“There’s some talk of an affinity for bordellos, but only in foreign climes, so we’ve heard; and there’s no proof of that either.”
“Ah, but we do have the proof of our eyes and our own powers of discernment, do we not? The Lady Anonymous is rich, rich, rich! Good manners and deportment in public, good seat on a horse. Carefully well-behaved— chaperoned, even. No scandals and no gossip until...”
Nicholas thought he recognized that voice. Perhaps most of the voices he had heard. Politicians and barristers— actors and painters. But apart from their enjoyment of scandal and ribald tale-telling, what else were they after in this instance? He had no doubts left when, quite abruptly, they began to question him and press him for more details.
“And so, prisoner at the bar, you are now called upon to defend yourself from the charges brought against you. To wit, and most seriously, that you did, with malice aforethought, deliberately seek to turn a lady into a whore by treating her as such. That you did all this against her will and in spite of her pleas, and went to the extent of using force in order to rape her. Even worse, that said lady was in fact still a virgin until you had her.”
“Oh, and still more!” With a strangely high-pitched giggle a voice Nicholas had heard several times that same evening carried on the recital of the “charges” against him while seeming to savor each one. “That not only did you carry her upstairs in her own home to rape her in her own bedroom—did she fight you very hard?—but that you took her off quite publicly to the apartment you keep in a famous brothel and there had to use restraints on her before you could have your way. Did you keep them on her all night? Did you persuade her not to fight in the end?”
“Yes, tell us! How many times did you have this poor abused lady? Did you strip her yourself or have it done for you? Was she also gagged, or not?”
“How did you have her, and was it only you? You kept her there all night, did you not? Was she easily persuaded to obedience in the end?”
“Why did you do it? Did you feel yourself encouraged to take such bold steps—to make such a public display of her?”
“Give the prisoner a chance to speak, I say! And to answer all our questions!”
A gavel was banged down-twice, bringing with it a certain amount of silence, and into the silence Nicholas said inquiringly, “Have I a barrister to defend me and advise me?”
There was a sudden silence before a whispering kind of voice said, “Your barrister advises you that—the Truth shall set you free.”
The truth? Why the hell had Newbury brought him here tonight? Was it to hear something he wanted to hear? He had been tricked against his will into participating in this comedy of theirs, and he’d be damned if he was going to play along tamely for their titillation merely because he seemed to have caused a great scandal as a result of his stupidly precipitate actions a few days ago. “She was fair game after that, of course!” “After she’d gone the rounds.” The little she-cat had really brought it on herself by acting the pious hypocrite and crying rape like Potiphar’s wife; but then he should have left her alone in the first place.
“Prisoner at the bar! Where are your answers? We’re waiting.”
“Perhaps he needs to be prompted. Prisoner, was the lady willing or unwilling when you took her? Was she truly virgin? And the restraints—did you have to use them on her?”
“Yes! To all your questions. Were there any more?”
“He’s insolent. He should be hanged by the neck until he’s dead, dead, dead!”
“Gentlemen of the jury?”
“Guilty.. .guilty.. .guilty...”
“It is our solemn duty now to pass sentence upon you, and our sentence shall be in accordance with the nature of the heinous offense you have committed against innocent womanhood and against the mores of society.”
“Details, details! We’re supposed to delve into how and with whom and with what, and he hasn’t told us anything yet, dash it!”
“I know that I, for one, asked a lot more questions. How’s it over so soon? Didn’t have time to find out too much, and I wanted to know particularly how many times she was... What’s that? Pleaded guilty, you say? Without even... Why, the bounder! Deserves to be shot! Hard labor at the very least, I would say. Touch of the cat to teach good manners, eh?”
While his “judges” were still arguing the point Nicholas said an obscenity under his breath and walked away, past the man who had escorted him and might almost have attempted to bar his way if he had not seen Lord Embry’s look; and down a somewhat labyrinthine passage that took him eventually past the dressing room allotted to the Greek and Roman goddesses who had posed for them earlier that evening, finally arriving in the lounge known as the “Cyder Room,” where he stayed with two of the girls and a newfound friend until Newbury discovered him there an hour or so later.
Chapter 44
“You were amused by this evening’s entertainment?” Newbury murmured in his usual rather bored tones, as the obsequious attendant handed them their hats and canes and a pretty female who had been in one of the poses plastiques earlier made a lingering task of adjusting velvet collared evening capes on their shoulders. He tossed a coin at the girl and turned back to Nicholas as if hearing his answer did not really interest him.
“I found it very interesting, I must say.” Nicholas’s voice was tightly controlled as they turned to climb the steps leading outside. “Tell me, are these— mock trials did you call them?—held very often?”
“Ah—” Newbury’s shrug was a slight lift of one shoulder. “That depends, I think, on the latest scandals. The proceedings can become quite ribald at times.”
“So I found. And the—er—female defendants? Do they ever get the chance to file their own defense before they are sentenced?”
“Seldom, I’m afraid! As you will have noticed, it is not a club where one can take females, although in these meetings of the Judge and Jury Society you will find the women ably represented. Did you not think so tonight?”
“I thought,” Nicholas said bluntly, “that it was rather strange that an invited guest such as myself, who is not a member of the society, should have been chosen to play the part of the defendant in this particular case. A coincidental accident, you think, sir?” As they came to the top of the steps the night air had a welcome chill to it after the smoke-filled, overheated atmosphere they had just left.
“Life is full of coincidences—and of accidents, I suppose,” Newbury said rather absentmindedly as he seemed to look about for their carriage. “So, the season is all but over again. You’re still off to the country tomorrow?”
So the subject had been dropped, and changed? Still thoughtful, Nicholas said shortly, “Yes. London has begun to bore me and I could use some fresh air. I’ve already sent my man off ahead with what luggage I shall be needing. When do you go down?”
“A week or two perhaps. I have business to attend to in town. But I believe my family will also be leaving for Merfield within the next day or two. Deering’s already left, of course.”
“Has he? Along with Lady Travers? I had heard so, but by another strange coincidence I could have sworn I recognized his voice today among my accusers!”
“Did you think so? But if he’s decided to come back into town for some reason perhaps we might run into him later at the club, or... Ah, there’s the damned carriage at last.”
“I’m sorry, milord. It’s the fog, you see, and people everywhere on the streets where they ain’t even lit...”
Fog hung like a thin, yellowish pall that blurred and softened everything and seemed to curl in wispy spirals around each lamppost, making even the gaslights waver and shiver. “Infernal nuisance, the fog!” Newbury said shortly as they settled back under the lap robes that his footman had handed them. “Seems to make it colder than usual as well as making distances seem longer. Ah yes. Thank you, Evans! A stirrup cup is just what we need on a night like this. Nicholas?” As Evans held up a silver tray that held two large pewter mugs st
eamingly redolent with the mingled odors of spices and rum, Newbury used one of the damask napkins conveniently folded on the tray to hand one to Nicholas before picking up his own goldcrested mug. “It’s a recipe from Jamaica, I understand. Excellent blend of coffees too. Evans makes sure to procure it from downstairs just before we start out, so mat it’s still hot.”
The Marquess was more talkative and affable tonight than Nicholas had ever known him to be in the past, and he found himself wondering why. Did he intend to broach the subject of Helen again? Or was it something else he meant to bring up sooner or later? Sipping at his drink rather cautiously, Nicholas found it rather bitter and perhaps a trifle too sweet, although the fragrant spices and liberal spiking with rum made up for that. At least it was hot and strong and warmed the belly. “Turkish coffee. Have you ever tried it the way the Turks have it? It’s a taste that most other people find it hard to acquire. Of course the coffee we are drinking is not quite as strong, nor half as bitter.”
“You’ve been to Turkey, sir?” Nicholas said for the sake of making innocuous conversation, while his mind dwelt on the earlier part of the evening with its Shakespearean overtones. And only a Portia had been missing to spring to his defense! Christ, Nicholas thought suddenly, it was a good thing that it had only been a mock trial, considering the “sentence” that had been passed on him. He realized suddenly that Newbury was responding to his polite question and came back to attention with a slight jolt of surprise.
“I’ve been in Turkey, yes,” Newbury said in that expressionless voice of his as he leaned back negligently. “But that was many years ago, of course, in the ‘twenties and not under the most pleasant of circumstances. I was their prisoner-of-war—one of the idealistic young idiots who followed poor Byron to glory and found... Ah well! Turkish prisons are meant to reduce men from human status to that of crawling, abject animals! But then prisons and punishment are all supposed to teach a lesson in the discipline of life to those who need such lessons, I suppose. And—I have some rum here in this flask to refill our cups with once we’ve done with the coffee.”
It seemed outside of reality to imagine that the cold, distant Marquess of Newbury could ever have been young and idealistic, let alone a prisoner of the Turks; and even more surprising that he should have mentioned what was obviously a little-known fact during a casual conversation, unless he hoped to encourage some similar confidence in return.
As the fog seemed to grow denser and close off the carriage windows, Nicholas drained his cup almost automatically, following Newbury’s example, grimacing slightly at the bitterness of the dregs. Altogether it had been a strange kind of evening, and not entirely pleasant either, although it had given him a lot to think about. The coffee mixed with rum had made him feel too warm, and he shrugged off his heavy cape, wishing he could, with politeness, have refused the rum that Newbury was pouring for them both. The jarring, rocking motion of the carriage and the suddenly stifling closeness of the atmosphere was making his head ache, for some stupid reason.
“Ah, there’s nothing like Jamaican rum! But my dear Embry—it’s not to your liking?”
“Who was the barrister for the defense?”
“Why, I was, of course. I thought you might have recognized it from the start. You must admit, though, that you were not very helpful.”
“I thought... Damn!” Nicholas ran his fingers irritably through his hair, wondering why his thoughts were hard to collect. “If she was on trial too, then who...”
“My dear fellow, I thought that should have been explained. I was her prosecutor at the same time! Although unfortunately... But is there something wrong...?”
How long Newbury’s voice seemed to go on echoing. Like the other voice that had pronounced so solemnly, “Prisoner at the bar, you are hereby sentenced...” Sentenced to what? It had been nothing more than a grotesque, silly piece of game-playing. Charades...childish games...spin-the-bottle... spinning top... spinning...
His head seemed to be spinning too, each time he tried to move it. Dammit, he must have had too much to drink. That damn Jamaican rum of Newbury’s. Lie still and breathe deeply before you open your eyes—someone had taught him that when he was very young and just starting to drink. But he had not felt this way in years, and the thought that a few drinks in one evening could... As he lay there unmoving with his eyes still closed, Nicholas could sense the gradual seeping-in of different sounds and sensations through thin cracks in his consciousness. All unfamiliar, making remembering where he was difficult, even if it did not seem too important yet. Damp, river smells. Mildew and other indefinable odors. Cold—that was it. He had waked up because he was cold and he was lying on something hard and lumpy with no covering and no... Opening his eyes wasn’t much better. Blackness. Void. Perhaps he was still in the grip of some strange nightmare! In any case his head ached, so closing his eyes and going back to sleep was more sensible. And when he finally did wake up it would be to daylight and the smell of coffee. But it was strange, all the same, how weighted down he felt, somehow.
“Your Lordship? You should have had a nice long sleep by now, sir. Long enough to sleep off everything, eh? But you’ve got to wake up now. It’s almost time.”
Time? Nicholas opened his eyes into the single orange eye of a lantern that moved and then was hung up with a click of metal against metal as two men, bulky shapes against the light at first, moved forward. “Thought you might like to take a look around, sir. Always helps, in the beginning, to know where you are. I’m Brown and this is Partridge, and it’s both of us or either of us you’ll be seeing as long as you’re here. And there’s no need for your Lordship to worry about your clothes or your wallet and such. They’ve all been put away and duly accounted for, and you’ll get ‘em back, sir, when it’s time for you to leave here.”
“Here?” Nicholas said carefully.
He tried to sit up, and the man who had spoken— Brown?—sprang forward solicitously to help him, saying apologetically, “You’ll get used to it after a day or two, sir. Except for certain times, you’ll be able to move as far as the other wall there.”
“He might get used to it!” the other man, speaking for the first time, said judiciously. “Some don’t. Not if they’re used to the soft life. Being locked up in a prison cell’s hard to take for any bloke, even if he ain’t had it easy.”
His cell was a boxlike space enclosed by three brick walls and a heavily barred door, the only tiny light that penetrated the gloomy darkness coming from a tiny grating set high against the ceiling. The “bed” was a raised cement block against one wall, covered by a thin mattress filled with straw and nothing else. A slop bucket across from the bed and straw scattered on the floor—the bare essentials. What the hell else did he expect? It was hard, at first, not to burst into a shout of bitter laughter. It was hard to believe that this was the reality he had awakened to.
With difficulty, Nicholas swung his feet down to the floor, the length of chain between them heavy. He had already noticed that his wrists were manacled too, with a two-foot length of chain separating them. And as bedposts two cement pipes at the head and foot of the bed bore convenient manacles as well. He must obviously be considered a dangerous criminal! He looked up to find both men watching him with understandable curiosity tinged with cautiousness, and wondered what in hell they thought he could do, especially under the circumstances, since the chain between his wrists happened to be attached to a sort of pulley set into the ceiling so that by a tug on the other end by the cell door any movement he made could be limited. Or...? It was an unpleasant thought, and one he’d rather not face just yet. What exactly had he been “sentenced” to at that so-called mock trial? And how did they—whoever they were—think to get away with this? Unless they meant to kill him. And there suddenly flashed into his mind the memory of a high-pitched voice chanting, “Hanged by the neck until he’s dead, dead, dead!”
Brown and Partridge. Better to concentrate on his—what did they call them here in England?�
��jailers? “Am I allowed to ask questions?” Nicholas said at last in a carefully controlled voice.
“There’s some that we can’t answer, milord. But you can ask away all you like! Helps, I should think.” That was Brown, the talkative one, moonfaced, with a reddish fringe of hair and a mustache to match. Partridge was smaller and had a full head of brown hair and a large nose.
“This is a prison? Which prison? And where?”
“It’s a prison all right, sir. Can’t say any more’n that, though.”
“And would you happen to know just why I am here? And for how long?” Nicholas added grimly as more memories came flooding back, “I think I can remember how I happened to be brought here.” Newbury, of course, and that damn coffee that must have been spiked with more than rum alone. But for God’s sake, why?
“Well, sir...” Brown scratched at the bald spot in the center of his head. “All we’re told is what our duties are, you see. But I’ll be fetching you a piece of paper that was left, sir. It’s supposed to tell you the whys and wherefores of your being here, I think. And...” Brown shifted from one foot to the other a trifle awkwardly before he added. “Everything else, sir. You’ll be supposed to read it each time—before, your Lordship.”
The lantern flame seemed to dance and waver as if a draft had come into the cell. They had given him prison trousers to wear, complete with stripes. No matching shirt. Perhaps he shouldn’t ask his next question and leave whatever came next as a surprise. But then, he rather liked Brown and hated to disappoint that expectant cherubic face. “Before what?” Nicholas said, and waited until Brown stopped looking at the tips of his thick boots and looked up again, carefully avoiding his eyes while he cleared his throat.
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