Regency House

by Elizabeth Moss

  It was not as though he even loved Caroline. She was merely the bride that had been chosen for him. It was a marriage of convenience. And he knew for certain that her affections were not engaged either. How could they be after so short an acquaintance?

  All the same, Rollo paused on the steps up to the door, leaning heavily on his cane. Then he turned away without knocking.

  He did not know why, or when he had become so deuced particular about his bedding habits. Having to walk with a cane had never prevented him from living a full life as a young man about town, much to the distaste of his stepmother, who liked to pretend she did not know whether he would be able to ‘perform’ as a husband.

  He staggered away, cursing his head under his breath. The wine he had been drinking at the club tonight had perhaps been too strong. Or too plentiful. One of the two, for his head felt damned muddled and he was finding it hard to walk even with the help of his cane.

  The square was dark and quiet, the air slightly misty.

  There had been an Italian gentleman at their card table, he suddenly remembered. A stranger to him. Someone’s guest for the evening. Alonso, or some such foreign name. An unusual fellow with a strange cracked laugh, he had insisted on making him drink some heady Italian concoction, a mix of different wines or spirits, he was not sure which.

  But when Rollo had risen to take his leave, Alonso had vanished. And nobody had been able to recall whose friend he was.

  ‘Damn odd fellow,’ he muttered, then stopped at the mouth of a dark alley, frowning.

  The sound he had heard came again.

  A woman’s voice, crying faintly for help. Some doxy plying her trade in the alleyway, he thought, peering into the dark. He could see nothing except shadows. Another feeble cry, almost more like a cat than a woman, but still he hesitated. None of his business. And likely an ambush. Some cutthroat after his purse. He had heard of men murdered in such a way …

  ‘Help, oh help me,’ the cry came again, even more pitifully.

  But a woman was a woman, regardless. Noblesse oblige, and all that.

  Deuce take it!

  He took a few steps into the dark. ‘Halloo? Who’s there?’

  He tapped his cane on the brick wall, and the sound echoed back at him in the mist. A sense of foreboding seized him, and almost he would have turned back, but that faint cry came again from a few yards ahead in the shadows.

  ‘Show yourself or I shall venture no further,’ he called out, then listened hard. ‘Are you in trouble, madam?’

  Suddenly a shape launched at him out of the darkness. Rollo tried to step back and caught his cane in the thick folds of his cloak. He stumbled just as a woman barrelled into him at full-tilt, crying out with that faint voice, ‘Aiutami!’ which even his befuddled brain managed to translate as Italian for help me!

  He had an impression of wide dark eyes, a full reddish mouth, perfumed hair and a generous figure that pressed against him in a manner designed to arouse. This was no slight creature like Caroline, he realised in that flash, but a true Amazonian.

  His leg failed under the sudden, unexpected weight and Rollo fell backwards like a fool, the woman on top of him. He clutched at her in a gentlemanly but probably vain attempt to prevent the unknown lady from harming herself.

  ‘F … forgive me,’ he managed to stutter, but no sooner were the words out than her red-lipped mouth pressed against his, and her tongue was in his mouth.

  Good God!

  Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her hips moving boldly against his. Then sense returned as a booted foot kicked him in the shoulder.

  ‘Unhand that lady and get to your feet, you degenerate English bastard!’ a heavily accented voice challenged him. ‘How dare you molest my sister?’

  His sister?

  The woman hurriedly disengaged herself, and uttered a brutal shriek. She wiped a hand across her lips as though in disgust, though the light dancing in her eyes made the subterfuge plain.

  ‘He kissed me, Alonso!’

  Alonso?

  ‘What the devil?’ Rollo demanded, groping his way up the wall as he got back to his feet. He reached for his fallen cane, wincing. ‘This woman forced herself upon me, sir, I assure you.’

  ‘A likely story!’ When he turned to face the newcomer, Rollo realised with a shock that it was indeed the Italian gentleman from the club. The one who had insisted he try that strong foreign concoction. ‘Look at my sister’s innocent face. Her only sin was to wander from my side just now, when I collected her from our aunt’s house, and so lose her way in these dark and dangerous London streets. And you, villain, have abused her.’

  ‘Alonso, do you not remember me from the club? My name is Farraway… ’

  ‘I do remember you, sir, and recall how much you had to drink. Why, it is an astonishment to me that you can even speak. No wonder you seized my sister like the violent English brute you are, and subjected her to this terrifying attack. You no doubt mistook her for one of your London women of the night.’

  Horrified by this bluntness, Rollo shot a glance at the young woman beside them. But she showed no sign of having understood her brother’s coarse words.

  ‘Absolutely not. She must have thought I was you,’ he said slowly, trying to unmuddle the misunderstanding, then realised that if she had thought he was her brother, she would hardly have kissed him so passionately. ‘Well, that is … ’

  ‘Do not lie. I saw you kiss her!’

  His head throbbing now, Rollo leaned against the brick wall of the alley. The smell of stale urine attacked his nostrils, and suddenly he felt nauseous. But what a hideous misunderstanding. How on earth had it occurred?

  ‘It is true, I did kiss her. That is, our lips met. But trust me, sir, it was never my intention to … ’

  ‘Face me, you drunken reprobate! And do not waste breath on these lies. You English aristocrats are all the same, you believe any woman is yours to offend.’

  Rollo stared at the man. His fury seemed unfeigned, and was all the more dangerous because it was in some part justified.

  At that moment, a group of passing gentlemen stopped at the mouth of the alleyway, cloaked and hatted, one of them still singing loudly.

  Two of the men took a few paces into the alley, staring at them suspiciously.

  ‘You there, what’s all this?’ one of them called through the darkness, and Rollo was horrified to recognise the stirring accents of one of his own acquaintances. As they came forward, he saw that it was Tom, one of the young men he had known at Oxford, a tall fellow with ginger hair and a lopsided smile. Although it was a frown at this very moment. ‘Rollo, what the deuce are you about? You are looking in poor shape. Do you need some assistance, man?’

  ‘I thank you, Tom, no.’

  But he was relieved to have friends about him, in truth. He had been worried that this misunderstanding was going beyond a joke.

  Rollo straightened with an effort and turned to his attacker. ‘Sir, I understand your very natural fury at finding me with your sister, but indeed you are mistaken – ’ he began, hoping to pacify the Italian gentleman, but was interrupted by a stinging slap to his face. With a pair of leather gloves.

  ‘I say!’ Rollo’s friend exclaimed, and would have started forward, but one of the others laid a cautious hand on his sleeve.

  Alonso lowered his gloves. He was breathing hard. ‘You will accept this challenge, sir,’ he said in his perfect English. ‘You have insulted my sister and impugned her honour. You will meet me at dawn this Friday, where honour will be satisfied.’ He waited, lips pursed, eyebrows raised. ‘Well, sir?’

  There was nothing to be done.

  Rollo wrenched at his cravat, which felt suddenly too tight, then managed a short bow. ‘These are some of my friends,’ he said, indicating the other gentlemen. ‘If any of them are willing to act for me, I expect they will meet with your own seconds tomorrow.’

  Tom nodded vigorously. ‘I’ll act for you, Rollo.’

 
‘Thank you.’

  Alonso regarded him with a cold eye. ‘I shall furnish your friends with the address of my lodgings. Tomorrow at noon.’

  Not bothering with a reply, or even a shake of his hand, Rollo leaned heavily on his cane. He passed Tom with another muttered word of thanks, and grasped him by the shoulder.

  ‘Pistols, not swords.’

  ‘Of course, man.’ Tom looked concerned, then lowered his voice, ‘Though no one would think any the worse of you for refusing to meet this Italian. I saw him in the club tonight. An oily fellow.’

  Rollo shrugged.

  But Tom kept on. ‘I’ll swear he’s forced this quarrel on you. He has some game here. What were the particulars?’

  ‘It barely matters now. A misunderstanding.’

  ‘Well, let me call it off … ’

  ‘And have the world account me a coward as well as lame?’ Rollo demanded hotly, then remembered this man was his friend. ‘Look, it’s done now. Find out his address, would you? Let it be arranged, for God’s sake, and speedily. Friday I must fight a duel, it seems. Then marry on Saturday morning.’

  Tom nodded, but he was pale. ‘And if … if the worst should … ’

  ‘Don’t look so whey-faced, you won’t be asked to marry the lady in my place,’ Rollo assured him with a short laugh. ‘Go on, fix the place and time. Let me worry about my wedding.’

  One of the others shook his head. ‘Rollo – ’

  ‘No, I’ll not hear another word on the matter. The thing is done, I say. Just keep this meeting quiet, would you, gentlemen?’ he said, looking round at the others. They were drunk, but not so far gone that they could not hear the seriousness in his voice. They nodded sombrely. ‘I thank you, friends. I would not have this nonsense come to the ears of my bride-to-be.’

  ‘You have my word,’ one agreed, then hiccupped loudly and someone else laughed.

  ‘Let’s go to Jenny’s,’ another suggested, ‘get us a few eager wenches for the night. Push on until dawn!’

  Someone put a friendly arm about his shoulder as Tom rejoined them, solemnly nodding to indicate that the arrangements had been made. ‘All done, see?’

  ‘Come on, Rollo,’ one of the others insisted. ‘Forget that Italian upstart and his sister. Wandering about in the dark like that … Hardly good ton, what?’

  ‘Damn fishy!’ another shouted.

  ‘And I know a pretty girl at Jenny’s who’ll soon put a smile back on your face.’

  Dragged along by the others, some singing drunkenly again, others whooping like boys, Rollo stumbled a few streets in their rowdy, boisterous company. But common sense eventually resurfaced, and he took his leave of them on the steps of Jenny’s brothel.

  They protested, but no one tried to stop him from leaving their merry throng. Not even Tom, whom he had known longest. He would be facing a challenge to his honour at dawn on Friday, and though the duel was not mentioned, every man there understood his need to be alone.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he told his friends, waiting until they had knocked and gained entrance to the brightly lit establishment before turning quietly away.

  Strange decision, perhaps. The wintry air was cold, the smog only slowly easing, and an hour spent in a soft perfumed bed might have eased his harried spirits after that unpleasant encounter. But to his surprise he was in no mood to sport with his friends among the petticoats.

  Not tonight.

  Rollo walked home in a weary silence, the stultifying effects of the wine beginning to wane, and found himself relying on his cane more than usual as he thought over his predicament.

  In a bare few days he would either be a married or a dead man. And what shocked him most was that he could not instantly see any difference between those two states.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SOPHIA

  The candle on the mantle flickered in the draught as Sophia quietly closed the door of her bedchamber, checking first that nobody was loitering outside on the dark landing. Her Jamaican maid Carmella had been looking at her suspiciously for the past few days, no doubt sensing that she had a scheme in hand – she had been Sophia’s nurse too, and knew her character well – and this was a conversation Sophia did not intend to be overheard.

  Turning to the understairs maid Becky, who looked quite pale with fright, she raised her eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  Becky was a tiny little thing with straggly ginger hair under a white linen cap. She spoke with the most barbarous accent, but of course being an understairs maid, she was not expected to converse with any civilized members of society so her accent hardly mattered.

  Barely fifteen years old, Becky had been hired with the other servants before the family even arrived in London. Yet Sophia had instantly recognised a potential co-conspirator in the scrawny-looking girl, spotting her scrubbing the doorstep early one icy morning, and bribed her with promises of largesse. And so far Becky had proved most useful, a source of local information which none of their Jamaican-born servants would have known – and certainly would never have passed on to their inquisitive young mistress.

  Now though the poor girl was looking tortured. Twisting her raw, chapped hands together, Becky shook her head as though refusing to help.

  ‘Oh Miss, I … I shouldn’t be in your bedchamber like this. Begging your pardon, but I have to go back to my bed in the kitchen. Mrs Trumper would dismiss me on the spot if she was to catch me above stairs without permission!’

  ‘Then say what you have discovered for me about the Farraway and Lewis wedding, and you may safely depart before Mrs Trumper has a chance to see you.’ When the girl still did not speak, Sophia held out a gold sovereign, balanced on the palm of her hand. ‘Come now, you silly goose. Are you afraid of money?’

  ‘Oh Miss, the trouble I’d be in,’ Becky moaned, but her eyes had turned glassy now, fixed on the large shiny coin.

  ‘Tell me first where the Lewis family have their residence, and which establishment has been awarded the dressing of the bride.’ Sophia looked at her sternly. ‘I trust you were able to discover these things?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. The Lewis family reside in Grosvenor Square, and Made … selle De … Demur is to make the bridal clothes,’ the girl told her, stumbling over the foreign words.

  Sophia smiled and handed over the promised sovereign. ‘Excellent. Where is Mademoiselle Demur’s shop?’

  ‘Salcombe Street, Miss.’

  ‘And will there be a final fitting this week?’

  ‘I believe so, Miss, yes,’ Becky said promptly, looking more cheerful now. Shamelessly, the girl bit into the sovereign as though to check it was not false gold, then rubbed it clean on her sleeve and slipped it into her apron pocket. ‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, my cousin Daisy said.’

  ‘Your cousin?’

  ‘That’s right, Miss. My cousin’s friend works as cook’s assistant for the Lewis household.’ Becky’s eyes glowed. ‘Their cook makes the best suet pudding in all London, they do say. Begging your pardon, Miss.’

  ‘Let’s not stray from the point, Becky.’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  ‘So I assume this fitting will take place at the shop, not at the home of Lord and Lady Lewis?’

  ‘At the shop, I was told. On account of there being no Lady Lewis.’

  Sophia frowned. ‘No Lady Lewis? You mean, his lordship is a widower?’

  ‘That’s right, and a terrible shame it is that he never remarried. His daughter Caroline barely stirs abroad, with no mother to guide her, and only some old aunt to take her to and from the balls every young lady wishes to attend.’

  ‘So Lady Lewis is dead. Childbirth, was it?’

  ‘Oh no, Miss, it were a terrible accident, with the daughter only a small child at the time.’ Becky’s voice dropped to a hoarse, appalled whisper, thoroughly enjoying the horror of her tale. ‘Some say Lord Lewis threw his wife from his carriage while it was still moving! And that she was big with child too. Some say it was not his own, and that’s why he killed her.’ />
  ‘What nonsense. If any of that were true, his lordship would have been arrested and hanged for his wife’s murder.’

  ‘Well, they do say his lordship should a’ swung for it. But being a lord and all, he was able to walk away without a blemish on his character. Shameful, my cousin says it is.’

  ‘And what does her friend say?’

  ‘Oh nothing, Miss. She knows what side her bread is buttered.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Bobbing an awkward curtsey, Becky suddenly asked, ‘Will that be all, Miss? It’s so late, I don’t want to be missed.’

  ‘You have done well, Becky, and yes, that is all for now. However, I may need your services again in a few days.’

  ‘Very good, Miss,’ the girl said dubiously.

  ‘If I need you, I shall move the large red plant holder in the hall to the left of the long mirror, instead of the right where it ordinarily stands.’ Sophia paused. ‘Do you know your left from your right, Becky?’

  Becky looked offended. ‘Course, Miss. I had a whole year of schooling when I was seven.’

  ‘Good. Then the moving of the plant holder will be our signal that you must find a chance to talk with me privately.’ She looked Becky in the eye. ‘But only after midnight. Is that clear?’

  ‘If you say so, Miss.’

  ‘And if you are caught on your way up or down, then you must pretend that … that you are sleep-walking. You may tell them that you have suffered from the complaint since childhood, and cannot help yourself.’

  Becky’s eyes grew round. ‘Sleep-walking, Miss?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ Sophia agreed, and gave a decisive nod. ‘They can hardly dismiss you for that. And if they try, I shall intercede with my father on your behalf. I am his only daughter and very much his favourite child. He almost invariably does what I ask him.’