Rules for Being a Mistress

by Tamara Lejeune

  “Oh, Sir Benedict!”

  Benedict looked at him in astonishment. “Pickering! You are not crying?”

  Taking out his handkerchief, the manservant blew his nose. “It is all my fault,” was his anguished cry. “I am to blame!”

  “You, Pickering? How so?”

  “I have neglected your loins quite shamefully,” Pickering explained, his long nose quivering with emotion. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “My dear fellow! Neglect them all you like. In fact, I prefer it.”

  “No! They have been neglected too long, Sir Benedict,” said Pickering firmly. “They demand immediate attention.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “You need relief, Sir Benedict!” Pickering insisted. “When a gentleman is reduced to applying to streetwalkers for the fulfillment of his carnal needs—!”

  “She was not a streetwalker!” Benedict objected. For some reason it disturbed him to hear that conniving little minx maligned in any way. “She was a thief, Pickering, and a good one. She had beauty and charm, and she knew how to use them to her advantage. I thought I was past the weaknesses of my youth. She made me feel young and stupid again. You’ve no idea how much I hate feeling young,” he added bitterly. “That bitch!”

  “She ought to be hanged, if you ask me,” Pickering sniffed.

  Benedict scowled. “No one is asking you. Now, be good enough to ready me a hot bath. After such an adventure, one feels ever so slightly redolent.”

  As far as Benedict was concerned, the subject was closed.

  Pickering obediently went to draw his master’s bath. When he returned to the bedroom, Benedict was sitting on the edge of the bed with his bare feet on the floor. Pickering considered this progress. Now, if he could just get his master to see reason.

  “Mortification of the flesh is all very well, Sir Benedict,” he said severely, “but the only real way to be free of temptation is to give in to it.”

  Benedict groaned. “Yes, that is what the Church of England teaches us.”

  Pickering was unperturbed; his master had never shown anything but the most cursory interest in what the Church of England taught. “This will come as a shock to you, Sir Benedict—it certainly shocked me! But there is a class of woman that we can employ to help us to purge ourselves of these…inconvenient humors. I have learned that a Mrs. Price in the Registry Office here in Bath has a number of Prime Articles in her keeping.”

  By all outward appearances, the Registry Office in Gay Street was a respectable employment agency. Pickering had learned of Mrs. Price’s less than respectable activities only a few hours before, from the constable of the Watch, who received a small stipend from the aforementioned for sending customers her way. “Needless to say, her clients are all gentlemen of the highest character. She doesn’t waste her time on the riffraff. And the girls are very high quality. As good as anything one can get in London, I am persuaded. I beg of you, sir, for the sake of your health, let me make an appointment for you.”

  Benedict answered him with a look of strong disapproval. “Pickering, you astonish me. Do you mean prostitutes?”

  Pickering’s face fell. “You’ve heard about them already?”

  “Pickering! You are addressing a member of British Parliament!”

  “Of course, Sir Benedict,” Pickering said contritely. “Didn’t it help at all?”

  Benedict was indignant. “For the love of God! After slavery, prostitution may be the greatest social evil of our time. In fact, it is a form of slavery, a particularly disgusting form of slavery, in which a woman, unable to support herself by any other means, is forced to sell her body to strangers. A gentleman, Pickering, does not use prostitutes. A gentleman,” he said piously, “keeps a mistress. You see the difference. How could you possibly think that I would be interested in such a thing? I am deeply offended!”

  “Mrs. Price’s girls are not all prostitutes, if that is what troubles you,” Pickering assured him. “I have had a long conversation with the footman about it. Some of them are quite respectable married women from the counties. They just do it to make a little money from time to time. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “Oh, my God,” Benedict said violently.

  Pickering tried a new tact. “If you will not do it for yourself, think of your poor wife. I believe it was Aristotle who said that a man should approach his wife discreetly, lest the pleasure of being fondled too passionately should transport the poor creature beyond the bounds of reason. You do not want to take her ladyship by storm, after all. Better to get it out of your system now.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Benedict demanded.

  Pickering went on doggedly. “If it is your health that concerns you, Mrs. Price’s girls will not infect you with a social disease. They won’t rob you or blackmail you. That’s the Price guarantee: honest girls at an honest price. She can get you any kind of female you would like.”

  This elicited something between a snarl of pain and an explosion of derisive mirth from the baronet. “Is that so, Pickering? Can she get me…I don’t know…a tall, slender Irish girl with tangled red hair, green eyes, perfect skin, good teeth, small, high breasts, and a laughing mouth?”

  “I don’t see why not, sir.”

  “While you’re at it, have her sing to me in Italian! Can your Mrs. Price find me a girl like that?” Laboriously, he climbed to his feet. The room tilted and swayed around him. “No, don’t help me,” he said sharply as his valet started toward him.

  “I can prepare you a cure, if you like,” Pickering offered as his master limped past him into his dressing room. “My father’s recipe.”

  “No,” Benedict said firmly. “I drank my bottle, and now I must suffer for it.” He looked around him in distaste. The dressing room was a six-sided chamber with a mirrored door set into every wall. He had come through the first door. Four of the other doors concealed closets while behind the fifth a steaming Roman-style bathing pool awaited him. Lord Skeldings, apparently, had spared no expense on his Bath home. The bathing chamber was equipped with up-to-date plumbing, with hot water piped in.

  “Cover these mirrors,” Benedict uttered in distaste. The last thing he wanted was six full-length views of his mortal body. He walked through to the bathroom.

  After his bath, he was able to sit next to the fire for a few hours. His entire body ached. For dinner he managed to eat a plate of the injustly famous Bath olivers. The oliver was a dry digestive biscuit developed by Bath’s own celebrated Dr. Oliver. Perhaps they tasted better when washed down with the foul-tasting water on offer in the Pump Room.

  Pickering brought him the Bath papers, neatly folded into small sections, which made it easier for Benedict to manage the flimsy newsprint with his one hand. Ordinarily, he never glanced into the society columns, but, then, ordinarily, he was not on the lookout for a wife. The sooner he got married, the better. Then he could go back to his happy way of life, which did not include reading the society columns.

  He found himself wondering what Miss Cosy might be doing at that moment. Certainly not reading the society columns! Probably, she was enjoying her portion of his thousand pounds. He hoped that her accomplices, whom he imagined to be big, burly men, had not cheated her of her fair share. She had earned it. He did not expect ever to see her again.

  “She’s probably halfway to London by now.” He sighed.

  “Sir?” Engaged in spreading a shawl over his gentleman’s knees, Pickering looked up.

  “I was thinking about the unfortunate young woman who robbed me,” Benedict explained. “She must have been forced by extreme poverty into a life of crime. I have often thought it is a great pity that, outside of marriage, the women of our society have few options in life, other than thievery or, God forbid, prostitution. I would rather she steal from me a little than sell her body to countless men. In her place, I might have done the same.”

  “Oh, sir!” said Pickering, appalled. “Not one of your crusades?”


  Benedict smiled ruefully. “I have but one crusade in Bath, and that is to find a wife.”

  “I have informed myself on the Bath social calendar,” Pickering said eagerly. His interest in who would become Lady Wayborn was, if anything, keener than his master’s. After all, her ladyship would set the tone at Wayborn Hall in the years to come. Pickering hoped she would be kind and beautiful; Sir Benedict would need someone to soften him around the edges. “There is a lecture on the growing threat of Atheism in the Upper Rooms tonight.”

  “God, no,” said Benedict, with unintentional irony. “I couldn’t possibly go out tonight. Besides, such a subject would be highly unlikely to attract marriageable young ladies,” Benedict pointed out. “I believe the most prudent course of action would be to retire early, get a good night’s rest, and begin afresh tomorrow.”

  With his little silver pencil he began circling the names of promising females in the newspaper column on the table before him. Any name prefaced by a “Miss” received an equal share of his attention.

  Chapter 4

  As usual, Lady Dalrymple had positioned herself with a commanding view of the entrance to the Pump Room. “Sir Benedict Wayborn!” she exclaimed, putting up her quizzing glass to inspect the new arrival. “He’ll do for you, Millicent. About three thousand a year.”

  “But, Mama!” her daughter cried in alarm. Recently, Miss Carteret’s spots had cleared up, and a special preparation had carried off the fuzz on her upper lip. She certainly did not intend to throw herself away on a mere baronet, and a one-armed, middle-aged baronet at that.

  “I know, my love,” said the viscountess with a sigh. “Not to mention: he is one of these dreadful reformers. Why, if he had his way, your poor brother would actually have to stand in an election for his seat in Commons. One shudders to think what would become of England if the common man had his way. But I hope I am not so stupid as to turn my nose up at three thousand a year simply because I disagree with the man and everything he stands for!”

  Benedict gazed around the room in dismay. Crotchety-looking, elderly females abounded, but, none of them, it seemed, had brought along a nubile young dogsbody who would jump at the chance to marry anybody kind enough to ask. There were no desperate damsels in brown bombazine casting him hopeful glances. Not even one.

  Mr. King, the master of ceremonies, hurried over to him. Bath was no longer the fashionable resort it had been during the war. Nowadays, the rich and privileged were flocking to the playgrounds of continental Europe, which had been closed to them for so long while the war raged on. It was all Mr. King could do to scrape together a few dozen couples for his cotillions on Thursday. After a few oily pleasantries, he offered to introduce the baronet to anyone he liked.

  “I am looking for a wife,” said Benedict. “Have you got anything under thirty-five?”

  Mr. King had been master of ceremonies in Bath for twenty years. The baronet’s request did not shock him in the least. “You are in luck, Sir Benedict. Lady Dalrymple is in Bath with her amiable daughter, Miss Carteret. If you are indifferent to fortune, perhaps Miss Vaughn can tempt you. She is not a rich young lady, like Miss Carteret, but beauty is not an unworthy dowry, when accompanied by good birth. Do you not agree?”

  “I know of no marriages that fail sooner than those based on the beauty of the lady,” Benedict replied curtly. “We do not marry to please ourselves, Mr. King.”

  “Er, yes. Lady Rose Fitzwilliam has only just arrived in Bath. This young lady is sure to melt your heart, for she joins in one person the virtues of birth, beauty, fortune, and youth.”

  “Only three young ladies of the class?”

  Mr. King forced a smile. “It will be more difficult than the Judgment of Paris.”

  Benedict scowled. “What are the French up to now?”

  Mr. King looked pained. “I was not referring to the events in France, Sir Benedict. You will have a more difficult time, I think, choosing between Miss Carteret, Miss Vaughn, and Lady Rose than Prince Paris had choosing between Venus, Juno, and Minerva.”

  “Ah,” said Benedict. “Present me to Miss Carteret, then.”

  Benedict knew the viscountess slightly, but he had never had the opportunity to meet the amiable daughter. This being the case, he did not know how improved Miss Carteret was. Nor was he aware that her bonnet, an absurd construction with a cylindrical crown and a huge poke, was in the first stare of fashion. The mean little face surrounded by this pink monstrosity reminded him of a garden mole digging its way out of a subterranean den.

  Lady Dalrymple whipped open her large painted fan as the gentlemen approached. “Shoulders back, Millie!” she hissed. “Uncross your eyes! He is not very handsome, perhaps, but he is rich!”

  Almost in the same breath, she swept aside Mr. King’s attempt at an introduction.

  “But Sir Benedict requires no introduction! We are dear old friends. His aunt, Lady Elkins, and I have been bosom bows all our lives.”

  Benedict bowed. “You were missed at the funeral, Lady Dalrymple.”

  “Did she die?” cried Lady Dalrymple, clutching at her daughter’s hand for support. Millicent obligingly rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief, which she applied to her mama’s dry eyes. “Oh, my poor, dear Amelia! Why did no one tell me?”

  “Elinor,” Benedict quietly corrected her.

  Lady Dalrymple was startled out of her lamentations. “I am so distraught I do not know what I am saying,” she exclaimed. “Dear Elinor, of course! I wish I had known she was dead. I should have been only too pleased to have attended the funeral. You remember Lady Elkins, Millicent. She had the house in Park Lane with the apricot saloon. So elegant!”

  “I have painted the saloon black, I’m afraid,” said Benedict.

  “Oh,” said Lady Dalrymple, batting her eyes at him. “Did you inherit?”

  “Yes. My sister and my brother both having married so well, my aunt took pity on me and left me all her estate, including the house in Park Lane.”

  “Did you hear that, Millicent?” Lady Dalrymple exclaimed. “My dear friend, Lady Elkins, has died and left this gentleman all her estate. Say hello to Sir Benedict.”

  But Millicent’s attention was riveted elsewhere. A tall, young gentleman in a blue coat had just entered the room. In addition to nice blue eyes and an estate so large that one hardly noticed his harelip, the young Earl of Ludham had a perfect halo of crimped brown hair.

  “Millicent was a great favorite of your Aunt Imogen,” Lady Dalrymple said quickly.

  “Elinor,” Benedict corrected her patiently.

  “Dear Elinor. She quite doted on the child, but, then, Millicent is so easy to love. Was there no mention of her in your aunt’s will?”

  “None.”

  Lady Dalrymple blinked rapidly. “Curious! She did not leave my daughter any token of her affection? I am sure no one was more devoted to Lady Elkins than my Millicent. Could there have been a secret codicil or something?”

  “My aunt’s chief occupation in life was keeping her will up to date. Her wishes could not have been plainer.”

  “Such a delightful woman,” Lady Dalrymple murmured. “She was forever hinting that she meant to leave her rubies to dear Millie in her will.” She sighed breezily. “But, I daresay, her ladyship was only teasing. I expect those rubies will go to Lady Wayborn—and so they should, even though Lady Elkins promised them to Millicent.”

  “I do not like rubies,” said Millicent.

  Meanwhile, Lord Ludham stood almost in the center of the room, looking about him searchingly. His eyes fell on Millicent’s bright pink bonnet, then withdrew hastily. He spoke briefly to Mr. King, then left.

  “No, don’t go!” Millicent cried softly, the words slipping from her lips.

  “Millie! You are too modest,” protested her exasperated mother. “You know that nothing suits you better than the fiery brilliance of the Elkins’ rubies. She is too modest, Sir Benedict. So the Duchess of Auckland has the rubies now, does she? Well,
well. I hope it does not trouble Her Grace to wear them, when they were promised to another.”

  Mr. King hurried over to them. “That was Lord Ludham,” he said. “His lordship has asked that I add the waltz to the dance program! A waltz, in the Upper Rooms!”

  “Scandalous,” Lady Dalrymple barked. “It will never catch on!”

  “The waltz is danced in London, even at Almack’s,” said Benedict. “For myself, I prefer it to the cotillion. It is easier to remember three steps than a thousand, and, best of all, it only lasts a few minutes. One can endure anything for five minutes, I think. The cotillion is half an hour at least. Too long!”

  Mr. King’s eyes popped. “But the waltz, Sir Benedict, is fast!”

  “It is certainly brief,” Benedict agreed. “That is what I like about it.”

  “But the lady is carried about the room, as if by storm, in the male embrace!” protested Mr. King. “Whenever I think of it, I am reminded of the Rape of the Sabine Women.”

  Benedict arched his brows. “In that case, I hope you do not think of it often, Mr. King.”

  “My dear Lady Dalrymple,” said Mr. King, turning to that lady with an unctuous smile. “Rest assured there will be no waltzing in the Upper Rooms. I do hope that you and your amiable daughter will be with us at Thursday’s assembly. Miss Carteret is a great favorite with the gentlemen. They would all want to dance with her, I am persuaded, if she did attend.”

  “Of course,” the mama assured him.

  “And, if I could persuade you to chaperone your young friend, Miss Vaughn?” he went on smoothly. “As you know, Lady Agatha is too ill to attend parties and assemblies. On Monday, at the dress ball, all I heard from the gentlemen was ‘Where is Miss Vaughn?’”