Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine

by T. Davis Bunn

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll be escorting you out to where it’s safe again.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll simply wait until you’ve passed and return to my duties.”

  “Duty, is it?” Derrick took another step closer. “Why ever do you insist upon coming down here? It can’t be the Lord’s calling.”

  Abigail decided she had heard enough. “Never you mind. It’s not your approval that I’m after here tonight. It’s being a light in the darkness.”

  To her surprise, Derrick’s massive shoulders slumped in defeat. “If I let you come with us, will you promise to stay close and not wander?”

  Abigail wished she did not feel such relief at his reluctant invitation. But in truth the dark cobblestone lane with its rancid puddles and strange screeching laughter frightened her utterly. Nora was no longer there to support her. She had never felt quite so forlorn as now. Had Derrick and his merry band not been observing, she most certainly would have followed Nora back to home and safety. As it were, being allowed to accompany those whom she could trust meant a very great deal indeed. “Yes, all right. Agreed.”

  “Jack, stick close to the lady, will you?”

  “A finer task I’ve never been offered.” He was the oldest of the bunch and bore the seamy face of a very hard life. He respectfully doffed his tattered hat and gave an awkward bow. “At least not in the Lord’s service.”

  “Hello, dear Jack.” Abigail knew the man from earlier forays and liked him well enough. “Will you entertain me with stories of your ill-spent youth as we walk?”

  “We’re not here for idle chatter,” Derrick admonished. “Or have you already forgotten your duty, as you call it?” Before Abigail could respond, he stomped away.

  But once they were well underway and handing out Gospel leaflets to all who passed, Derrick sidled up alongside Abigail. “Straight up, now. Why is it that you venture down Soho way?”

  She countered with a question of her own. “Does the Soho Square Church now claim all this territory as its own?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

  “Are you so successful at turning the dark tide that you do not need help?”

  “That’s not what I’m about and well you know it.” He gestured at her form. “Just look at you. Fancy silk dress, hair all nice as you please, smelling of some scent what cost more than any of these folks are like to see in a month of hard labor.”

  “The dress is linen and old,” Abigail defended. “And the only thing I smell of is soap.”

  But Derrick was not to be put off so easily. “You’re good at reaching out to folks, I’ll give you that. But you don’t belong in these parts. Don’t look at me that way. You know it as well as I do.” He tucked a folded page into the pocket of a passing gentleman, one doing his best to ignore them entirely. The man started to protest, then took one good look at Derrick’s form and hurried away. Derrick went on, “All I’m asking is why you come at all.”

  “You sound as bad as Tyler Brock.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Is that a proper sort of answer to a proper sort of question?”

  Abigail sighed. The truth was simple. Life at home bored her to distraction. She felt coddled and imprisoned. It mattered little that her cell was lined with striped wallpaper and that sunlight spilled over the high elms of Grosvenor Square. Nor that her parents loved her and wished for her the best that life could bring. They sought to protect her. She had heard that word so often she could scream. Protect. It sounded so nice in their mouths. They only wished to protect her from what she could not understand. How on earth was she to learn about life so long as she was trapped within these bonds of silk and velvet?

  “Miss Abigail?”

  Derrick said he wanted the truth. The truth was she yearned for adventure and she yearned to do good. To be a missionary in the darkest depths of Africa would satisfy both longings. She yearned to set out upon the high seas. She yearned, oh, how she yearned!

  “Well, if that question is so difficult, answer me this. Why do you dress for these occasions as you would for the admiral’s table?”

  She was so caught up in her internal longings that she spoke without conscious thought. “It is the only way my parents would allow me to escape for an evening.”

  “And where do they think you are this night?”

  “At a Drury Lane concert with Nora and her family.”

  Derrick flashed her a hard look but kept his tone level. “So you lie to your kith and kin and still claim to do the Lord’s work?”

  “I didn’t lie. Well, not precisely. I . . . I allowed them to think thusly.”

  “A falsehood by any other name is still an abomination, lass.” It was Derrick’s turn to sigh. “What would happen if I went and addressed my concerns to your father directly?”

  Abigail froze. “You wouldn’t!”

  Derrick scuffed the toe of his boot across the rough stones. “Perhaps I should. But it’s not my nature to meddle in others’ homes and affairs.”

  She felt weak with relief. Her father would be mortified. And her mother would be so disappointed. There would be further restrictions, holding her fast in their protective embrace until she utterly choked with despair. “Please don’t,” she said weakly.

  “I should,” Derrick repeated. “But I’ll hold hard so long as you do one thing for me.”

  “Which is?”

  “Never walk Soho’s streets alone again. Always come first to the church. Always venture out with a group of us who’ve earned the hard knocks and know what’s what.”

  “Very well.”

  “Just you wait, lass, I’m not done. You’re claiming to want to help in the manner of Wilberforce’s teachings. Well, then. I want you to become involved in a group we’re setting up to minister to orphans. There’s crowds of them roaming east of Oxford Street. We’re looking for volunteers. Which you just did.”

  “Of course I’ll help.” A thought flashed so brilliantly it shone from her face. “But I’ll need to change into a less formal gown at the church.”

  To her surprise, Derrick laughed aloud. “Are you that eager to leave behind what most of this lot would give their right arms to possess?”

  “I am. So terribly much.”

  “Very well. But I’ll be writing a letter to your father, all very formal, just letting him know where his daughter is occupied.”

  He won’t like it, Abigail wanted to say. But she refrained. Because she could see Derrick was ready for argument, and she did not wish to quarrel. In truth, with Nora gone she needed new friends. She felt a stab of renewed sorrow over how her dearest ally had left her. “Thank you, Reverend Aimes.”

  He smiled at her. “Ah, lass. When you look at a man like that, you could melt stone.”

  “What—what do you mean?”

  Without answering he turned to his grinning companions. “All right, brethren. It’s back to the harvest we go.”

  Chapter 2

  The dowager countess Lillian Houghton sat in the alcove serving as her dressing room and gave her face a critical examination. It never ceased to astonish her how all that she had endured remained hidden from view. At age thirty-three she was the mother of a fifteen-year-old boy, now happily settled in as a boarder at Eton. She was the widow of Grantlyn Houghton, fifth lord of Wantage and former equerry to His Royal Highness, now King George IV. She was heir not to the count’s fortune, as most assumed, but rather to his enormous debts. Further, she was chased by the most dire scandal she could have imagined and was being blackmailed by a vile creature. She risked losing everything, including her reputation. She lived night and day with terrors so vast she could scarcely name them.

  Yet even the most careful study of the face in the mirror revealed no hint of her woes. She remained untouched by time’s hand or the ravages of ill fortune.

  The upstairs maid knocked upon her open door. “Excuse me, mum, but you wanted to know the moment the
gentleman arrived. I just spied his carriage pulling up in front.”

  “Thank you, Tilly. Please show him into the front parlor.”

  “Shall I be serving him anything? Tea, perhaps?”

  “Most certainly not.”

  “Excuse me, mum, but what if he asks?”

  “You will pretend to have heard nothing, you will take his coat, you will shut the door, and you will not reenter the room except upon my command. He is to receive nothing in this house, do you hear me? Nothing.” Her tone said even more than her words. The maid curtsied and fled.

  Lillian took a step back from the mirror and critically reviewed her entire form. She wore a dress of pale blue that perfectly matched her eyes. Some said her eyes were her finest feature, being large and round and clear as a young maiden’s. They were framed by an unlined face, separated by a faultless nose, and bordered by a shining mass of dark curls. Her figure was as fine as her features, her hands as dainty as her feet, her lips a perfect cupid’s bow. At her last visit to Court, one of the prince’s consorts had bowed low over her hand and described her as the finest example of English beauty alive today.

  She left the safety of her boudoir and descended the regal central staircase. Her London home was in one of the half-hidden cul-de-sacs off Pall Mall, as agreeable an address as any. Her husband’s fortune had brought them many a fine bauble, until the appalling news had arrived that his investments in Portugal had been lost. All lost. Every penny he had and more. Considerably older than his young wife, Grantlyn’s heart had not withstood the shock of learning that he was soon to be destitute. For Lillian, one sorrow had been followed by another. Then, just nine days earlier, had arrived the worst blow of all.

  The banker now waiting for her in the front parlor was dressed in black. He always wore black save for some absurd trifle. Today his somber form descended to gray silk stockings and matching shoes buttoned up the side. They were polished to a mirror sheen, such that she could see herself approaching. “Good evening, Mr. Bartholomew. I trust you are well?”

  “Seeing you again, my lady, would be sufficient to revive me from any ill health.” He offered a modest bow. “And yourself ?”

  “Other than being plagued by matters which are not of my own making, quite well, thank you.” Pointedly she did not offer Simon Bartholomew a seat as she lowered herself into the chamber’s most ornate armchair. She leaned back slightly, a lady of power settling into her throne. “You wished to speak with me about some matter?”

  “Indeed so.” He flipped back the tails of his coat and settled himself into the chair opposite. “I find myself in need of your assistance.”

  “Forgive me.” She approved the frosty note in her voice. There was nothing to be gained by having this man know the fear he generated. In the sixteen years she had been wed to the count, she had learned many a lesson about letting others know their proper place. “I thought your occupation of my late husband’s country estate was all the assistance I should ever be expected to offer.”

  “Were that only so, my lady.” Simon Bartholomew was head of Bartholomew’s Merchant Bank, which managed the finances of many at Court. At first glance, he did not cut an altogether repellent figure. Smallish in stature and narrow faced, his age was impossible to determine, for he looked both old and timeless. His fingers were long with oddly flattened cuticles. His nose ended in a rather blunt fashion, as though he had poked his attention in one too many hidden crevices and someone had cut off the tip. His dark hair was laced with silver, somewhat like that of a wild fox entering its winter’s cave. His voice was mild like the breath of a killing freeze.

  “I fear you have come for no good reason, sir. No matter—”

  “Permit me to continue, my lady?”

  She bridled at being interrupted. But she had little choice save to respond “Pray make it swift, then. I am due elsewhere within the hour.”

  “I am indeed grateful for the smallest portion of my lady’s valuable time.” He settled further into his seat. “As you are no doubt aware, relations between our king and his opposition in Parliament have reached a crisis point.”

  “I fear I have no interest in politics, sir.”

  “Were it only possible for me to share your distance, my lady. The opposition is led by one William Wilberforce—you have heard of him?”

  “The name, perhaps. But I know him not.”

  “Be glad of that, my lady. A most contemptible gentleman. He leads the drive to abolish the slave trade.”

  Despite herself, Lillian found herself becoming fascinated. She had made it her business to learn as much as she could about this man who had become her greatest foe. Bartholomew’s Merchant Bank was heavily invested in the slave trade. Although slavery had been banished from England itself for twenty years, British vessels still trafficked in human misery. Some of the empire’s richest men, and the king’s staunchest supporters, lived off of vast estates in the Caribbean colonies and South America. These men stood to lose massive fortunes if slavery was completely abolished. Bartholomew’s could be wiped out entirely—not an unhappy circumstance since that would mean her own problems would evaporate.

  But Lillian held to the languid tone of one who could scarcely be bothered to hear the man out. “How anyone could be so despicable as to profit from such a wretched commerce is utterly beyond me.”

  Simon Bartholomew flushed mightily as he sought to control his anger. “Those in power see things differently, my lady. And tonight it is their opinion which holds sway.”

  “I fail to see how this should interest me.”

  “Indulge me a moment longer. One of the opposition’s allies and principal financiers is an American by the name of Samuel Aldridge. This is most certainly a name with which you are familiar.”

  “How would you be knowing this?”

  “I have made it my business to know.”

  “And why, might I ask?” Lillian felt a growing sense of alarm that she took pains to conceal.

  “For just such a moment as this.” He leaned forward. “I wish for you to use your connection with Lavinia Aldridge and her daughter—forgive me, I seem to have forgotten the daughter’s name.”

  “Abigail,” she said before she could stop herself.

  “Thank you. Mother and daughter are bound to know what the former ambassador is about. And through him, we seek to know the schemings of William Wilberforce and his cadre of troublemakers.”

  “But why not focus your efforts directly at Wilberforce himself ?”

  “The Aldridge family and I share a bit of history. I seek to redress a past error, as it were.”

  Something in the banker’s demeanor left Lillian shifting uncomfortably in her seat, as though a certain foulness had invaded her parlor. “Yet I still fail to understand precisely what it is you wish for me to find.”

  “A chink in the family’s honor. A weakness through which I might insert the dagger of public disgrace.” A fevered flame rose upon his features and just as swiftly vanished. He smiled at her. “There. You see how we have come to trust each other with our darkest secrets?”

  She repressed a shudder. “And if I refuse?”

  “Oh, Countess.” The eyes gleamed dark as midwinter night. “I do so very much hope you would not entertain such perilous thoughts. Think of your son’s good name.”

  Lillian resisted the urge to press at the spot in her chest where her heart seemed ready to burst from its confines. Fear filled her being, and she clasped trembling fingers together in her lap. “And if I do as you wish?”

  “You would no doubt gain the undying gratitude of my humble self.”

  “I want more than that,” she stated flatly. “I want you off my country estate and out of my life.”

  Eleven months earlier, Simon Bartholomew, a man she had only known superficially, had inserted himself into her life. While still in mourning over her husband’s untimely passage, this despicable character, who formerly had done little more than shuffle letters of credit before
her husband’s pen, had announced himself in the boldest of manners. He had acquired a list of all her husband’s outstanding debts. He had walked her through precisely what her husband owed. He had demanded that she lease to him her beloved country estate or the bank would foreclose.

  Then, only nine days ago, Bartholomew disclosed that he had obtained knowledge of her deepest secret. A secret that, if revealed to the world, would destroy what remained of her cherished life.

  “I want this matter buried and ended,” Lillian repeated.

  She might as well not have spoken. The banker rose to his rather short height. Yet from where she sat he loomed as huge and menacing as anything she could imagine. “Your assistance would be most certainly appreciated by all concerned. No, do not rise, my lady,” he continued, though she had made no movement to do so. “I can see myself out.”

  Lillian sat in her lovely chamber for almost an hour after, staring at her hands and imagining them caught in chains fashioned by secrets and rumors and scandals yet unmasked. Every moment of this latest confrontation played out before her unseeing eyes. Simon Bartholomew had relished her anger. He had lashed her with his silken words, pleasuring in her helplessness. She was trapped, she was humiliated, she was left with no choice.

  Oh, the shame of it all!

  It was only after the third turning down another unmarked alley that Abigail realized Derrick Aimes had a specific goal in mind. The young minister had a fighter’s bearing, with his great shoulders and a waist to nearly match her own. When he waved a pamphlet before someone’s face, the person took it, no questions asked. His cry was loud enough to fill the street from one end to the other, lifting his call to Jesus above the hawkers and the singers and the good-time lads spilling boisterously from the taverns. Derrick led his well-intentioned little group with purpose.

  Their course paralleled Shaftesbury Avenue, which formed the border between Soho and the more fashionable West End. Soho’s streets were far from straight. Abigail was being led down lanes and alleys she had never seen before. Recent rains had left their glistening imprint upon the buildings and the cobblestones. Torches flickered at the entranceways to music halls and taverns. Along darker lanes the lanterns carried by two of their members offered their only light. She found this all an exciting glimpse into a very different world.