one huge snarl. His fist shot out and connected with Richard’s jaw.
Lightning flashed through Richard’s brain. It was followed by pain; he staggered, trying vainly to keep his balance, and then fell. He had a last look at her before lapsing into unconsciousness. His last thought was that she had seemed shocked and pitying.
Richard worked his jaw back and forth. He did not believe it broken, but it did ache abominably. His back also hurt, and equally painful was the assault to his dignity and the damage to his garments as he lay in the filth of that rain-spattered street.
A group of spectators were standing around him, laughing immoderately and making grabs at various portions of his person. The feel of air on his neck told him that his lace cravat with the accompanying diamond had been ripped away. The fact that he could move both sets of toes assured him that stockings and shoes were also gone. He was mournfully pleased that the diamonds in the buckles were paste. He did not know what else was missing. He had just regained consciousness, and there was no telling how long he had been lying there. Fury shook him as he thought of Catlin’s perfidious coachman, who had cheated and betrayed him! He groaned deep in his throat as a vision of Catlin flashed into his mind; she had looked so incredulously beautiful, even more beautiful than the previous night. She had definitely smiled at him, and he thought he heard her cry out when her coachman had so basely floored him.
“Dear, dear, dear... shocking I say.”
Richard twitched and stared upwards in a surprise quickly succeeded by shock. Bending over him was Sir Francis Dashwood. “You,” he croaked.
“My dear young man,” the baronet murmured, a look of pity in his grey eyes. “But come, let me help you up. You cannot continue to lie here in all this muck.”
Though slight of build, Sir Francis proved to be surprisingly strong. He actually lifted Richard to his feet and, keeping a sustaining arm around him, said, “I’ll take you to my coach.”
“No need.” Richard took an experimental step and winced as he felt the wet cobblestones hard beneath his feet. His head was also going around in circles. Though he had sustained a hefty clout, he could walk, albeit painfully. He said, “My coach is nearby.”
“And its driver did not come to your aid?” queried the baronet, raising thin eyebrows.
“No, by heaven, he did not!” Richard muttered, realizing that the man could not have stirred from his perch nor the footman neither, and they had both been well paid! However, the pair of them had not been very large. Perhaps they had been afraid of the huge Irishman. But afterwards... surely they could have helped him up. Why hadn’t they? He suppressed a groan. His head was aching, and it was hard to concentrate.
“Where’s your coach?” Sir Francis demanded. “You should certainly give the man a dressing down.”
“I shall...” Richard began and paused. His coach had been across the lane, but it was no longer there. “It’s gone!” be exclaimed.
“Dear me. Well, you must take advantage of my offer, must you not? Here, let me assist you.” Sir Francis drew him toward a huge coach standing close by.
“I thank you,” Richard mumbled.
❖
Half-dazed as he had been, he never remembered exactly bow he came to Sir Francis’s comfortable town house. He was even more confused when he awakened in a large chamber paneled in dark wood and filled with morning sunshine. He stared about him in a consternation relieved only by a few flashes of memory. Someone had given him a shot of brandy. He vaguely remembered a bell ringing. A man in livery... grey livery? Yes, he thought it was grey. The servant told him be had been instructed to put him in the east chamber.
“I will be able to go home, if your coachman will drive me.”
“No, no, no.” Sir Francis had entered and suggested the binding of his wounds, telling him he would be better off not going home.
Recalling that he had no valet, he had finally agreed. Afterwards he had been grateful for soothing emollients rubbed on his head and back. Someone had undress
ed him and put him to bed. Oddly enough the pain he sustained the previous night had largely disappeared, that is the bodily pain. As his mind grew clearer, anger warred with anguish as he imagined how he must have looked to Catlin, once her coachman had laid him low on those filthy streets.
His unwelcome recollections were interrupted by a soft tap on the door.
“Come in,” Richard called.
A small slight, dark man in grey livery entered. Bowing, he said in French-accented speech, “I trust Monsieur has slept well?”
“Very well,” Richard replied, aware now of a soreness in his jaw. He frowned as the sensation set off a score of mingled questions and regrets. These were accompanied by vivid images of Catlin as she came toward the coach with the old woman behind her. She had stared at him, her beautiful blue eyes wide with interest and subsequently pity. Yes, he was sure he had read both emotions in those cerulean depths. How the devil was he to see her again? He could make inquiries at the theater, but even were he to receive her direction, how might he pass the barrier of coachman and nurse? Both were definitely of the dragon persuasion.
The small man cleared his throat. “If Monsieur is feeling more himself, Sir Francis would welcome his company at breakfast.”
Breakfast! Richard suddenly remembered he had not eaten since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. There had been a midnight supper in his lodgings but that must be sadly spoiled by now, and he was ravenously hungry. “Tell Sir Francis,” he said gratefully, “that I would be delighted.”
“But, of course,” Sir Francis said after hearing the whole of Richard’s account over an excellent repast of chicken, roast beef, rashers of bason, scrambled eggs, several side dishes of excellently cooked vegetables, a meat pasty, a bottle of port and a pot of hot chocolate, “You must bring her to Med-menham Abbey.”
“Medmenham Abbey?” Richard frowned. “A Papist retreat?”
Sir Francis laughed softly. “Papist? Bless you, my dear young sir, do I appear to you as one of Roman stripe?”
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