‘I grew up in the country,’ I explain. ‘My grandfather bred horses and I learned a little. Yours is an Arabian thoroughbred,’ I add, by way of illustrating my knowledge. ‘It is the finest I have seen.’
‘Do you ride?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Side saddle?’
I shake my head. ‘Only astride,’ I admit, not liking to confess I cannot ride the lady’s way. ‘I have never ridden in London,’ I add, reasoning he might as well know the whole. ‘Or an animal as beautiful as this. You must be proud to own him,’ I conclude wistfully.
I glance up and the expression on Edward’s face is thoughtful.
It strikes me anew how handsome he is. Many lords have a certain look after generations of inbreeding – exaggerated noses or pronounced overbites. Or they are florid with wine and swollen with gout. Edward’s features could be described as refined.
‘It is not my horse,’ he admits. ‘I am usually a better rider.’
‘You must have good credit,’ I say, ‘to have the loan of him.’
‘He belongs to a friend.’ His tone pronounces the topic is closed, and I let the subject drop. I do not mind. I have no sensitivities and expect no courtesy where rich men are concerned.
Samson tosses his head agitatedly and I let him some slack, and then wind the reins back in.
‘Thoroughbreds are temperamental,’ I explain. ‘If you sit a little further forward, you will help him feel easier.’
I do not know what it is that makes me so outspoken. Only that he does not seem so arrogant as most lords.
Edward frowns in reply, and I think perhaps I have misjudged and spoken too free.
We reach a junction.
‘Which street in Mayfair?’ I ask.
‘Clarges Street.’
I consult my mental map. Though I lodged here with Mrs Wilkes, we slept by day and worked by night. The only way I know for certain is through a busy street.
I move around to catch Samson’s head between my hands, and blow gently in his nostrils to calm him.
He snorts back, lowering his head, and I press my forehead to his.
‘It will be a little noisier here,’ I explain to Samson apologetically, fixing on his uncertain eyes. ‘But I will take good care and no harm will come to you, I promise it.’
I release his head when I’m confident he’s taken my meaning, and move to take his bridle again. It is only then I realise Edward is looking down at me with a slight smile on his lips. I look away, embarrassed, concluding fine folk do not talk with their horses.
I’m about to walk on, when Edward slides down from the saddle in one agile movement. He lands directly next to me and his sudden proximity makes me catch my breath. He appeared statuesque on the horse, but now his height is daunting. I am not used to men being this much taller than me. His muscular frame has a coiled energy that is almost palpable. There is an easy grace to him that puts me in mind of a predator. Without meaning to I take a slight step back.
Edward takes the reins from my unprotesting hand. His face is completely neutral; though he must know the effect he has on women.
I look up at him questioningly. Perhaps my conversing with his horse was the final straw. He has decided that I am too strange a companion to brook any further association with.
‘Will you walk on yourself from here?’ I ask.
He wraps the reins around his forearm but shakes his head.
‘I thought you should ride,’ he replies.
‘What?’ My first thought is he is mocking me.
‘I should like you to ride,’ he repeats patiently. ‘The horse seems to like you. I think he would be easier.’
I point to the shining coat of the thoroughbred, thinking I have mistaken his meaning.
‘You want me to ride your friend’s horse?’
He nods patiently, as if explaining to a child. And there is that disarming smile again, very faint, but unmistakable. As though some deep part of him is amused beyond measure.
‘This horse?’ I clarify, trying not to be disconcerted.
‘Unless you think I have some other horse hidden about my person.’
It takes me a moment to realise he is in jest. I break into a wide grin, and unexpectedly, he smiles broadly back. Then his features recompose themselves quickly, as though the expression took him by surprise too.
For an instant he looked much younger than the thirty or so I judged him to be.
‘Do you need a hand up?’ he asks, reaching forward to offer his arm.
The bare skin of his hand brushes mine and I start slightly. The unexpected contact makes the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.
I realise I am transfixed by his dark eyes again, and now they seem to hold a question. As if something in me has confounded him.
To hide my confusion I step quickly away and put my hands on the horse. In a moment, my foot is in the stirrup and I’ve swung myself full over Samson’s sturdy body.
‘You have a more confident mount than many lords,’ Edward murmurs approvingly. All his lordly poise has returned now, and I wonder if I imagined the moment that seemed to have passed between us.
Atop the fine horse I sit taking it all in, smiling delightedly. Samson’s black coat has been groomed to a high shine. His mane is fastidiously plaited close to his neck, revealing the prominent muscles that join to his broad back. I can feel the power of him, solid and expectant.
I am beaming at my chance to ride him.
‘Such a beautiful creature,’ I murmur, leaning forward to run my hands across Samson’s wide neck.
I know I must look a fine sight. A gaudily dressed girl on top of this magnificent beast. But I don’t care. Not in the slightest. This is the finest horse I have ever seen in London. And here I am about to ride him.
I let my eyes wander, taking in my elevated view. The city looks a great deal more regal from this height, with the mud and the squalor safely hidden away.
Edward gives a little smile, but doesn’t say anything.
‘To Clarges Street then?’ I ask, uncertain of myself again. He gives a little bow, and I touch my legs against Samson, urging him softly forwards and marvelling at my good fortune.
This is starting out to be a good night after all.
Chapter 6
We are almost to Clarges Street when Edward speaks again.
‘You are a good horsewoman,’ he says. ‘How did you end up in Piccadilly?’
I hold my gaze ahead, concentrating on keeping the horse calm.
‘I was kidnapped from a masquerade,’ I say, reciting the familiar rehearsed story. ‘By a masked man I thought to be my brother. He forced himself upon me. And once ruined, I was too ashamed to return to my family. And so I rely on the kindness of honest men.’
Edward raises an eyebrow. ‘I mean your real story,’ he says, ‘not the one you tell drunk young lords.’
He is more astute than he looks.
I hesitate and then I give him a sideways grin.
‘I grew up a country girl near Bristol,’ I admit. ‘My father sold our farm. So I ran away, rather than become a rope worker like my mother. I hoped to gain maid’s work in London. But it was harder to find and poorer paid than I had been led to believe.’
This seems to satisfy him and he turns silent again. There is something compelling in his introspection. As though beneath his surface calm a whole world is turning.
‘You do not speak very much,’ I observe, in my usual habit of letting words fly out of my mouth unchecked.
He smiles at this. ‘I like to consider things, before I say them.’
‘That is not like me,’ I admit. ‘I toss around my words like wedding rice. That is what my mother used to say. And Mrs Wilkes. She said I was like a chattering monkey.’
‘You were in Mrs Wilkes’s house?’ He is looking up at me.
‘Yes.’ I look down at him, registering his interest.
‘I have heard of it.’
‘Every lord in
London has heard of it,’ I reply.
Suddenly his gaze is completely on me and I find myself locked in it.
Those eyes.
A girl could fall deep in his black eyes. A lucky thing he does not seem to often apply them. I feel myself discomforted, under his stare.
‘Mrs Wilkes House. I can see that,’ he decides, after a moment. And I wonder what he has seen in me that leads him to that conclusion.
We’ve reached the top of Clarges Street now and I draw Samson to a halt.
I slide down, feeling strangely disappointed to be ending the meeting. Not to mention I’ll have to tell Kitty that I only made three shillings from the arrangement.
We stand looking at each other.
Suddenly a male voice echoes down the street and I see a stableman walking towards us. We look away from one another.
‘Lord Hays,’ calls the stableman, approaching Edward.
My eyes widen, seeing him in a new gold-hued light.
Lord Hays. He is from one of the wealthiest families in England.
‘You are Lord Hays?’ I manage, looking at Edward.
He nods. The stableman is taking Samson’s reins and addressing himself to Edward.
‘You would have him stabled here, Your Lordship?’ the stableman is asking.
‘Yes. He is to be returned to Berkshire tomorrow,’ says Edward. ‘Please arrange a rider to deliver him back.’ He is speaking in the clear tones of a man used to giving orders. Nothing in his tone suggests that my presence needs to be explained, and his absolute authority makes my arrival here seem perfectly normal.
The stableman nods his head. ‘Yes, Your Lordship.’ He keeps his eyes firmly on Edward, risking not the slightest glance in my direction. Though I know he must have assessed me as a street whore as he approached.
The stableman escorts Samson away, and I decide there is no reason to question Edward about being one of the richest men in England.
I see the stableman give a little backward glance at me and am struck anew by how odd an arrangement this must look. The Piccadilly street girl and the lord.
I stand awkwardly, wanting to leave. This is a fine part of town, and my low-cut dress and vulgar face paint do not fit. I see Edward’s eyes linger on my uncovered bosom and the cheap cut of fabric surrounding it.
Not knowing quite what else to do, I hold out my palm for payment. A ghost of a smile plays on Edward’s face and he reaches for his hanging pocket.
‘I nearly forgot,’ he says, removing coins.
‘I would not have,’ I reply.
He pauses, with the coins held over my palm.
I tilt my head, trying not to show my impatience. I hate to wait for money.
‘I do not know your name,’ he says, as though this is the first time it had occurred to him to ask.
‘Lizzy Ward,’ I say, flexing my fingers meaningfully.
‘Elizabeth,’ he says thoughtfully, dropping the coins into my hand.
‘No one calls me that.’ I close my hand into a tight fist around the coins and drop it to my side.
He regards me carefully. I feel myself fidget under his scrutiny.
‘How much would I need to pay,’ he begins, ‘to enjoy more of your company?’
In my great surprise, I feel my face break open in a wide grin.
I’m dimly aware that his enormous five-storey house is standing behind us. But the grand façade is turning hazy as I take in his question. As though it’s underwater.
Lord Hays is asking to pay for my company.
‘Five guineas,’ I say, blurting the first ridiculous figure that comes into my head. I straight away regret it. No sensible man would pay that price. Not even a lord of the Hays family.
His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes drop to my worn gloves.
‘Five guineas?’ he repeats.
I nod, deciding, in a rush of recklessness, to hold my nerve. Something tells me he would not respect my backtracking.
‘That seems a high price,’ he says, regarding me coolly.
‘Five guineas is the price.’ I raise an eyebrow at him and drop the tiniest, most irreverent curtsy. ‘You would pay double in Mrs Wilkes’s house. Your Lordship.’
A smile creeps onto his face. He turns very slightly on his heel and for a moment I think he means to walk away. But he hesitates.
‘Five guineas?’ he repeats slowly. ‘Five guineas.’
I stay silent, hardly daring to breathe.
He jangles his hanging pocket thoughtfully. Then his dark eyes are on mine.
I hold my nerve, meeting his gaze. And then his arm extends and locks into mine.
‘I would be delighted,’ he says with exaggerated courtesy, ‘if you would join me this evening.’
‘Of course, Your Lordship,’ I say, sinking a little against his arm, as though I receive such requests on a daily basis. ‘Please lead the way.’
Chapter 7
We walk up the steps of his grand townhouse and the door is pulled back by two liveried servants.
I step into the marbled lobby and it is as much as I can do to stop my mouth falling open.
‘This is where you live?’ I am staring up at the towering elaborate ceilings, finished in frescoes and gold leaf.
The floor is more marble than I have ever seen in my life. And it extends into an enormous staircase, with winding mahogany banister.
A chandelier large enough to light a grand ball hangs from the ceiling, dripping with candles to make it almost bright as day inside. Huge gilded frames bearing oil paintings are lit separately, with gold candelabras dotted on crafted ebony tables.
‘It is my London home,’ he says, smiling at my reaction. ‘My family estate is in Berkshire.’
‘It’s … It is so big.’ I wander over to one of the huge candelabras and run my hand across the candle bases, watching as the flames flicker. I turn to him. ‘These must have cost a king’s ransom. And you have ten of them.’
He tilts his head to one side, watching me. It occurs to me, I’m showing myself very low, admiring all his rich things. It’s against Mrs Wilkes’s teachings. But Edward doesn’t seem to mind. In fact he looks almost pleased.
I notice the servants are staring at me. Edward turns to follow my gaze, and they instantly glance away.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, and the nearest servant turns towards us again, with a nervous, furtive look.
‘Yes, Your Lordship.’
‘My guest and I will be using the parlour. Have Sophie bring us up some wine and sweets. Make sure we are not troubled with any other disturbances.’
The servant nods and now he doesn’t seem sure where to look. His eyes flick to my rouged cleavage, my powdered face and then to the floor.
‘Yes, Your Lordship,’ he says, his eyes glued to the marble.
Edward nods and puts out his arm for me.
‘Upstairs,’ he says, and it is both an explanation and an instruction.
I rest my weight on him as we climb the stairs, feeling all at sea in this enormous grand house and wondering what on earth is expected of me.
We walk along a seemingly endless corridor, and then Edward produces a large key and unlocks one of the doors.
He gestures I should walk in first and I am greeted with a room that seems even more spectacular than the lobby.
It reminds me in some ways of the larger rooms at Mrs Wilkes’s house. The furnishings are sumptuous, deeply coloured. Silk, mahogany and gold leaf feature prominently. But it is so much grander than anything I have ever seen before.
The room is simply enormous. I can hardly take in why anyone could need this much space. I let my gaze travel around.
It has a great bank of enormous windows that reach twelve feet to the towering ceilings and elaborate cornicing. The curtains are rich silk and run to a few extra feet of fabric at the bottom. The price of a single pair could support a labourer for the rest of his life.
There’s a deep chaise longue, an ornate little table with chairs for tea serv
ice and the largest four-poster bed I have ever seen.
‘This is your bedroom?’ I ask uncertainly.
‘It is my parlour,’ he corrects.
‘Your parlour has a bed?’
‘It is commonplace to have comforts of this kind in larger townhouses,’ he explains.
There’s a large bookcase and I step towards it with a thrilled gasp.
‘You have so many books!’
I let my thumb wander across the titles. He has some books on agriculture and farming, but also some fiction.
Reverently, I lift out a leather-bound copy of The Faerie Queene.
‘You have read this one?’ I ask.
He nods very slightly.
‘All five volumes?’
He smiles. ‘All five volumes.’
I look away, realising it was a foolish question to ask an educated man. He would have been privately tutored in all the great English books, and taught French and Latin besides.
I let the book fall open in my hands and he frowns slightly.
‘The spines are delicate,’ he says.
‘Oh.’ I close up the book again chastened. ‘This is my favourite book,’ I say, by way of explanation. ‘I always like to see how it is printed on the page.’
‘You can read?’ he sounds surprised.
I nod, my eyes on the bookcase, scanning the titles.
‘Most of us seduced maidens can read,’ I say with a smile. I turn away from the titles to face him.
He looks uncertain. As if not sure whether to believe me.
‘I was educated at a country school for a little while,’ I explain, to the unasked question. ‘It was provided as charity, for poor children who showed ability.’
‘How long were you schooled?’ he asks.
I move my gaze back to the books.
‘Not long. My mother discovered I could recite Edmund Spenser, but could not card wool as fast as the neighbour’s daughter.’
I say this with a little laugh, keeping my gaze fixed on the bookcase, so he cannot see my face.
‘What can you recite?’ he asks.
‘Many of his poems,’ I say, my eyes on the books. ‘My favourite was a sonnet from Amoretti. The poem of enduring love.’
I pause, remembering the words.
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 3