Julian smiled. He’d had the measure of the cit the moment he’d walked in the door, and noted the man’s only obvious extravagance: the portraits crowding the walls of the hall. They did not depict the Cosgrove family; but had been snatched up from indigent aristocrats, lords and ladies with blood so blue the upstart merchants of the world could only moon with envy. Julian, recognizing several of the subjects, had tripled Jamie’s price accordingly. “Ah, but he’s descended from the peerage on both sides. His mother’s grandfather was an earl; and his father was a viscount, son of a marquess.”
Cosgrove licked bloodless lips, and leaned forward, interest awakening in the cold behind his eyes. “But how is that possible? Surely such a one would be missed.”
“He’s a bastard, Mr. Cosgrove. The mother is dead and the sire has no interest—may not even know he exists. And he’s only recently come to London, so there’s no one close enough to care. You’ll not have a chance like this again, I think.”
“Is he a virgin?”
“I can’t promise you that. In fact, I’m rather sure he was used, once.” Julian smiled. “But as he fled the household the next day in horror, I think we can assume he didn’t enjoy it. That may even work to your advantage.”
“Hmph. Let me think.” Cosgrove tapped his chin with one finger. “I have to stay in London through mid-February, but if you could have him delivered to my country estate after that, I think we can come to an arrangement.”
Julian shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. It must be soon, or the deal is off.” Stephen must not be allowed to locate his insipid darling. Julian’s hand clenched at the thought.
“But I can’t leave town, and my house here is unsuitable. Too small, too many servants, too crowded a neighborhood in case there’s... noise.”
“Might I make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you familiar with an establishment called Madame Novotny’s, near the docks?”
“I believe I’ve heard of it,” Mr. Cosgrove allowed cautiously.
Julian rather thought he had, and was almost certainly well-versed in the workings of his next suggestion, too. But it was best to keep to a façade of ignorance, when such delicate matters were involved. “Of course, you’re probably not aware that Madame keeps a dungeon below stairs. Very Gothic, but equally appropriate to both frivolous play-acting and... more serious endeavors, if you understand me.”
“I understand you quite well.” Cosgrove was obviously tempted, but still showed a certain amount of wariness. “From what I remem—from what I’ve heard, it’s soundproofed, isn’t it?”
“Yes. The walls are several feet thick, and the ceiling baffled. There are drains in the floor for easy clean up, and at least one of the rooms contains a tunnel that leads to the river, in case... anything... might need to be disposed of. You could rent a dungeon chamber for as many days as you like, and are guaranteed that no one will dare disturb you.” There was a glitter in Julian’s eyes as Cosgrove considered the prospect.
The merchant, who hadn’t amassed his riches through foolishness, watched him carefully. “And what’s your stake in this, Mr. Jeffries? How do I know I’m not being set up by my enemies?”
“Oh, no,” Julian protested. “The only enemy involved is the young man, I’m afraid. For my own reasons, I look forward to seeing him humbled. Among other things, of course.”
A smile spread across Mr. Cosgrove’s face. “Then perhaps I might persuade you to accept two hundred pounds, if you were allowed to watch?”
He shouldn’t. The whole point of getting someone else to dispose of Riley was to keep his own hands clean of the matter, wasn’t it? But oh, the temptation, to see the brat’s terror and degradation, to let Riley know who had brought him to his end... Hell, Julian was well-known at Novotny’s, it would be utterly unremarkable that he be on the premises during the time Cosgrove played with his toy in the dungeon. Why not enjoy the spectacle? “I think you might,” the actor said. “I think you might, indeed.”
“I have things to attend to first, before I can free myself for such entertainments. Shall we say next Friday night, Mr. Jeffries? One week from tonight. I insist the boy be undamaged and fully conscious, and in return, you’ll have your money. And your fun.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cosgrove. I knew I could count on you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Stephen pushed the ledger away from him and rose from the kitchen table, where the whole household had been gathered for a meeting. “That’s it for today, I’m falling asleep. Tonight’s the Allbrights’ ball—if I’m going to make it, I need a nap first.” He gave a short laugh. “I was out too late last night.”
With Julian, of course. He didn’t have to say it. “Yes, my lord.” Rebecca’s voice was cool and Mrs. Symmons pursed her lips as they gathered loose sheets of paper and stowed them within the cover of the budget ledger.
Even Charles wouldn’t look at him as he’d offered to put his master to bed. “Not necessary,” Stephen said curtly. Damn it, why did the servants have to judge him for his continued association with Julian? He fumed about it as he ascended the stairs to his chamber, undressed and climbed into his huge Egyptian bed, its finials carved with the Eye of Horus. Was he supposed to spend all his time brooding over the things he had lost? It should be enough that he was being so attentive to the business of running his household.
And what a headache that was. After several sessions spent puzzling over it, the budget was coming along, but it was lowering to discover just how many quarter-days it would take before all of the debts were settled. He’d asked for suggestions from the servants for where else they could save money, and Charles had very nobly said that the plans for the greenhouse could be abandoned for now. Stephen, reluctant to give up on Jamie’s plan, contended in return that eventually, growing their own roses would save so much money that it would be foolish to forsake the greenhouse now. They had argued it back and forth, finally agreeing to move ahead on the structure, but that while it was being built, Charles would do without his daily roses.
“That will help,” Rebecca had said, pointing out that roses were especially expensive during the Christmas season, when everyone wanted them for entertaining. That had silenced them all, and for a long moment the whole lot of them had stared at the table.
Christmas. Stephen tossed himself on the bed. Just ten days, now, until Christmas Eve. Stephen pulled the covers over his head now, trying to block out the thought of it. Intolerable that Jamie was out there in some miserable hell-hole, but to think of him hungry and cold at Christmas was like taking a cheese-grater to his soul. Thinking of Aunt Matilda’s Yuletide feasts, with their enormous barons of beef and tables of clove-studded hams, made him ill. More tables bowing under the weight of rich plum puddings and brandied fruit-cakes, pyramids of exotic oranges imported from Spain when the local orangeries couldn’t keep up with demand, great bowls of sugared nuts and trays of marzipan molded into amusing shapes...
Betsy had begun to cry. “What if Jamie comes home, and we hasn’t got any Christmas for him?” Only the intervention of Maisie and Mrs. Symmons, who promised to help decorate the house for the season, had dried the young girl’s tears, but the group had remained sober after that. It was clear that they all missed Jamie, who had managed to earn a level of respect in just two months that their master had yet to gain.
Well, no mystery there. Stephen was trying, but so far all he was doing was picking up after the mess he had made of his life. There was no faith, from any of them, that he would change substantially in the future, and he knew why.
Julian.
He sighed. The actor had surprised him with his affectionate ways since Jamie had left, providing not just distraction but a solid shoulder to lean on. The servants didn’t see all that, of course, didn’t know Julian’s good side the way he did. Stephen would have to make a decision soon, about whether to continue the actor’s contract. But suppose he dismissed Julian, and they never found Jami
e? Worse: suppose they did find him, and his Mouse, still offended, refused to return. In that case, it would be galling to lose Julian as well.
But Julian wasn’t Jamie. Even on his best behavior, Julian lacked the younger man’s warmth and sweetness, and especially the inner core of strength that made Jamie so appealing. Stephen smiled wistfully, remembering. It had taken such a short time for his secretary to see what was wrong with Stephen’s life, roll up his sleeves and start fixing it. Julian didn’t care about such things.
But it was better to have Julian than no one. Of course it was.
Jamie had a job.
He laughed to himself, tempted to skip through the streets back to his Seven Dials lair. It had happened so unexpectedly. Today was Sunday, the one day all businesses closed. Unable to continue his search for work and unwilling to stay in his ghastly room, Jamie had spent the morning wandering from church to church, seeking warmth as well as peace. He’d been on a quest for a cheap meal before seeking out afternoon services when a brougham, over-laden with baggage, took a corner too fast. The restraining rope broke, and trunks and portmanteaus flew, littering the street. Horses whinnied as traffic ground to a halt to avoid the obstacle-ridden roadway. He had leapt to help restore the baggage to the carriage, and in gratitude, the coachman flipped Jamie a coin.
“You’re a good worker, son. Thanks for the help.”
Jamie looked at the sixpence in his hand. He spoke quickly, as the coachman was remounting his box. “I’m not afraid of hard work. Do you know anyone who’s looking to hire?”
And the coachman had. His brother was a foreman at the docks, where there was a solid need for laborers to haul boxes between the warehouses and ships. A quick visit to the coachman’s brother, at home enjoying Sunday dinner, confirmed it.
“Can’t promise as it’ll be regular.” Mr. Binks, the foreman, stood in the doorway of his modest flat, obviously eager to get back to his meal. “Some days there’s more lads than ships; some days I can keep you ‘til midnight if your back holds out. Four pence an hour either way — on a good week you’ll make a whole quid.”
For sixty hours worth of back-breaking labor. Jamie swallowed, the rich scent of roast beef making him dizzy. It would have to do, until he found something better. “I can do it, sir. Thank you.”
“All right, then. Come tomorrow at dawn, and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
Jamie was elated as he carefully assayed the rickety front steps of his tenement. “Manual labor,” he muttered to himself. “Now there’s a step up in the world.” It didn’t matter what it was — it was a job, and however meager the wages, they would soon have him out of this horrible place, which stunk of urine and despair. He reached for the doorknob, only to have it open suddenly, the man hurrying out of the building bumping into him.
“Sorry!” the stranger said. He was young and healthy, compared to most of the denizens of the tenement, and had a cheerful face.
“No matter. I wasn’t paying attention,” Jamie said. “Do you live here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“Just moved in today.” The young man’s eyes glimmered with mirth. “Hope to move out tomorrow, but I’m waiting for an emergency bank draft from my mother. It could be a week or more before she sorts it out.”
“I hope to be away shortly, too.” Jamie grinned. “In the meantime, it’s nice to see another reasonably sober face around here. I’m on the fourth floor, first on the right if you want some intelligible conversation sometime.” He put out his hand. “My name’s James. Call me Jamie.”
The other man grinned in return as he shook Jamie’s hand. “I’m Bertie.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Go on, one more pint won’t hurt. It’s on me.” Bertie grinned at his new friend in the smoky dimness of the Hanged Man, a dank cave of a public house not far from their Lomber Court tenement. Thank God the lad liked a drink; he’d been afraid Jamie Riley had no vices at all. Didn’t whore, didn’t gamble—Bertie had been despairing of how the hell he was going to get Jamie to Madame Novotny’s on schedule. But perhaps the brothel’s reputation as a fine place for a drink would prove the excuse he needed. “Besides, after three days on the bloody docks, you deserve a bit o’ relaxation.”
“Don’t I just.” Jamie flexed his shoulders, wincing. “Well, if you’re buying.” A look of concern crossed the young man’s face. “I mean, if you can afford...” He had almost shout the words; it might be a weeknight, but in this part of town all the pubs were crowded nightly with patrons, on a never-ending quest to dull the pain of poverty.
“’S all right, Jamie. I found some coins outside the Red Lion last night. Some bloke must have tripped over his own feet and spilled his pockets when he fell. It’s not enough to get me a better place to stay, so why not spend it on good company?”
“Oh. Tha’s all right, then.” The dimple the young man flashed was so appealing that Bertie was sorely tempted to ignore his master’s strict instructions to keep his hands off James Riley, if he knew what was good for him. He patted Jamie on the leg, letting his hand linger on the other man’s thigh. Jamie raised his brows, seemingly amused. “My beer?”
“Right.” Bertie hurried to the bar to place the order, his feet sticking unpleasantly to the floor as he pushed his way through the crowd. Bah. They all stank, but after three nights in the slums, with no way to wash properly or a fresh change of clothes, he figured he didn’t smell so good himself. Another couple of pints, though, and at least he’d have a warm bed tonight. Mister Julian need never know a thing about it. As long as he followed his master’s most important order, and got Jamie to Novotny’s on Friday night, there was no harm in a little fun along the way. He winked at the bartender. “Throw a bit o’ gin in the one on the right. Our little secret, aye?”
Ah, here it was. With a jerk, Charles pulled the pages free from the mess in the Earl of St. Joseph’s bedside table. The drawer contained a jumble of miscellaneous keys, calling cards, playbills, a small edition of John Wilmot’s filthier poetry... and one contract, duly signed and witnessed, between Lord Stephen Clair and Julian Jeffries, actor.
The valet had taken it upon himself to search for the document tonight, when Stephen was out at his Aunt Matilda’s for cards. December was progressing, Jamie had not been found, and Stephen still spent enough time with his poisonous snake of a lover that it seemed increasingly likely that this contract would end up renewed for another year. It was worth taking a look to see what it actually said, and whether there was an easy way out of it if Stephen could be persuaded to take it.
Charles genuinely liked his master; they were as close to friends as their difference in status would allow. But where Stephen insisted on seeing Julian’s recent sweetness as genuine, Charles could only see it as a deliberate ploy to get another year’s commitment out of the earl. Just this morning, while the valet was shaving him, Stephen had commented on Julian’s new attitude. “I always thought there had to be more to him, that he kept locked away for safety, and now it’s coming out at last.” He’d paused for a second. “I suspect Julian had a beastly upbringing, you know.”
Charles struggled with this while stropping the razor, not inclined to sympathy for the actor. “We play the cards we’re dealt. And given past history, I’d want to be very sure there aren’t any up his sleeve.”
“Isn’t it just possible Julian really has had a change of heart?” The earl had looked so wistful that Charles decided to shut up and keep shaving.
“Change of heart?” he muttered to himself now, shaking out the pages and carrying them over to his own room next to the earl’s to take a look. “Only possible if he had one, and that bloody actor doesn’t.”
Julian was cold, through and through. He might be all kissy-kissy with the earl when he wanted to be, but the real measure of a man was how he treated servants, and the actor failed every test there: alternately demanding and dismissive of the staff at St. Joseph House, and even more openly abusive of his own man Bertie. Ch
arles frequently delivered flowers to the actor’s dressing room before performances, and on several occasions he’d been horrified to observe Julian screaming, throwing things, and even striking Bertie across the face. The young dresser seemed to accept the mistreatment as his lot, though, his eyes gleaming adoration even when puffy with bruises. Stupid boy.
Charles scanned the document quickly, smiling to himself at the necessary obfuscation of what was being sold. Although rarely prosecuted unless an assault was involved or the act occurred in public, buggery was on the books as a crime punishable by death. The earl had thus contracted for “exclusive rights to the private performances of one Julian Jeffries, actor,” at a price of... Good lord. Charles’ lips formed a silent whistle. Five hundred guineas per quarter, plus related expenses and the right to occupy Stephen’s house on Floral Street. Should the earl be in arrears at the end of the year’s term, the contract would be automatically extended for another year to allow his lordship to catch up on his payments, and so on into perpetuity. Damn. Julian wasn’t so dumb: Stephen’s carelessness with money all but guaranteed that he would be tied to the actor forever.
There must be something... Charles went back to the beginning and began to read again. Exclusive rights, the contract called for. Julian, faithful? He snorted. The man would fuck a goat if it would agree to back him in a play. Even Bertie’s devotion suggested the dresser might be getting a bit on the side—lord knew it wouldn’t occur to Julian to give the lad praise or a few extra coins now and again.
But how to prove the actor had transgressed? Charles frowned. All the household’s efforts were being spent trying to locate Jamie. There was no one to spare to shadow Julian right now, no time to dig into any possible indiscretions. He needed someone with resources to spare, someone who might also have an interest in freeing Stephen from his entanglement with the perfidious whore.
The Price of Temptation Page 19