Vanity

by Jane Feather

  He went back to the cupboard and drew out a folder. “Take a look through there.”

  The two men examined the sheaf of legal documents. “This is your name … Thaddeus Nielson?” Hector tapped the signature that occurred on the bottom of all the papers.

  “That’s me, sir.” Thaddeus nodded, linking his hands across his ample belly beneath a shabby gray waistcoat. “Thaddeus Nielson, builder of elegant properties for the rising merchant. As elegant as anything you might find in Grosvenor Square or Mount Street.”

  “And you pay dividends every quarter?”

  “Just as it says there, sirs. You’ll see the committee members on our little project are gentlemen of considerable substance. Banker Moran, for instance. Lord Chief Justice Greenaway.” He leaned over to indicate these signatures. “Board meetings once a month. You’d be welcome to attend, of course.”

  He drew a clay pipe from the pocket of his waistcoat and busied himself tamping down the tobacco before sticking a spill into the candle flame and lighting the pipe.

  The smoke curled blue in the dank air. “Of course, most of our gentlemen prefer to keep themselves to themselves,” he added, puffing reflectively. “But they make an exception for board meetings. And we prefer to keep the number of investors to a minimum. Greater profits that way.”

  “Quite so.” Dirk stared down at his highly polished shoes; their silver buckles winked in the grimy dimness. Rupert Warwick had vouched for Thaddeus Nielson. Rupert Warwick lived very high on the hog. Only the other evening they’d all seen him tip a mound of guineas into Margaret Drayton’s reticule just for the amusement of it. Ventures such as this one could only thrive under the table.

  “I think we should see these houses you’re building?” he said after a minute.

  “But of course. You’ll find them on Acre Lane. By all means take a look at them. You wouldn’t want to buy a pig in a poke.” He smiled, his scar twitching, and puffed serenely.

  “We’ll let you know if we’re interested in investing after we’ve seen them.” Dirk looked for somewhere to put his empty glass, found only the floor. He put it down and stood up.

  “Oh, yes, take your time,” Thaddeus said, still puffing, making no attempt to rise with them. “Ned, show these gentlemen out. And you’d best stay below, since I’m expecting some more visitors.”

  “More potential investors?” Hector asked sharply.

  Thaddeus shrugged. “There’s no shortage. I can take my pick. You worry about your business, my dear sirs, and I’ll worry about mine.” He didn’t turn from his contemplation of the stove.

  His visitors stood for a minute uncertain, weighing up his last words. Dirk looked as if he would say something further, but Hector touched his arm, nodding significantly toward the door. They left, accompanied by the shuffling Ned.

  The man they’d left behind listened for the clanging of the outside door behind them; then he stood up with a lazy grin. He tapped the bowl of his pipe against the side of the stove, shaking out the glowing contents, then stretched before slipping a hand beneath his waistcoat and pulling out the small pad of wadded material that formed his belly.

  “Eh, right pair of ninnyhammers,” his companion announced, stomping back into the room. His back was suddenly straight, his eyes alert, the aged and infirm retainer transformed into a vigorous, powerful man of middle years.

  “Greedy ninnyhammers, Ben. Bring me some hot water and a cloth.” Rupert bent toward a spotted-looking glass and touched the livid scar. “It works rather well, don’t you think?”

  “Aye.” Ben took a kettle from the stove and poured water into a small bowl. “You want me to do it for ye?”

  “No, I can manage, thanks.” He dipped the cloth into the water and scrubbed at the painted scar.

  “Think they’ll be back?” Ben picked up the discarded glasses from the floor.

  “Oh, yes. In fact, I imagine they’ll be back before the evening’s half-done. I really alarmed them with the thought of a line of rival investors beating a path to this door. I’d like you to stay here and take a message when they return. Set up another meeting for Friday evening. Tell them it’s a board meeting and they’ll be able to meet the other members of the committee when we discuss how business is going.”

  “And who’ll ye be gettin’ fer this committee?” Ben raked through the embers in the stove, spreading them so that the fire would die more rapidly.

  Rupert chuckled. “Old Fred Grimforth and Terence Shotley will be glad enough to play a part for a consideration.”

  Ben grinned. The Royal Oak had many customers adept at a variety of performances. “I’ll stay ’ere fer a bit, then.”

  “Thanks.” Rupert took off the tatty white wig and smoothed down his hair. He threw off his seedy garments and dressed again in his own britches and coat.

  “I think that for the board meeting I shall don a frock coat and hedgehog wig. Show our potential investors that look as well-to-do as the next man in the right circumstances.”

  “Even if’e does look a right villain.” Ben commented, picking up the discarded clothes and shaking them out. “That scar’s enough to make a grown man turn in ’is grave.”

  “Our friends expect a villain, Ben, so we must give them one. I’m sure they’d never believe in the authenticity of such a diabolical scheme if it was perpetrated by a man in court dress. Rogues and extortionists couldn’t possibly look like themselves.” His voice dripped sarcasm like honey off the comb.

  “Aye,” Ben agreed dourly. “If’n ye says so. I wouldn’t know.”

  Rupert made no reply. He took one last look at himself in the inadequate mirror before fetching his hat and a slender cane from the cupboard. He pressed a cunning little knob in the handle of the cane, and a wicked blade sprang forth.

  “Expectin’ trouble?” Ben inquired laconically.

  “Around here it pays to be prepared.” He pressed the knob again and the blade retracted. “I’m late and it’s a court day. Octavia will be ready to slice off my ears and feed them to the crows if I’m not there to escort her.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you, Nick, to let a woman rule the roost,” Ben grunted, following him down the stairs.

  Rupert smiled. “Oh, that’s not how I would describe Octavia’s methods for getting her own way, Ben. She doesn’t force her own opinion exactly, she simply ignores the opposition if it’s inconvenient.”

  “Meaning you, I suppose.”

  “Meaning me,” he agreed. He turned at the bottom of the stairs to a small door built flush into the riverside wall. He pulled back on the heavy bolts, and the door swung open onto the river. A flight of weed-slick steps led down to the water, where a scull bobbed, fastened to a ring set in the wall.

  “Not like you to work with someone else,” Ben persisted, leaning sideways to unfasten the scull’s painter. “Particularly a woman. Thought you didn’t hold with women, ’ceptin’ in bed or the kitchen.”

  “A man can change his views,” Rupert pointed out. “Octavia doesn’t fit usual categories.” He stepped into the scull and fitted the oars into the rowlocks.

  “You reckon she’s reliable, then?” Ben dropped the painter into the boat. “Only Bessie was askin’.”

  “Was she, now?” Rupert raised his eyebrows and rested on the oars, peering up at Ben in the dusk. “Well, you tell Bessie to mind her own business, Ben. Much as I appreciate her concern, when it comes to Miss Morgan, I know my own business best.”

  “No offense meant.”

  “None taken. Send me a message to Dover Street when you’ve spoken with our friends again. And I’ll see you here next Friday.”

  “Yes … oh, about that business on the ’eath the other day.”

  Rupert shipped his oars again. He’d very casually mentioned to Ben the unexpected appearance of Bow Street Runners with the mail coach, and Ben had made no comment.

  “I’ll be ’avin’ a word with Morris, I reckon. Mebbe get a few folks to keep an eye on ’im. What d’ye think?�
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  “I think I don’t want another such surprise,” Rupert stated. “And most particularly not when Octavia’s with me.”

  “She was on the road wi’ ye, again?” Ben stared down at him in astonishment.

  “Yes. One of those occasions when she chose to ignore the opposition,” Rupert responded with a rueful sigh. “And since I imagine she’ll continue to ignore it on such occasions, I want no more unwelcome surprises.”

  “Well, I never did.” Ben scratched his head. “The road’s no place for a woman.”

  “Don’t I know it, Ben. Don’t I know it.” Rupert flashed him a smile of resigned self-mockery, then pulled strongly away from the stairs, turning the scull into the current as he rowed across the river to a flight of steps set into the opposite embankment.

  His attempt to forbid Octavia ever again to follow him to the heath had failed miserably. She had simply refused to listen to him. He could see her now, sitting at the dresser, delicately paring her fingernails, listening with every appearance of docile submission to his forceful speech. But when he’d fallen silent, she’d said smilingly he wasn’t to worry about anything. She knew exactly what she was doing, and since she’d been very useful on the two occasions she had followed him, he should be glad of her help in the future. It remained her contention that since they both enjoyed the fruits of the road, they should both take its risks.

  There was something about her cheerful assurance and sunny obstinacy that had made him want to laugh. She partnered him beautifully in every other aspect of their deception, and she was no delicate flower to be gently introduced to a life of crime. Octavia had embraced such an existence long since. So he’d settled for a promise of absolute obedience when they were engaged in highway robbery, and yielded the issue. However, until he’d identified the spy at the Royal Oak, if there was one, he had no intention of risking either of their necks on the heath again.

  The scull bumped gently against the steps, and a waterman peered over the top of the embankment. He came down the steps to take the painter as Rupert tossed it to him. “Growin’ chilly on the water, guv.”

  “Aye. It’ll be a week or two yet before the day’s warmth lingers after sunset.” Rupert sprang onto the step and handed the man a shilling. The sound of voices and tramping feet came from the embankment above. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s that there Protestant Association marchin’ agin the papists, guv,” the waterman said, securing the painter to a ring in the wall. “Full of ale and bluster they be, ready to follow that Lord George Gordon into ’ell’s inferno.”

  He followed Rupert up the steps. “Not that I ’olds with papists meself. An’ I don’t ’old with no Catholic Relief Act neither. But that Lord George talks a lot of nonsense too. I was jest sayin’ to the missis—”

  “Good night, waterman.” Rupert cut off his loquacious companion in full flood and hurried down the street.

  A small crowd of apprentices moved ahead of him, chanting “No popery,” but without too much venom. They turned aside into the courtyard of a tavern, distracted by the smell of ale, and Rupert continued past, wondering if this growing anti-Catholic movement was going to prove a nuisance. For some reason Catholic emancipation seemed to touch a raw nerve with the populace, and Lord George Gordon’s fanaticism was an effective bellows.

  Of course, one always needed to believe there was someone worse off than oneself, and the worse one’s own situation, the more one needed to, he reflected. And the worse one’s own situation, the more one needed someone to blame. London’s underclass was learning to blame Catholics for its every ill under the fiery persuasion of Lord George and his fellow rabble-rousers. They painted the prospect of Parliament’s relieving a small part of the legal discrimination against Catholics as an edict straight from the devil’s heretic mouth.

  Rupert hastened up the steps to his own house as a nearby church clock struck seven. The royal family had come from Windsor Castle for the day to conduct a drawing-room reception at St. James’s Palace. It was unthinkable for anyone who laid claim to the higher echelons of society not to put in an appearance. Octavia had grumbled mightily. Since one couldn’t be seen in the queen’s company with undressed hair, she had to submit to the attentions of a hairdresser in the powder closet.

  Rupert, expecting the worst, strolled up the stairs, entering Octavia’s bedchamber without ceremony. She was still swathed in a powder gown, examining herself in the cheval glass. “Oh, there you are,” she said crossly. “Where have you been since dinner, while I’ve been enduring this torture?”

  “Business,” he said calmly, bending to kiss the exposed nape of her neck. “And don’t exaggerate. Let me look at you.”

  “Don’t, it’s hideous.” She pulled a face at her reflection. “I don’t look in the least like myself.”

  “No, that you don’t,” he agreed, absorbing the towering white edifice that swayed above her small face. “But it’s de rigueur, my dear.” He strode to the door that connected his apartments with hers.

  “What business?” Octavia stood up and followed him. She leaned against the doorjamb as he began to throw off his clothes. “Shall I ring for Jameson? Will you need him to dress your hair?”

  “No, I shall wear a wig. It’s a lot easier.” He splashed water on his face from the basin on the washstand.

  “It’ll take all night to get this muck out of my hair.” Octavia pulled disconsolately at a white ringlet on her shoulder, forgetting her earlier question. “But my own hair’s too long to fit under a wig. Perhaps I should shave it all off.”

  “Don’t you dare even jest about such a thing!”

  “Who’s jesting?” she taunted, cowering in mock terror as he glared ferociously.

  “Lady Greerson has shaved her head … or so I’ve heard. And most of the ladies at court wear theirs shorn very close to their heads,” she added mischievously. “It seems very sensible to me. Men shave their heads all the time. It helps the itching, as I understand it … nothing for the lice to nest in, I imagine.”

  Her eyes sparkled with amusement, her irritation forgotten as rapidly as it had arisen. Rupert’s presence generally had that effect. When she was with him, she found it very hard to hold a grudge or maintain ill temper.

  In fact, his presence was becoming absolutely vital to her. In fact, she couldn’t imagine living life outside that presence.

  She turned back abruptly to her own chamber, where Nell was waiting with her corset. There was no room in their present life to indulge in such maudlin fancies. Of course, she could—would—live life without Rupert Warwick … or whoever he really was. Just as he would live life without her. In fact, she would lay any odds that the prospect of not doing so had never entered his head.

  She gave the maid her back, seizing the bedpost and breathing in grimly as Nell tugged on the laces.

  “That’s enough, Nell!” Rupert’s voice spoke from the connecting door. “Hell and the devil, Octavia, what are you thinking of? You’ll break your ribs.”

  Octavia realized that in her fierce reverie she’d completely forgotten to breathe. She let out her breath with a gasp and squeaked in pain. “Ow! Let them out, Nell!”

  “I was waitin’ for you to say something, madam,” Nell said in hasty defense, releasing her death grip on the laces.

  “I was thinking of something else,” Octavia mumbled, massaging her aching ribs.

  “Like what?” Rupert frowned at her.

  You. “Oh, just about the evening,” she said, stepping into the petticoat Nell held out for her. “How long do we have to stay at this drawing room?”

  “Until Their Majesties retire. You know that.”

  He was still puzzled. Somewhere between her mischief in his bedchamber and now, something had disturbed her. He could see it in the little lines of tension around her eyes and the set of her mouth.

  Octavia stood still as Nell fastened the three whalebone panniers at her waist; then she stepped into the straw-colored taffeta robe a l
a polonaise.

  Nell hooked it up, then stood back admiringly. The ruched skirt was drawn up by cords beneath to fall in three draped swags over the panniers, revealing a flounced petticoat of bronze taffeta short enough to show the turn of an ankle and slender feet in straw-colored satin slippers. The décolletage was daringly low, and Nell dipped a hare’s foot into a tub of powder and patted it across the swell of her mistress’s breasts.

  Rupert forgot his puzzlement in this new Octavia. He’d never seen her dressed with this formality. He found the sight mesmerizing, and the thought of the simple beauty that lay beneath the frills and ruching was powerfully arousing.

  To distract himself, he opened a small box of beauty patches and selected two black silk crescents.

  “Allow me, my dear.” Delicately, he placed them on her breasts, just above her barely concealed nipples. “That should draw the eye nicely.”

  He was presumably thinking particularly of Philip Wyndham, Octavia reflected, looking down at his fingers making a minute adjustment to the patch on her left breast. He was dressing her up to entrap and seduce his enemy. In her present costume she certainly rivaled Margaret Drayton for daring flamboyance. Everything she had to offer was on display.

  Rupert was picking through the box of patches again and selected a small circular one. Taking her face between finger and thumb, he turned it this way and that, trying to decide where to place the piece of silk.

  “I think the roguish.” He placed a circular patch high on her cheekbone in the appropriate position.

  “Anything else you wish to add?” Octavia asked. “Any further piece of artifice to enhance my attractions for those who must be attracted?”

  There was a moment of silence in which she wished twenty times over that she hadn’t spoken and most particularly not in that tone.

  Rupert dropped his hand from her face. Anger and puzzlement flashed across his eyes at the sardonic bitterness in her voice.

  “What are you talking about?” He glanced pointedly behind him to where Nell was busy at the armoire.