Pleasure for Pleasure

by Eloisa James

  “Thurman, you are an utter ass,” Berwick said.

  Thurman looked mildly offended. He was an English sausage, if sausages came in a peculiar bell shape. He had a dimpled double chin and glinting, small blue eyes. He’d been called an ass so many times that he likely took it as a compliment.

  “Don’t you think it has a Darlington ring?” he demanded. “He’s rubbing off on me. All that cleverness, I mean.”

  Darlington turned away. He would be very happy to see the last of Thurman, if only he didn’t need an audience. He was honest enough to know that about himself.

  “Let’s see what she’s wearing tonight,” Thurman persisted. “You know all the lads down at the Convent will ask.”

  “My wife tells me that if she hears of me at the Convent again, I’m barred from her company,” Wisley said, speaking for the first time. He was a slender man with a discontented mouth traced by a faint mustache that never grew thicker nor thinner. They had all been at Rugby together, and of the four of them, Wisley had done the best. He had married for money, and even Thurman, who had more money than he had need of, admitted that Wisley had fallen on his feet. His bride was fairly pretty; only the most severe of critics would note that her brows met in the middle. Or that her skin was olive. Darlington, who was the severest of critics, had kept his opinion to himself.

  “Which would be the tragedy?” he asked now. “To be barred from your wife’s company, or from the Convent?”

  “It’s like those old games where there are two doors and one leads to a lion,” Berwick commented.

  “I don’t see that,” Wisley said languidly. “My wife is no lion, and the Convent, while a perfectly respectable pub, is growing a bit monotonous.”

  Darlington eyed Wisley. Unless he missed his guess, Wisley’s wife was drawing him away from the group. He knew perfectly well that she didn’t like him. Every time she saw him, her face took on a closed, calm look that spoke of deep hatred.

  He should probably let Wisley go free, off to a life of mind-numbing domesticity.

  “Well, I would never give up the Convent for a wife,” Thurman announced.

  “Your wife, should you ever have one, will likely be paying a subsidy to the place to keep you occupied,” Berwick said acidly.

  “My wife will madly adore me,” Thurman said, sounding truly huffy for the first time.

  The worst was that Darlington could see that he believed it. What was he doing with a pack of fools like this?

  Berwick shrugged. “’Tis a tedious subject, but I would warn you, Thurman, that in my experience the only women who engage in mad adoration—other than of themselves, of course—are invariably plain.”

  “I could make any woman adore me!” Thurman said shrilly. “It’s all a matter of how you treat her.”

  “But women are so monstrously attracted to beauty,” Berwick said.

  Darlington thought he really ought to intervene. His carefully hewed little circle was disintegrating around him.

  “Wicked women are,” Thurman said. “But good women, the ones one has to marry, those women are interested in commercial transactions.”

  Darlington recognized that as something he’d said, once upon a time. “I prefer the wicked kind,” he said now. “They’re so much more interesting to talk to.”

  “But you can’t marry someone who’s interesting to talk to,” Thurman pointed out, absolutely correctly. “And Darlington, you need to marry.”

  Darlington sighed. It was wearisomely true. If only to stop his father’s imminent apoplexy.

  Thurman never knew when to shut his mouth, and so he kept going. “I really thought you wouldn’t be invited tonight, and you know, if the Essex sisters shut you out, you’d have a demmed hard time finding your way back into society. Those women left Scotland, descended on England like a swarm of locusts and married every title on the market.”

  Berwick frowned at him. “Keep your voice down. You’re at a wedding ball for one of them, you ass.”

  “No one’s listening,” Thurman said, looking around. The ballroom at the Duke of Holbrook’s town house had ceilings so high that even the chatter of hundreds of overexcited members of the ton just floated upward and resulted in a pleasant buzz. The orchestra at one end sounded like the dim hum of caged bees.

  “I suppose I should find a wife,” Darlington said, feeling ineffably depressed.

  “I certainly mean to,” Thurman said. “I require beauty, a sufficient dowry, and a docile disposition. Oh, and an impeccable reputation. After all, I bring the same to her.”

  “What a fortunate woman she will be,” Berwick said. “And you, Darlington? What will you require?”

  “A sensible view of life,” Darlington said flatly. “That, and a great deal of money. I am very expensive.”

  “Shall we meet in an hour or so and exchange notes?” Berwick said, something of a genuine smile lighting his eyes. “I must say that I am thoroughly amused.”

  “Will you be looking for a wife as well?” Thurman demanded.

  “I believe not,” Berwick replied. “I was on the edge of that decision, but luckily I have been delivered from penury in the nick of time. And everyone knows that penury is the final step before marriage.”

  “So you got some money from somewhere, did you?” Thurman said. “Is that why you’ve been out of a town for a fortnight? Did your father die? Can’t say I heard that. And you’re not in black.”

  “Tsk tsk,” Berwick said. “I do have a black armband, albeit edged in a charming shade of purple. My adored and loathsome Aunt Augusta succumbed to some sort of malady while in Bath. Naturally, she left all her money to her beloved nephew.”

  Darlington felt even more depressed, but exerted himself to suitably compliment Berwick on the pleasures of financial stability. Unfortunately, there were no aunts, loathsome or adored, in his family tree. And even if there had been, he was the least likely to be chosen as an heir; his brothers were all eminently respectable in comparison.

  Thurman’s little blue eyes were shining as he taxed Berwick about his income. Then Darlington noticed that at some point Wisley had slipped away without a good-bye, likely to his wife’s side. He wouldn’t come to the Convent that night, or ever again. Darlington knew that.

  The days of the little circle of friends from Rugby were over. Wisley was gone. Berwick was rich, and Darlington couldn’t bear the idea of Berwick picking up a tavern bill. Thurman was a fool, but Berwick was not.

  If he didn’t change his ways, he’d be left with Thurman to spout his own witticisms back at him, and reflect his bad temper.

  Darlington shuddered faintly. “The search is on, gentlemen,” he said. “Wives.”

  Thurman and Berwick stopped talking about canal stocks in mid-sentence. Berwick raised an eyebrow. “The season just grew far more interesting,” he said softly.

  “I expect I’ll choose the right wife by the end of the evening,” Thurman said.

  “It may take me slightly longer,” Darlington said. “I have such trouble choosing cravats some evenings. If I dread making mistakes in the selection of a pink versus yellow cravat, who knows how difficult it will be to choose a wife?”

  “Wives are like cravats in that you must simply determine market value, and make your decision accordingly,” Berwick said. “There are only a handful who can support you in the manner to which you will rapidly become accustomed.”

  “Damned if you aren’t going to be a magnate by the time you’re thirty if you keep being this intelligent, Berwick,” Thurman said.

  Berwick smiled.

  “You are a magnate!” Thurman gasped.

  “Dear, dear Aunt Augusta,” Berwick said, his usual thin smile somewhat more vivid. “Apparently no one had any idea just how interested she was in all those northern industries. Why, she funded an entire coal mine. Said she liked the shiny black color of it.”

  “My God, once that news leaks, you’re going to be the talk of the ton. Every mama’s dream,” Thurman said.
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  Darlington did what had to be done, what had to be done by any man whose friend has been suddenly elevated into the highest reaches of society, or at least as high as one can go without discovering nobility in the family tree. He slapped Berwick on the back, swallowed his rage. And then: “I have been thinking for some time that we have outgrown our little gatherings at the Convent.”

  Thurman gaped at him and Berwick’s eyebrow shot into the air.

  “The whole business of the Scottish Sausage is growing tedious. I’m having thoughts of morality, which just goes to show that I’m growing stupid in my old age.”

  “You ain’t old,” Thurman said.

  “I shouldn’t have done it,” Darlington said. “It wasn’t as clever as the Wooly Breeder, though God knows I probably shouldn’t have done that either. I can’t believe I did anything prompted by Crogan, who has to be one of the more repellent fools on the earth. In truth, I did it for the pleasure of herding about all the witless men who call themselves gentlemen, and damned if I didn’t make myself as witless as the least of them.”

  “Witless? Everyone knows we’re the clever ones,” Thurman bleated.

  Darlington didn’t know why he’d spent so much time with such a cretin.

  Berwick was as intelligent as they came, and he didn’t show a flash of emotion at this sudden parting of boyhood friends. He bowed, as elegantly as any magnate. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said, a marked lack of interest in his voice.

  They had banded together on a whim, and it seemed they would part with as little ceremony, albeit years later. Darlington nodded at him, and nodded to Thurman.

  He turned and walked a few feet before scanning the room for a wife. But what he really wanted wasn’t money, a single woman as rich as Berwick’s Aunt Augusta.

  He wanted intelligence. Someone who was amusing and would talk to him, rather than reflecting back his own empty jokes. It was unfortunate that the task of finding her seemed Herculean.

  He left behind a couple of dumbfounded men.

  “Damned if he didn’t mean it,” Berwick said. “I think he means to marry.” And then, after a moment’s contemplation, “The poor sod.”

  “Perhaps he’ll take the Scottish Sausage,” Thurman said, an edge in his voice showing that he didn’t take to being snubbed by the man he’d bought so many rounds for. “She can afford to pay his tavern bills, by all accounts.”

  “Her brother-in-law’s as rich as Croesus,” Berwick said.

  “She’s one that won’t be looking in his direction, though,” Thurman said. “The Sausage won’t be able to marry until next season, if then. Remember the Wooly Breeder?”

  Berwick shrugged. The truth was that whereas a year ago he hadn’t any prospects of marriage, now he was set to become a prime candidate. And he didn’t want his chances of gaining the very best to be marred by any unpleasantness resulting from their mockery of the Scottish Sausage.

  “Do you suppose he really means it about not coming to the Convent tonight?” Thurman asked.

  Berwick looked at him. Sometimes the man’s stupidity was truly astounding. “He’s dropped us, you ass.”

  “What?”

  “He’s dropped us. Darlington. He’s gone off and he’s not coming back to the Convent. He’ll find a rich wife, I suppose, or get his father to buy him a pair of colors. Either way, he just said good-bye.”

  Thurman gaped at him. “He said good-bye because he’s going to look for a wife. We’ll all meet in a few hours and discuss how we did.”

  Berwick’s mouth quirked. “He’s gone. Wisley went first; he just didn’t have the manners to comment about it.”

  “Wisley?” Thurman looked around wildly as if the man was standing silently at his shoulder. Then he turned back to Berwick, blinking rapidly. “Nonsense. We’ll all meet at the Convent tonight, or tomorrow, and enough of this nonsense. We always meet at the Convent.”

  Berwick wouldn’t be there, but he didn’t see any point in arguing over it.

  “Let’s find the Sausage,” Thurman urged. “I’m sure her dress is bursting at the seams over the excitement of her sister’s wedding.”

  Berwick shrugged again. “All right.” Privately, he thought the whole subject was tedious. Thurman had been the one to nourish the gossip, to repeat over and over little unpleasantries about this Scottish girl. The rest of them didn’t really care, and Darlington had even reminded them of Crogan’s repulsive behavior at school.

  But they’d done it, for lack of anything else to do, as much as anyone. And because it was a suitable follow-up to the Wooly Breeder.

  The whole thought process gave Berwick an unpleasant feeling in his stomach. Had they really made something of a career out of ruining young women’s marriage prospects?

  Unpleasant, that.

  He walked after Thurman, who kept wedging his large body into groups of people, searching for the Scottish Sausage. After a time Berwick walked in the opposite direction. There are times in a man’s life when he finds that he’s ashamed of himself. Berwick had felt it before, and he never liked it.

  Thank God for Aunt Augusta, he said to himself.

  Just then a tight-lipped woman stepped in front of him. “Mr. Berwick,” she said majestically, “I trust you remember me? I was a good friend of your dear mother’s.”

  After a second’s chill panic, Berwick remembered her name. “Lady Yarrow, what a pleasure to meet you again.”

  She pulled a thin, dyspeptic-looking girl from behind her like a fish on a line. “My daughter, Amelia. I’m quite certain you met as children; in fact, you probably gamboled together on the lawn of Yarrow House when your mother came for tea.”

  Berwick was quite certain that never happened. From his few memories of his mother, he guessed that she would no sooner think of taking her second and thus worthless son with her on a social engagement than she would take holy orders.

  Amelia eyed him. He bowed. And then he suddenly understood.

  This was the beginning.

  4

  From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Second

  Believe me, I know the anguish this depraved and wicked story must be causing you, Dear Reader, but my confessor assures me that I must tell all in order to keep other youthful sinners from my path. This duchess—so young in years, so old in depravity—opened a door that led into some sort of a service closet. There did she charge me with the task of making her the most happy woman in Court…

  Under my direction, circulation of this newspaper has increased tenfold,” Mr. Jessopp said, his back so rigid with anger that he couldn’t even feel his stays. “Nay,” he corrected himself. “It’s improved hundredfold. What’s more, I’ve brought up the tone. Twenty years ago The Tatler had a reputation for scurrilous investigatory practices, sending men out to bribe butlers.” He curled his lip to indicate his opinion of the practice.

  “It’s not as if the place ain’t rife with butlers carrying away a bit of the ready,” Mr. Goffe said. Jessopp’s partner was leaning against the fireplace, sucking on a rancid pipe.

  “I don’t go to them,” Jessopp said, explaining it again. “They come to me. There’s a difference.”

  Goffe shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  “Anything happens in London, particularly amongst the ton, is mine for the asking.”

  Goffe took his pipe out of his mouth. “Then how’s about handing over Hellgate, and let’s stop this demmed wrangling.”

  “Hellgate is Mayne, everyone knows that.”

  “The story may refer to Mayne’s exploits,” Goffe said. “You have to give the devil his due. But it was never the Earl of Mayne who sat down and wrote that up. For one thing, he’s got no call to. For another, he don’t need the ready. And it’s not a gentlemanlike thing to do. We need the author of those memoirs!”

  Jessopp’s own well-annotated copy of the Memoirs was over on the table. But here was another instance where he and his partner had a difference of opinion. “I think it was a gentleman doin
g the writing,” he said stubbornly. “I read it over with that in mind.”

  “Well, if you know all the doings of the ton, name the man,” Goffe said. “Go ahead.”

  Jessopp thought about how much he hated his partner while he decided how to reply. “I don’t know who wrote it yet. You know that. But there are turns of phrase that could only have been written by a gentleman. Even that bit about how he named all the women after a Shakespeare play: that isn’t the sort of thing an average man would dream up.”

  “We need to know for certain,” Goffe said. “For God’s sakes, don’t get us embroiled in a lawsuit, but we need the answer to this one, Jessopp. If your regular little rodents haven’t told you—”

  Jessopp moved in instinctive protest at this characterization. He had wide circles of friends, who were kind enough to bring him information.

  “Whatever,” Goffe told him. “Yer friends have failed you this time. That means we need to go back to the old days, if you ask me. We need a rattler, the way we used to have. One of The Tatler’s own rattlers. That’s what we need.”

  Jessopp curled his lip. “We’ve moved beyond those days. Now people come to us. We leave that sort of sneaking corruption to the scandal rags.”

  “We are a scandal rag,” Goffe told him, unmoved. “What’s more, we’re a scandal rag that’s passing up one of the biggest scandals around. If that book was written by someone in the ton, then that’s a story that The Tatler needs to break. We own the ton.”

  Jessopp couldn’t help seeing the truth of that.

  “The ton has a right to know who’s hiding behind the name Hellgate,” Goffe continued. “Mayne will thank us when we ferret out the truth of it. Who’s depraved enough to take someone else’s strumpets and turn the tale into a triple folio, sold in leather?”

  “If the author is a depraved member of the ton,” Jessopp said, “that reduces the number of suspects to around seven hundred.”

  “It’s not the biggest story of this year,” Goffe said. “It’s the only story of this year. Take our whole budget, Jessopp. Just get that name, and get it fast. If someone else breaks the truth of it, we’re done. They all buy us because they can trust us to dish up the dirt, for all you want to call it by prettier names. That dirt is paying for our breakfast sausage.”