Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  Turning, the lady with the small dog looked for a moment at the two men. After catching John’s eyes, she resumed walking. Then, over her shoulder, she said, “I regret the compliment cannot be returned, sir.”

  “It could be,” John spoke to her back. “You could tell a lie, madam. As did I.”

  The lady set the pug upon the ground and, with one word, incited an attack. John stepped hastily backwards but, being more awkward than nimble, fell upon his bottom. Sharp teeth sank into his booted ankle and then into a meatier section above the leather and would not be shaken free, not even by oaths directed at the male dog concerning its relation to its mother.

  Having recalled the little beast, its mistress snatched it up into her arms. “My poor, little Crinkles,” she cooed, “I hope you have not been made ill by that repugnant man.”

  The next day, at the Kings Arms, a coaching inn on the corner of Parks Road and Holywell Street, John silently read a letter in company with James Morland and Peregrine Bathos. Then, stashing the letter in a breast pocket, he said, “Well, Morland, I daresay we have found a remedy for, at least, your bachelor aches.”

  “What, pray tell,” said Bathos, “might be such a cure?”

  John grinned. “Carry to the patient seven or eight yards of silk … with my sister in it!” When the laughter died down, he explained to Bathos that Isabella, having met James Morland on several occasions, had set her cap at him. “Mark my words, following a Yuletide visit with my family, our blushing friend here will be caught in the parson’s mousetrap.” Shivering from a blast of damp, cold air as the door opened, he rubbed his hands together. “What say we place a wager?”

  Morland held up a hand. “Hold on, Thorpe. Your sister is lovely. But marrying her would mean calling you brother. I do not think I am quite ready for that yet!”

  * * *

  Later that night, squinting in the meagre light of a candle stub, John finished a letter to Isabella.

  … beg you not to mention my debt problems to Mother. I could not bear to break her heart. I would rather make her genuinely proud of me; but I have not a great thirst for knowledge, only for ale and for fast curricles and women. Enough of my woes, though. How fares Uncle Graham? It saddens me he yet lingers. What I mean is, I hate to think of him suffering so. Might laudanum ease the poor man’s pain? I know I should like to drown my sorrows in a bottle or two, or ten, of claret; but I must practice frugality and swill ale. Is there any chance you might consider a loan to your poor, suffering brother? John

  Her response arrived without delay.

  Dear John,

  I trust this letter finds you in better spirits; but, no, I cannot spare a loan just so you may drink wine instead of ale. It may, however, gladden you to know I have not mentioned your woes to Mother. Her heart remains unbroken; and, although you did not ask, everyone else is well… except, of course, Uncle Graham. The poor soul is much the same, as I understand it from others. I have, you know, a delicate constitution and not the fortitude to visit a sickroom. I pray his suffering, along with ours, may soon end. Now, never mind about making Mother proud at present. You and I shall do so when we both secure wealthy matches. I am well on the way to wedded bliss, and my advice to you is to follow my lead. James Morland has sisters, does he not? Are any of them out? What of the local ladies? Have any of them caught your eye?

  Isabella

  At Oxford, he bragged long and loud about his success with the ladies, but John’s clever college acquaintances believed not a word of his lies. They taunted him about a botched attempt—involving an open window and a faulty ladder—to sneak the proctor’s daughter into his room.

  Then there was the dismal failure with a town trollop John had tried to take to Beaumont Palace in a borrowed gig. “Have you ever been upset?” he asked her. When she indicated she had not and would not like to be, he laughed. “Then you have led a dull life, indeed!” Smacking his whip, he encouraged his horse with odd noises and intentionally drove the gig up a steep bank at full tilt and then, unintentionally, down into a ditch—whence a wheel fell off, and so did the trollop. Upset, indeed, she refused to go any farther with him.

  A more advantageous opportunity arose at the home of Mrs. North, wife of a successful dealer in foreign spirituous liquors. John was sat at a card table and engaged in a game of piquet with a Mrs. Waters, whose husband, he learned, was away in London on business. To John’s dismay, the well-favoured woman played, what was to him, rather high; and, to his disgust, she praised William Cowper’s poetry, of which her knowledge was far superior to his.

  “… and, oh, Cowper’s hymns! Why, they induce nothing short of rapture, do you not agree?”

  Horses, guns, and field sports, to his way of thinking, were vastly superior to polite exchanges of words in drawing rooms, to any written words, or words sung as hymns. But Mrs. Waters was a tempting beauty, and he was smitten by lush lips every time she spoke and by swelling embonpoint every time she took a deep breath. John had no choice but to impress her with a less than honest answer. “By Jove, yes! Cowper’s verses quite carry me away!”

  “’Tis unfortunate, then,” said she, raising an eyebrow and speaking with deliberation, “that the Norths do not have a volume of Cowper here in their house.”

  “Eh?” John squished his eyebrows together, scratched his temple, then shrugged. “Well, other than its lack of rapturous poetry, this is a deuced fine house! ’Tis almost as grand as the Bathos residence. The elder son, you see, is a damned good friend of mine from St. John’s College. His father has a spanking pair of matched greys and the fastest curricle I have ever …”

  All the rest of his talk began and ended with himself and his own concerns. Mrs. Waters was doomed to the details of his day's sport, his boast of a horse he had bought for a trifle and sold for an incredible sum, his doubts about his friends’ hunting qualifications, and of racing matches in which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner.

  By no small account irritated with John and his endless prattle, the lady wagered poorly, allowed her opponent a huge advantage, and lost. Begrudgingly, Mrs. Waters wrote a note acknowledging her debt of twenty guineas and, in a fit of pique, said, “I hope, sir, that if ever you come within a mile of my fine house that you will stay there all night!”

  John gaped, reeling at her provocative invitation, until she left the table with a toss of her head, a whiff of perfume, and a silky susurration of skirts.

  Rushing off to crow of his fortunate circumstance, John found Peregrine Bathos and James Morland at the Kings Arms supping on mussels, chicken, and a ragout of celery.

  “Thorpe,” cried Morland, beckoning him over, “have you already eaten?”

  “I have, upon my honour,” John replied, joining his friends at their table and ordering a pint.

  “Well, Thorpe,” said Bathos with a smirk, “if you have dined upon your honour, I fear you have had an insufficient meal”—to which Morland laughed heartily.

  “Eh?” John looked oddly at his friends, shrugged, then took a gulp of ale. Leaning in towards them, he crowed, “I have damned good news!” Rubbing palms together, he, in a rare occurrence, lowered his voice. “I will finally achieve my pursuit of both carnal knowledge and capital gain!”

  After recounting his conversation with Mrs. Waters, John slurped the last of his ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then slammed the mug on the table. “The coquette plans on settling her debt by granting me, proud holder of the vowels, her favours!”

  Morland scoffed. “As a married woman, she will not succumb. And you will not succeed.”

  “Right,” said Bathos. “Mrs. Waters would never sink so low. The woman was not inviting your advances, buffoon! She does not even want you within a mile of her house.”

  “Damn it to hell!” John banged his fist on the table and forgot to lower his voice. “I bet you ten guineas I can bed Mrs. Waters.” Men at neighbouring tables turned his way, bystanders stopped talking to listen, while a servant toting a tray of empty
mugs feigned indifference.

  The cleric’s son, not a bettor, declined the wager and protested his friend’s loudness and language.

  “I beg your pardon, Morland,” said John in an unrepentant tone. “Allow me to reword that for your missish sake. Dang it to the abode of evil spirits! I wager ten guineas I can seduce Mrs. Waters.” Gaining confidence, he added, “Or, if not her, another married woman, before the commencement of Hilary term.”

  Morland shook his head and took his leave while Bathos shook John’s hand across the table.

  Calling for pen and paper, John scribbled a note to Mrs. Waters demanding either immediate payment of the IOU or, in lieu, receipt of her favours as agreed. “Robin, my good man,” said he, beckoning the nearby servant and holding out the letter and a coin. “Deliver this, as soon as you are able, to the Waters residence on High Street.”

  Having no fondness for the loud, overbearing John Thorpe and having eavesdropped on his scheme, Robin—upon arrival at his destination the next morning—insisted the butler hand the letter over to none other than the master of the house.

  Two days later, upon awakening, John opened a note that had been slid under his door during the night. While gloating over its contents, savouring its perfume, and admiring the feminine hand, he was summoned to meet with the proprietor of the Kings Arms. Curious but not overly concerned—though he did expect a reckoning of his account—John arrived in the common room and glanced around at its occupants until noticing Mr. Philpott standing with an unknown, middle-aged gentleman.

  “Mr. Thorpe,” said the innkeeper, beckoning him, “this here is Mr. Wat–” Upon receipt of a black look and an “ahem!” from the smartly-dressed gent, Mr. Philpott stammered, “Er, I mean, Mr. River, has begged an introduction.”

  Mr. River gave a slight bow and a nod, then sized up the younger man.

  Wiping it first on his coat, John extended his hand. “How d’ye do, sir.”

  The proprietor left them to their pleasantries as Mr. River gestured John towards a table. “Would you join me in a drink, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “Do you suppose we will both fit?” said John, following the stranger.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In the drink.” John pointed at two glasses of port that Robin, sporting a huge grin, was placing on the table. “I made a jest, sir, about joining you in a drink.”

  “I see,” said the unsmiling gentleman. “Well, Mr. Thorpe, I was hoping to have a serious conversation with you. In fact, I came here seeking assistance. I understand you are acquainted with the lovely”—the gentleman heaved a sigh and closed his eyes—“Mrs. Waters.”

  Eyes wide, John bolted out of his seat, taking note of all possible exits. “Who?”

  “Calm yourself, young man. I should be the nervous one here, for I am about to impart a serious immoral failing.” River leant across the table and admitted he was in love with another man’s wife.

  John’s eyes bulged as he gulped down the wine and listened to River’s dilemma.

  “I have tried working on her, but she remains steadfastly faithful to her husband. Where I have failed, I hope another might succeed. You—stout, young man that you are—have a decided advantage over me.” Although he had hardly touched his own, the older man ordered more port. “I have a proposition, Mr. Thorpe.” Leaning across the table, he lowered his silky voice. “I will pay you twenty guineas to seduce Mrs. Waters.”

  John’s mouth twitched once or twice in an attempt at speech. Heart thumping and throat dry, he drank from his second glass of wine, hoping such occupation would keep his mouth from burgeoning into a huge grin. “I am listening,” he managed to say with a straight face.

  “Once Mrs. Waters has sampled forbidden fruit—namely, you—her honour will be forfeit. Then it will be my turn to woo the woman away from her marriage vows.” River sat back and finally took a sip of port.

  “It is a famous good scheme. But what you ask, sir, goes against my morals. Upon my soul, as temping as your offer is, I could not commit such a sin for a mere twenty guineas.”

  “Thirty.”

  Heart ready to leap straight out of his chest, John shook his head.

  River slid a pouch across the space between them. “Forty guineas.” Extending his hand, the deal was sealed.

  “I understand,” said John after draining his glass, “that Mr. Waters will be staying in London again tomorrow. His wife and I have already arranged an assignation.” He bounced his knee under the table, barely able to conceal his excitement. “How will you know whether or not I succeed?”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” said the silky voice.

  A shiver went down John’s spine. Whether it was a frisson of thrill or fear, he could not say.

  As the sun set on the next day, John ordered a bath, an occurrence that might not seem noteworthy to those unfamiliar with him. “But the tub must contain no more water than this,” said he to the servant, holding apart his thumb and forefinger by just above three inches. “And it will be comfortably warm, not tepid. The soap must be the mild sort, no lye.”

  Having spared only enough time to soap and rinse himself, John called for Wignall—the valet he shared with James Morland—to help him dress. Humming a tune and jostling coins in his hand, he then hailed a hackney coach and directed the driver to an address on High Street.

  Upon arrival, he fished in his breast pocket and handed a battered calling card to the butler who, after scrutinising the name and address thereon, escorted John into a stylish yet comfortable parlour and announced his presence. On the lady of the house John bestowed a “Hey-day, Mrs. Waters!” and a whole scrape and a half. For his efforts, he was greeted civilly if not warmly. Devoirs speedily paid, the two sat in awkward silence broken only by the ticking and chiming of a mantle clock. Refreshments were ordered and then partaken of with no equanimity and little conversation. John, equal parts nervousness and enthusiasm, glanced around the room and started upon noticing a maid sitting in the corner, glaring at him.

  “Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Waters, making him jump, “perhaps we should repair to my private sitting room. I believe we have a piece of business to conduct.”

  John smoothed down his hair but could do little about the blush spreading across his cheeks and the sweat breaking out beneath his collar. “Yes! Yes!” He spoke with earnest fervour that in no way matched the woman’s ennui. “This business should be conducted sooner rather than later.”

  Giddy from the thought of what was to come, he followed Mrs. Waters out of the room and up the stairs, paying more particular attention to what was at eye level before him than what was underfoot. Stumbling on a wrinkle in the carpeting, John pitched forward and latched onto the first purchase he could find—the delicate muslin of the woman’s skirts which rent with, what was to him, an ear-splitting sound.

  “Patience, sir!” said she, turning round to confront him and examine the damage. “Oh! Look what you have done, you clumsy oaf! My favourite muslin! Ruined!”

  That, madam, will soon be the state of more than just your dress. “I am sorry.” Damn it, but she seems miffed! “Truly, I am exceedingly sorry I have ruined it.” And, perhaps, a chance at winning your favours and a ten-guinea wager.

  Muttering beneath her breath, Mrs. Waters, with John trotting after her, flounced down the passage and into a decidedly feminine sitting room.

  Desperate to make amends, he said, “Could the fabric not be saved and fashioned into a handkerchief, a frilly cap, or whatnot? It is not my custom to bother my brains with what does not concern me; and I do not usually give a fig for a damned bit of muslin, but in your case—”

  “What? What did you call me?” Eyes flashing, Mrs. Waters hissed. “Did you just refer to me as a ‘bit of muslin’?”

  “What? A bit of mus– No!” Dang! Farewell, extraordinary source of pleasure as well as ten guineas. And I had better spend River’s forty before he can reclai—

  “Mistress! Mistress!” The maid they had left in the parlour
burst into the room. “’Tis your husband,” she wailed, wringing her hands. “’Tis just as we planned, except … not. Now it really is him! His carriage just stopped at the kerb!”

  “What?” cried both John and Mrs. Waters together.

  Frantic, John bolted to a window, judging how far he had to fall.

  “No, you might break your neck,” said Mrs. Waters, tugging at John’s sleeve. Then she released it and shoved him forward. “Yes, yes, by all means, the window!”

  “No! I might break my neck!” Eyes wild, John dashed into the passage and made for the staircase with Mrs. Waters and the maid on his heels.

  “No!” cried the maid, holding him back, “you cannot use the front door! Mr. Waters will enter that way.”

  “And,” said Mrs. Waters, “because his valet will use the back door, you cannot.” She paced up and down the passage, biting at a fingernail, and pausing now and then to frantically peer over the railing to the front entry. “Down the servants’ stairwell. You will be able to sneak out of either the kitchen or scullery that way.”

  John, willing to go anywhere, do anything, to escape an angry husband, ran after the women as they descended flights of dimly-lit stairs. The smell hit him before the last three steps.

  But it was not the mélange of vegetable peelings, fish offal, and plucked, trussed poultry that repulsed him, nor was it the overpowering stench of lye coming from a copper cauldron filled with boiling water and soaking linens. What caused John’s sick, sinking feeling was heavy footsteps on the tile floor and an oddly familiar voice calling out, “Where is that adulteress of a wife, and where is her lover?”

  “Mr. Thorpe, you must hide! My husband is now in the kitchen, and two footmen are guarding the scullery door.” Mrs. Waters then whispered to the maid while pointing to a corner. “Proceed from here as planned. Our scheme may yet succeed!”

  Grabbing the confused young man by his sleeve, the maid yanked him towards a large basket. “Quickly, sir! Hide amongst this pile of washing.”