If he had to ask Sarah, then ask her he would. There was no use wasting any more minutes with Mrs. Erskine. He turned on his heel to walk out and find Sarah as the old bawd suggested, but she stopped him with a word. “Wait.”
He crossed his arms across his chest and waited.
“You can buy her time, if not her body. For a small monthly payment,” and she named a sum that made his eyes pop out of his head. “I will ensure that the other gentlemen who frequent my house understand she is not available to play with them.”
“Highway robbery,” he muttered. “I should just carry her off and be done with it.”
“The other gentlemen will no doubt be grievously disappointed if my new girl is snatched away from them before they have had any opportunity to play with her,” she continued in an even tone. “She was promisingly popular last night. Sir Richard Etheridge made a beeline for her as soon as he saw her, and he is well-known as a connoisseur of fine women.”
Sir Richard Etheridge ought to have his cock pulled out by its roots and fed to the pigs. He gritted his teeth and tossed a handful of guineas onto the blotter in front of her. “I will pay.”
“Of course, you realize that your payment only buys you her time,” she added with a malicious look on her face as she tucked the guineas away into a pocket in her skirts. “If she should choose to take another man to her bed, you must understand that it is quite out of my control.”
Sarah came down to the salon the following evening in a very different frame of mind. Earning her keep by teasing gentlemen was less fearsome than she had supposed it to be. The work was not as respectable as millinery, to be sure, but it was better than walking the streets, and it had its own compensations. While she was not saving any money, she was living splendidly, with plenty of food, fine clothes to wear, and even a bedroom to call her own. Really, she had no cause for complaint.
Maybe Tom would be there again tonight. She hoped he would be, and that he claimed her before anyone else could. Especially Sir Richard. She did not like Sir Richard, with his fat fingers and his sweaty forehead, and the way he smelled of nasty things under the heavy cologne he wore. Even though Polly had confided to her that morning that he was as rich as Midas and a very good catch, she did not want to engage his interest. Wealthy or not, he still sent shivers of disgust racing down her spine.
As soon as she entered the salon, Mrs. Erskine pulled her aside. “Your ser vices have been engaged for the month,” she said quietly in Sarah’s ear.
Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. “So soon?” According to Polly, a girl had to work hard at gaining a gentleman’s interest and please him very well in bed before he would pay for her exclusive ser vices. She hoped her new protector would not expect so much from her—particularly not the bed part. “Who has paid for me?”
“Tom Wilde. See to it that you treat him well.” She gave a rare smile. “You have done well. He has paid handsomely for the privilege of having you to himself.”
Some of the tension escaped from her body. Far better Tom Wilde, for all his rascally ways, than Sir Richard the fat. She could almost enjoy playing parlor games with Tom, if he did not try to take them too far.
Barely had she turned away from Mrs. Erksine than Tom was at her elbow. “Take my arm.”
Orders, even orders to do exactly what she wanted to do anyway, always rubbed her the wrong way. It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him, until she caught sight of Sir Richard waddling her way, his piggy eyes fixed on her. Hastily she tucked her hand into the crook of Tom’s arm. “Are you always this autocratic?”
Placing his free hand over hers, he walked her toward an empty corner of the room. “Yes.”
Secretly his attitude thrilled her. “You make no apology for it?”
“I wanted you to myself. It seemed the fastest way of achieving my goal.”
“Ruthless as well as autocratic,” she muttered, completely forgetting Mrs. Erskine’s injunction to be pleasant to him.
He barked a short laugh. “And are you, Miss Sarah Chesham, always this rude to gentlemen who have paid through the nose to spend time with you?”
She shrugged, not liking to be reminded that her time, even if nothing else, was for sale. “As you are the first such gentleman, I can hardly say.”
“As you are so unaccommodating, I am hardly surprised you are not overwhelmed with admirers. Would you be as rude to anyone else in the room?”
Mrs. Erskine’s injunctions forced themselves in on her remembrance all of a sudden. “I have not been rude to you at all,” she protested guiltily, knowing that she lied.
“Would you be as rude to Sir Richard Etheridge, for example? He has a good deal more money than I do, and he is a baronet to boot.”
“Sir Richard the fat?” Her face crinkled in distaste. “I would not care to talk to him at all.” That at least was no lie.
He entwined his fingers with hers. “Is it just me who rouses your ire, then? Did our acquaintance start out on the wrong footing?”
She could not think of their first meeting, when he caught her with her hands under her skirts touching herself, without blushing to the tips of her ears. “You are an acknowledged scoundrel. You bring out the worst in me.”
His fingers squeezed hers affectionately as he maneuvered her through the room. “You are so pretty I cannot believe that your worst is so very bad.”
The insincerity in his voice grated on her feelings. “Do not waste your breath with empty flattery,” she said wearily, suddenly in no mood to play games with him. “It is not necessary. I will spend the evening with you regardless. You have paid for my time and Mrs. Erskine will not allow me to cheat you of that.”
Without her noticing, he had steered her to a quiet corner of the room where they could talk undisturbed. “I trust you enough to believe you would not try to cheat me.”
“What do you know about me? That I work in a coffeehouse that doubles as a bawdy house, and that I am the closest a woman can get to a whore without being one? Why should you trust me?”
“You are pretty enough to make me forget all that and trust you anyway.”
Would he not give up his condescending flattery? Could he not see that its hollowness was insulting? She took her hand out of the crook of his arm. “Then you are a fool.”
To her surprise he did not get angry with her. Instead he leaned against the wall, crossed his arms in front of him, and looked at her in genuine admiration. “You are an astute woman.”
Her irritation could not be dismissed so lightly. “What do you mean?”
“As pretty as you are, I do not trust you one whit, but I trust Mrs. Erskine to not let me be cheated.”
Even though she had goaded him into making such a bold statement, his honest words still irked her. “Why do you trust her and not me? Is she so singularly honest? Or am I so particularly untrustworthy?”
His smile spoke volumes. “It’s very simple—she has more to lose than you do. I could destroy her coffee house with one malicious pamphlet, and she knows it. I have no such hold over you.”
Uncomfortable though his words might be, she much preferred him when he was telling her the unvarnished truth instead of pacifying her with lies that a child could see through. “You are a writer?”
“I am. And a moderately successful one, too.” His pride was evident in his tone of voice. “I write the news sheets and contribute to a number of periodicals.”
His open pride in his profession surprised her. “My father always said that writing was barely a respectable way to earn one’s living.”
Tom’s brow darkened. “Your father must have been a paragon of all earthly virtues to turn up his nose at writers.”
Judging by the black look on his face, she had offended him without even trying this time. “He was a curate, a man of God.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “Things were either black or white to him.”
“And are you equally uncompromising? Do you consider me beneath your notice now that you know
I am a working man, and earning my living in a barely respectable way?”
“Why should I?” She spread out her arms in a gesture that invited him to share the irony of her situation. “I am a working girl myself, and my profession is a far less respectable one.”
“You are no helpless ornament. You at least have a profession.”
“One I am not proud of. How could I be proud of this?”
“Earning a living is better than giving up and starving on the streets.”
“Is it?” She shot him a shrewd look. “My father, for one, would not think so.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“I am here, aren’t I?” The corner of her mouth creased in a mirthless smile. “Not starving in the streets or laboring in the work house for a pittance with no hope of ever getting out again.”
“I admire your spirit. You are brave. A survivor.”
Bravery would have been holding her head high as she died by inches in the work house. True courage would have allowed her to forget the needs of her body while she took care of her soul. Bravery was not selling her body for bread because she was afraid of hunger and cold and want. “I took the easy way out. There is nothing brave about that.”
He came nearer to her, and traced down the line of her cheek with his forefinger. “Is it so very bad, being here?”
“I am glad you have bought my time for the month,” she confessed, in the spirit of truthfulness that had overcome them both. “You are easy to talk to and you do not stare at me like Sir Richard did last night. He made me feel somehow dirty.”
He grinned at her. “You forgot to mention that I am a far finer figure of a man than he is and that you like me immensely.”
“Sir Richard is a fine figure of a man,” she protested with an answering smile. “Well, anyway, he is very fine.”
Tom made a face. “And he cuts a perfectly ridiculous figure in his gargantuan striped satin waistcoats. He is as big as a house. You could put a tasseled saddle on him and ride him about town, and pretend you were in India riding an elephant.”
She suppressed a grin. Really, she should not think of Mrs. Erskine’s guests in such a way, but Sir Richard did look uncomfortably like an elephant. “You are a scoundrel.”
His eyes brightened. “You like me in spite of the fact that I am a scoundrel?”
She could not help but laugh. “It is very wicked of me, but I suspect that I like you all the more because of it.”
A movement behind her caught his eye, and a groan escaped him. “Speak of the devil.”
She turned in the direction of his gaze to find Sir Richard the fat bearing down on them, huffing and puffing like a steam engine.
He bore down on Tom, fixing him with a steely eye. “You called me away last night to no purpose. There was no vote in the House last night.”
“Was there not?” Tom lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “I must have been mistaken. I do apologize.”
Sir Richard Etheridge was not appeased. His chubby fingers were clenched into tight fists at his sides and his breath came in even shorter bursts than usual. “There was no mistake about it. You called me away on purpose.”
“Why would I do that?”
Sir Richard Etheridge jerked his head in Sarah’s direction. “You wanted the wench,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “so you thought to get me out of the way with a damnable lie.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic, my dear old fellow. All’s fair in love and war.”
“I am not your dear old fellow.” Sarah was almost frightened by the vicious ice in Sir Richard’s voice. “I claim no acquaintance with you. You are not a gentleman.”
Tom examined his fingernails with a show of interest. “True, but then neither am I a fat lecher.”
Sarah stifled a horrified gasp as Sir Richard’s face went as purple as a peony at the insult.
He turned to Sarah with as much dignity as he could muster and offered her his arm. “Come, girl. You can see your companion has no breeding. Will you not do me the honor of your company instead?”
Sarah shook her head, not knowing what to say that would not make the situation worse. Really, Sir Richard looked as if he would be struck down with apoplexy, he was so angry. Tom was such a scoundrel to tease the poor man so.
“You’re too late,” Tom said before she could gather her wits sufficiently to reply. “She is not mistress of her own destiny at the moment. I have made arrangements with Mrs. Erskine.”
Sir Richard took back his arm and glared at Tom, thwarted malice writ large in his piggy eyes. “You have not heard the last of this,” he warned, as he turned on his heel and waddled away. “I am not a man to be lightly crossed.”
Sarah shuffled uneasily at his threats, but Tom merely roared with laughter. “He is not a man to do anything lightly,” he sputtered, loudly enough that Sir Richard could hear.
Judging by the sudden stiffening of the ramrod posture of his back and the increase in pace of his waddling, Sir Richard heard this last insult only too well.
Sarah was saved from replying to Tom’s latest sally by Mrs. Erskine, who called the company to attention. “Make yourselves ready, ladies and gentlemen,” she called. “For a game of blindman’s buff.”
4
Sarah watched as one of the gentlemen set a hard-backed chair in the middle of the room, with a small table covered in a lace cloth beside it. With dignified ceremony, Mrs. Erskine placed a large-figured hourglass firmly on the top.
A round-faced fellow with a pronounced look of mischief in his eye promptly plumped into the chair with an emphatic “Me first!”
Mrs. Erskine tied a thick black blindfold firmly around his head, covering his eyes. “Can you see anything?”
He waved his hand in front of his face. “Not a thing. It’s as dark as midday in a London fog.”
With this confirmation, she reached over and turned the hourglass over, starting the flow of sand.
One of the coffee house girls stepped forward. With a deliberate gesture, she removed the pins from her coiffure and leaned over the seated gentleman, shaking her long dark hair down over her shoulders and allowing some stray strands to caress his face.
Leaning toward her, he breathed in her scent, looking for all the world like a pouter pigeon stretching its neck out for a tasty morsel.
“I do declare,” the pouter pigeon said with a series of appreciative sniffs. “We appear to have Mrs. Isabella Beeton in the parlor this evening. No one else, I am sure, could smell so deliciously of home and hearth and all other good things.”
A snigger ran around the room. Sarah joined in the laughter. Aside from the Queen herself, a less likely player of blindman’s buff could not be imagined. Mrs. Isabella Beeton’s Book of House hold Management had been like a second Bible to her mother. The very thought of such a pillar of respectability taking part in naughty parlor games was positively sacrilegious.
Egged on by the gentlemen, the girl started to undo her bodice, releasing the buttons one by one. Sarah stifled a gasp of shock as she realized the girl was wearing only the thinnest lawn chemise under her bodice. Her exceedingly generous breasts were practically bare.
The girl leaned into the temporarily sightless man seated before her and pressed her bosom to his face, nigh on smothering him with her attentions.
The pouter pigeon chuckled wheezily, his face buried happily in her chest. “Surely this cannot be the breast of our honored Prime Minister, William Gladstone. Even he could not be this liberal.”
The assembled men roared with laughter at the idea that the devoutly religious Prime Minister should be thrusting his naked bosom into anyone’s face.
Showing no sign of wanting to move his face away, the pouter pigeon chuckled again. “Besides, I do not think I will ever see the day when En gland’s Prime Minister has such a delightfully bountiful chest as this.”
Sarah did not think it was such an absurd idea as all that, but the gentlemen evidently did. Their laughter redoubled at
the very notion that a woman would ever be Prime Minister.
The laughter quickly turned to a cheer of delight as the girl removed her bodice altogether and tugged her chemise low enough for her breasts to fall free. She teased the seated man’s mouth with her nipple, brushing the tip of her breast against his lips and then withdrawing before he could taste her properly.
Sarah watched in trepidation as the sands in the hourglass diminished rapidly. The girl’s display as she twirled before the cheering men, her large firm breasts completely exposed and nipples crinkling with the attention, made her palms sweat. Would she be called on to do the same? To prance around half-naked before the whole assembly as they called out indecent suggestions?
“Relax,” Tom whispered in her ear, sensing her nerves. “You are mine, remember? If you are called on to perform, it will only be for me. I will not demand more than you freely offer.”
“You will not?” Although she was hardly experienced at being a coffee house girl, she did not think it likely that any gentleman would pay a vast sum of money to have her at his disposal for an entire month and then not pressure her to lie with him. Polly had warned her that she would not be able to keep her virginity indefinitely or she would soon lose her popularity. A new girl with a new face would join their group and Sarah would lose her novelty value. Teasing the gentlemen, Polly warned her, would only take the customers so far. Eventually they all wanted to be fucked.
“Not tonight.” He drew her closer to his side until she was pressed up against his thighs. “After all, I am in no hurry. I have a whole month to tempt you into offering me everything.”
“I will not offer you everything however long you wait,” Sarah said, turning her head away from him. His confidence irked her. He ought not be so sure of himself and of his powers of seduction. What ever he may think of her, she was not a wanton.
“We shall see.”
Sarah tossed her head at him and focused on the game again. The victim was still searching blindly for the girl’s breasts as she teased him mercilessly, never letting him have more than a fleeting taste. As the last grains of sand trickled through the hourglass, she placed a nipple at his mouth in a final tease. There was no time for him to give the proffered nipple more than a quick lick before the sands of the hourglass ran out and the gentlemen all bellowed “Time!”
Parlor Games Page 5