Death and the Courtesan

by Pamela Christie

  “Bell, do you remember, when we were at the auction, how you told me that you needed to have the red elephant in your life?”

  The sisters were taking their customary constitutional, strolling arm in arm through Hyde Park, closely followed by their carriage, in case they should grow tired.

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, I remember. And now it has fulfilled its purpose. You had to get that elephant, and put it on your nightstand, so that you could break it on the floor and summon help when you needed it! Only think: If you had failed to outbid everyone else that day, you would be dead now.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “It only proves what I have long suspected: that we are mere puppets in a universe where every action, every thought we have, is pre-ordained. We are quite powerless either to prevent or to alter the course of events in any manner whatsoever.”

  “ ‘The Interdependence of Things,’ ” Arabella said.

  Belinda groaned. “Not Lucretius, again!”

  “No, indeed, Ernst Hoffmann, a well-known German critic and musical director, who occasionally writes stories. Although, I suppose, ‘The Interdependence of Things’ could be construed as a sort of codicil to The Nature of Things,” she said, more to herself than to Belinda. “Similar titles, too. Herr Hoffmann has undoubtedly read Lucretius! I must write to him, and ask!”

  “Bell,” murmured her sister. “You’re beginning to bore me.”

  If there was one thing upon which the Beaumont girls were in perfect agreement, it was the sin of not being fascinating.

  “No, wait!” cried Arabella. “It’s a story, you see—Euchar and his friend Lothair are walking through a park, even as we are now, on a summer’s eve, exactly like this one, with a cool breeze that rises up to drive out the heat of the afternoon. The two are passing the picnickers—” here she broke off and nodded to Lord Carisbrooke, who was seated on the grass and eating tongue sandwiches with his family—“while making their way toward the pleasure gardens. . . .” (They could hear the strains of music drifting out from Vauxhall.) “And having this exact conversation. Euchar seems to have been expressing himself with regards to random chance, for Lothair, in the opening lines of the tale, passionately denies its existence. He compares the universe to a clock, crafted by a vast intelligence, and says that if chance were to interfere, everything would come to an immediate standstill. Then he trips over a root, and his friend laughingly tells him, if he had not tripped and fallen at that very moment, the universe would have vanished upon the instant.”

  “Oh,” said Belinda. “And then what happens?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Hoffmann hasn’t finished the story yet. What I’ve told you was based on some notes he enclosed in a letter to Robert Southey. There’s to be a Gypsy dancer in it.”

  At that moment, Belinda stumbled over a root and went sprawling upon the grass, to the vast delight of the onlookers.

  “This,” said Arabella, assisting her sister to rise and pulling her skirt down, “is a perfect example of the need for an all-enveloping garment that women can wear beneath their gowns, to shield their personal parts from the eyes of strangers.”

  Arabella felt nervous for Belinda, and with good reason; she had seen Tom Rowlandson sitting at some little distance away, sketch pad in hand. Odds were good, very good, that Belinda would find herself caricatured in Ackermann’s window in the next day or two, sprawled upon the grass and completely exposed below the waist.

  “Are you hurt, Bunny?”

  “My dignity is bruised, and more than a little, but I believe I shall live,” said the plucky girl. “Bell, do you suppose that by tumbling down just now, I saved the universe from exploding?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It makes my stomach ache to talk about such things. Let us go home, and see whether Mrs. Moly has any of that chocolate sponge left over from luncheon.”

  Chapter 20

  ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS. WELL . . .

  In which Mr. Kendrick ponders the future and

  Arabella attempts to secure it.

  As he surmounted the steps to Lustings’s front door, Mr. Kendrick was surprised to see the two Runners still lurking about in the undergrowth.

  “Oh, they’re not here for me,” Arabella explained. “They have come to say good-bye to Neddy and Eddie. My niece and nephew are returning to their respective homes today. Do you know, the officers have grown quite close to those children? Those poor, fatherless children!”

  “But they’re not fatherless! They’re Charlie’s!”

  “It amounts to the same thing, does it not?”

  “Are they really here to say good-bye to the children? Or have they come to say hello to the mothers?”

  “It amounts to the same thing, does it not?” she repeated. “Speaking of that, Mr. Kendrick, I do not wish to appear rude, but what have you come for? Are you taking up another subscription for those Effing Sunday school children?”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “This is purely a social call. I wanted to be sure of catching you before you left for Bath.” Kendrick removed his hat and seated himself on one of the large trunks in the foyer. “When do you go?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” said Arabella. “And I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Kendrick, that I cannot remember ever having needed a vacation so much in my life before!”

  “I can well believe that. But have you given any thought to your future? Now that you have broken with the duke, you will need to find an alternative source of income, will you not?”

  “I expect all will soon be sorted out to my satisfaction, in one way or another.”

  “That’s very well for now,” said Kendrick, “but what will you do when you’re old?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Arabella. “What do old people generally do?”

  “They play with their grandchildren.”

  “I shall play with my friends instead. Other than that, I expect I shall behave much like other old ladies: I shall take naps. Spoil the dog. Crochet—as long as my eyes hold out.”

  “But you don’t have a dog. And you have told me that you don’t know how to crochet.”

  “It should be fairly easy to obtain a dog from somewhere. As to crocheting, I can always learn. And then at long last, when all my other interests have palled and I have nothing ahead of me but time, I shall work upon the crowning achievement of my life: my memoirs!”

  Kendrick was flabbergasted.

  “Oh! But... !”

  Before he could formally protest, however, Fielding put her head through the doorway.

  “The duke to see you, ma’am.”

  “Ah! Punctual to the dot! Put him in the library, Fielding. I shall send for him shortly.”

  The head was withdrawn.

  “What do you mean?” Kendrick asked. “How is it the duke? Have you written to him?”

  Arabella drew herself up with an air of injured dignity. “Of course not! For what do you take me, Mr. Kendrick?” But her manner softened immediately. “I happen to know the date on which Miss van Diggle broke their engagement—she’s called ‘Jiggle van Diggle,’ by the way. Suits her, don’t you think?—and Glendeen is due to ship out on the twenty-ninth. So I have allowed him a day to shop for gifts to woo me back, and two more for his mother to threaten him with disinheritance if he takes up with me again. That brings us to today, the twenty-eighth. If we narrow it down still further, today is Friday, Puddles’ day to play golf with the bishop. Then I simply add the time it takes for him to look in at his club and dine at Co’s. Ordinarily, he might have gone to the opera, which would have added a few hours, but the duke has been abstaining from carnal pleasures these last few weeks, so on that account he will probably forego the opera and come straight to me. That puts his expected time of arrival here at about half past nine—”

  Arabella turned to the clock on her mantel, which was chiming the half hour. “Et voilà! But for the fact that Glendeen would have seen it, I’d have listed his estimated arrival time in the betting b
ook at White’s and made a packet. But no matter: With the duke back in my fold, I shall make a packet anyway.”

  She lifted her eyes to the reverend’s and laid her hand upon his arm. “Please don’t fret, John,” she said gently. “If the choice were mine alone, I should choose your company over that of any man’s in London . . . now. However, I have obligations just at present.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “And you’re much obliged for those presents, I’ll be bound!” He covered her hand with his own. “It grieves me to know that I cannot support you and your family in the style you deserve.”

  “I know it does. But there may well come a time when I can make do with less. Belinda may marry. Charles may, too, for the matter of that, and finally assume full financial responsibility for his children. Pigs might fly . . . anything might happen. But a life for you and me together just now is impossible.”

  “Miss Beaumont,” he said, and it was nice of him to call her so. For he had, after all, recently seen her quite naked. A man of less refinement would have called her Arabella. “I know it’s indelicate to bring up figures at a time like this, but . . . if I may ask . . . how much would you require . . . do you think. . . .”

  Her silvery laugh held more than a hint of gold in it, too. “Money is always an appropriate subject, Mr. Kendrick, as far as I am concerned. These days I am getting along on something over one hundred thousand pounds a year.”

  The reverend swallowed. “Ah!” That was all he said. But after a moment, he added, “You know how I feel about you, Miss Beaumont. I only ask that you remember I am always at your service; and pray, feel free to call upon me whenever you require assistance.”

  So saying, he raised her hand to his lips and left her.

  Later that evening, Arabella lay in bed, amidst a profusion of boxes and ribbons, playing delightedly with the presents that the duke had heaped upon her counterpane in dazzling profusion: amber earrings; a matching set of diamond bracelets; a large diamond and sapphire starburst brooch; tortoiseshell combs, inset with emeralds; cashmere shawls in varying shades of green; and a Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy. The duke, who sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots, smiled down indulgently at his own darling domestic pet.

  “There, you see?” he said. “It’s all come right in the end, hasn’t it, Bell?”

  “I suppose so,” she replied, nuzzling her puppy, “but it was a near thing, Puddles, a very near thing indeed.”

  The puppy was also called Puddles. In choosing this appellation, Arabella had been motivated less from sentimental impulse than from the aptness of the name. For the dog had already spoilt Arabella’s bedside rug and she had decided to give it away to Neddy—the dog, not the rug—as soon as the duke had sailed for Portugal.

  “Nonsense!” He laughed. “I told you I would take care of everything. You must learn to trust me, Bell.”

  “Yes, Henry,” she replied. “Before you leave me tomorrow, darling, would you oblige me by signing a document?”

  “A document?”

  “Oh, it isn’t anything, really. Just a little codicil. In case you should meet with misfortune in Palermo, you know. I’ve got it all written up, and Constance and Belinda will meet us downstairs tomorrow morning to witness it. Then we shall have a hearty breakfast together, and I shall kiss you good-bye and wish you Godspeed.”

  The duke was in a splendid humor. Arabella’s sense of timing in approaching him thus had been flawless, as always.

  “What am I to leave you in this ‘little codicil’?” he asked, chucking her under the chin. “You’ve already got Lustings out of me.”

  “Yes. But I want to know that I may keep my carriage and jewels, as well—even the ones which have been in your family since the Conquest. And . . . so that I won’t ever have to sell anything off in order to live, the way poor Euphemia did, I think I should like a lifetime yearly stipend of something over . . . well, let us say . . . one hundred thousand pounds.”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek

  of Pamela Christie’s second

  Arabella Beaumont mystery . . .

  coming soon from Kensington Publishing!

  Chapter 1

  ONE GOD; TWO HORNS

  “Well,” said Belinda, “I think he would look remarkably fearsome emerging from the shrubbery, all hard and excited. From that vantage point, anyone sitting in the pergola might imagine herself about to be ravished!”

  “Perhaps,” Arabella replied. “All the same, I believe I shall place him on a pedestal, in the center of the reflecting pool.”

  The Beaumont sisters were huddled over the desk in the library, admiring a sketch of a large bronze statue from the buried city of Herculaneum, which Arabella had recently purchased, sight unseen, from a dealer in plundered antiquities.

  “The workmen will have to tunnel in, you see,” she explained. “And the removal will be extremely dangerous, because of cave-ins and poisonous gas pockets. I expect that is why I am being charged so much for it.”

  “Well, for that; and for the extra bit.”

  They studied the picture again. Arabella, who always liked to examine certain features in the best possible light, was using the magnifier.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of statues depicting naked manhood, Bunny, but this is the first I have ever beheld with two manhoods.”

  “Hmm . . .” mused Belinda. “That short, slender one on top, and then the longer, thicker one beneath it . . . Whatever must the sculptor have been thinking?”

  “Oh, come now; you know very well what he was thinking! And once I install this piece in my garden, everyone else will be thinking it, too. Yes,” she said with a sigh, “you are probably right; I expect I am being charged extra for the extra bit. And because the piece is so old,” she added, “and extremely beautiful.”

  “. . . and because you are rich,” finished Belinda. “All the same, though, something about this does not feel quite right. Oughtn’t the statue to stay in the ground, with its dead owner? I mean, it is a kind of memorial now, is it not?”

  Arabella put down the magnifier. “I wish you would not be so morbid, Bunny. The owner may very well have escaped the cataclysm, you know, and died years later, in Tarraconen-sis or some place. Besides, this is Pan! Pan, in an amorous attitude! A doubly amorous attitude! Even if the owner did die when the house fell on him, what sort of memorial would that be?”

  “I don’t know—a memorial to the perpetually stiff, perhaps.”

  Peals of girlish laughter flowed out through the door and along the passage, where the peerless Doyle was headed upstairs with an arm full of freshly ironed flannel nightgowns, and the incomparable Fielding was toting a cord of wood to the drawing room fireplace. It was autumn, Arabella’s favorite season, and the nights were chilly now. So were the days, for the matter of that, and the one currently drawing to its close had pulled a thick mist over Brompton Park like a new shroud; all-of-a-piece, without any holes, yet fitting so closely as to reveal the sharper angles of the trees and houses beneath it.

  In the countryside, such mists are Mother Nature’s diaphanous veils, like transitional curtains between this world and the next. Not in London, though. The rivers here form foul repositories for those substances which man flings away from him in disgust, and when the mist rises off the water, collecting to itself all the available moisture, this filthy residue is condensed and distilled into poison. Most Londoners are hardy enough to survive such miasmas, but even the fittest are often subject to chronic coughs and sick headaches in the autumn.

  Arabella loved this season, nevertheless. The rich smell of the woods in Regent’s Park gladdened her heart when she took her walks there, the flame-colored leaves bringing out the deep auburn tones of her hair. She enjoyed reading by the fire, with a quilt thrown over her legs, and bowls of hot negus enjoyed in the company of convivial persons. No sensation could compare with slipping between flannel sheets heated with the warming pan on
a chilly night, and few events could so reliably elevate her spirits like donning a fur-lined, fur-trimmed pelisse before stepping into her carriage on her way to the theater.

  Most of all, though, she loved what autumn did to men—the way it made them want to snuggle up next to some warm female body and reward the owner of said body for favors bestowed. Gentlemen of her acquaintance were apt to be especially generous in the autumn. The Duke of Glendeen, for example, her own particular protector when he wasn’t off fighting naval battles, had just presented her with six magnificent horses of a most unusual color. Hides like golden toast they had, with black manes and tails. Three of them, anyway. The other three were cream-colored, but they, too, had the dark manes and tails. Arabella had started a regular trend in carriage horses with these beauties: three each of two complementary colors, as opposed to the more traditional, perfectly matched sets. The idea was very new and widely imitated. And all she had done was to murmur one morning, as she and the duke lay together after a particularly vigorous quarter of an hour, that her carriage horses were tiring more easily, now they were older. Puddles was always a generous patron—Arabella never wanted for anything—but six horses! And it wasn’t even her birthday! Yes, she adored the autumn.

  Belinda did, too. But then, Belinda loved all the seasons, as she loved the whole world, being by nature a happy, tender, appreciative creature. The poor child was a trifle morose this evening, however, for the capricious princess regent had abruptly terminated their friendship without giving a reason, and Arabella had shewn her sister the sketch of the naughty statue to cheer her up. It had worked for a few minutes, but now that Belinda had seen it, enjoyed a laugh over it and offered her opinion on where it should be placed, she was pensive again.