Dukes of the Demi-Monde

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Are you well, Rebecca? It isn’t like you to forget things.’ Mrs. Westbrook patted Rebecca’s shoulder. ‘The medal. The eastern quarter of Spitalfields wishes to give you a medal, remember? For your sterling work improving the hygeine of Harbour Street and Barton Road? I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten to prepare a—’

  ‘A speech.’ It had all come flooding back with her mother’s words—the gushing letter, the invitation to a small, informal ceremony of thanks. Her speech had been written, rewritten and written a third time; it currently sat in her desk drawer, tied with blue ribbon.

  A different woman had written that speech. A woman unwilling, or simply unaware, of the pleasures that could come from the forbidden. Rebecca smiled at her mother, hoping against hope that her guilt didn’t show on her face.

  ‘My speech is ready. Don’t trouble yourself.’ She squeezed her mother’s hand, wishing she could stop John Peterson’s voice sounding in her mind. Low, authoritative, wicked—a part of her still wished to obey him. ‘It will be a perfectly lovely evening.’

  It may not have been a perfectly lovely evening, but it was certainly more pleasant than the day that had proceeded it. Rebecca looked at the small audience of scrubbed, expectant faces with a touch of contentment from her chair on the makeshift stage, in the drafty hall that had once been a storeroom for grain. She felt secure in her primmest, most modest dress—in her tightly-pinned hair, each rebellious wave firmly pulled into order. Even her newly-mended spectacles gave her an air of importance, of authority, that helped her battle her fear of speaking in front of groups.

  Now she was truly Rebecca Westbrook—the closest she ever looked to the shrewish, strident caricature that had briefly appeared in one of London’s most scurrilous gossip rags, before her father had threatened legal action. In truth, Rebecca had rather liked the frightening image. If she was to be the moral arbiter of London, so be it; she had worked her way to the top of that particular pedestal with severe and constant effort. Now she was there, she would bear whatever storm came.

  It was only now, looking down at the waiting crowd, that Rebecca wondered if she truly liked being seen as a shrill, sexless shrew.

  ‘Do not worry. We can begin soon.’ Mrs. Boone, an anxious-eyed but kindly lady wearing an organiser’s sash, smiled at Rebecca. ‘We have a small speech before the presentation ceremony, but the poor man hasn’t arrived yet. Odd—he’s normally so punctual.’ She looked worriedly at the side-door. ‘I do hope he is well.’

  ‘I see.’ Rebecca tried to focus on the conversation. It wouldn’t do to be rude, after all. ‘Who is the gentleman in question?’

  ‘Mr. John Peterson.’ Mrs. Boone’s eyes softened, her smile a little wider than before. ‘Such a lovely man—he still brings food and clothes for the children who live on his old street. Doesn’t really go in for societies, but does ever such a lot of work himself. Only…’

  Despite herself, Rebecca was interested. She knew so many of the London do-gooders, and it was always unusual to find someone that escaped her notice. ‘Only what?’

  ‘Only it is such a shame, a terrible shame, about his sister.’ Mrs Boone lowered her voice. ‘She is—oh, goodness. He’s arrived.’

  She jumped up, rushing to greet the dark figure that had come through the side door. Rebecca peered from the stage, mildly curious to see the gentleman who made Mrs Boone smile as if she were speaking of a son.

  The figure turned. When Rebecca saw the dark eyes, the familiar furrow to the brow, her heart leapt to her throat.

  Him. The mysterious man from the Cappadene Club. The man walking into the room with a faintly exhausted air, not even looking at the stage as he listened attentively to Mrs. Boone. Rebecca turned her face away, pretending to study the corner of the stage as a hot, red flush rose to her neck.

  The man from the Club was John Peterson. The Club worker… or rather, the man she has assumed was a Club worker…

  Oh, lord. So many people could be found in buildings despite not working inside them. Not only that—there were legions of staff to be found in every house of a respectable size. Who knew how many people it took to keep the fires lit in an enormous den of iniquity like the Cappadene Club? He could be anyone… he could be a passing grocer, or debt-collector…

  … and she had thrown her arms around him, implied that he was responsible for the most depraved excesses of the flesh, and imperiously demanded pleasure. Pleasure that he had given her as swiftly and thoroughly as possible.

  She would have to leave. Leave without delay. She had no desire whatsoever to reach the truth at the heart of this mystery—and neither did she wish to investigate the hot, wicked thrill at the meeting of her thighs, her most craven place, exactly where John Peterson had stroked her until she had—she had—

  She had no word for it. She had no words for anything they had done. But the acts still lived in her, deep in her core, repeating over and over again. Rebecca closed her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek in anguished panic as she rose to leave the stage.

  She would feign a headache. Feign sickness. Feign something. But before she could safely make her escape, Mrs Boone was already back on the stage—already excitedly addressing the assembled ladies and gentlemen. Rebecca sank back into her chair, half-sure that she would faint as the elderly lady spoke.

  ‘Mr. John Peterson will address us now… as valet to Sir Marcus Bennington, he is in the most perfect position to see London’s best aspects as well as the worst…’

  Valet to Sir Marcus Bennington! Valet to the man who was widely suspected to be the owner, at least in part, of the Cappadene Club! That was why he had been there… oh, Lord, the spectacle she had made of herself…

  She bit her cheek harder still, attempting to concentrate on the pain. She certainly couldn’t look at John Peterson as he stepped onto the stage—oh, she had to look away as he turned, looking behind him…

  … looking at her.

  Time stopped. Rebecca stared, transfixed, into the dark intensity of John Peterson’s gaze.

  A flash of recognition passed between them like a bolt of lightning. Peterson stopped, looking at her looking again… and when the corner of his mouth curled in the faintest hint of a smile, Rebecca’s core quivered in response.

  He had clearly recognised her. More than that—he had connected her reputation, her public self, with the woman who had said and done unspeakable things in London’s most notorious house of pleasure.

  Please. Rebecca clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Please, let this not be happening.

  Alas, it was no dream. No sudden fever. With a slight but definite bow of his head, John Peterson turned to address the crowd.

  ‘Thank you for the fine introduction, and the warm welcome. I—I am unused to speaking in public, but indulge me with your ear. I am not hear to speak of myself, a poor study in even the most flattering of lights—instead I must speak of my sister, Helen Peterson. A woman with great zest for life, but a terrible affliction—a dependence on strong spirits, which so many in our city still consider harmless, but in fact are a terrible scourge…’

  Rebecca didn’t know how she managed to listen politely to John Peterson’s speech, and clap with the rest of the crowd. She didn’t know how she managed not to cry—how she didn’t weep through the man’s tender, affecting speech, his every word touching her heart. How she managed to sit still, a tidal wave of strong emotion coursing through her as he had finished with a bow.

  Her own speech was a blur. The ceremony itself was a blank-but the medal sat shining on her dress now, and Mrs Boone had smiled with fervent enthusiasm as she had thanked her.

  Apparently, she had performed splendidly. Rebecca smiled with mechanical effort as she greeted every well-wisher, not daring to look around the room to see if Mr. Peterson was waiting for her.

  He shouldn’t wait for her. Couldn’t wait for her. But all the same, Rebecca was obscurely disappointed when she didn’t catch sight of his tall, dark f
igure waiting to speak to her. Waiting to clasp her hands, as some of the more enthusiastic woman in the audience did, and tell her… tell her…

  What could he tell her? That what happened between them was like a lightning-strike, never to be repeated? What else could he possibly say to her?

  Why did she want him to say something different?

  The crowd, although small, suddenly seemed so large as to be unmanageable. Rebecca nodded to Mrs Boone, squeezing the woman’s hand as she made her way to the side-door. Opening it, she slipped inside before she could be spotted by any further well-wishers.

  The small, whitewashed room still carried the smell of wheat and rye. Rebecca leaned against the plaster, taking a slow, deep breath, before reaching to adjust her hat. The pins in her hair were coming loose; they needed to be tight, severely tight, so she wouldn’t forget herself.

  Oh, it was no use. She had forgotten herself completely when John Peterson had stepped onto the stage. With a small sigh, wondering if it were too late to call in on Mary Atterson and take moral courage from her strong, smiling face, Rebecca heard the side-door open without thinking about who could be coming in.

  ‘I knew I recognised you from somewhere.’ The low rasp of a voice, complete with an intriguingly rough accent at its edges, moved through Rebecca’s bones like thunder. The voice she had been frightened of hearing ever since she saw him in the crowd—the voice that had haunted the strange, forbidden dreams that had racked her sleep. ‘You look different with your spectacles on.’

  ‘S—sir, I have finished my speech.’ Rebecca couldn’t summon up the courage to meet the man’s eye. ‘If you have any questions, you must ask for Mrs. Boone to—’

  ‘I have a lot of questions. None that Mrs. Boone could reasonably answer, I think.’ The man’s voice hummed with a new, dark note of command—one that Rebecca found herself unaccountably responding to. ‘Turn around. Face me.’

  It sounded like an order, but felt like a request. One that she was free to obey, or not. Rebecca sighed as she turned, shame reddening her cheeks as she realised that somewhere, deep inside her innermost self, she wished to see the man again.

  John Peterson. She had never noticed him before—not at any of the various meetings she had attended. But then, she had never looked at any of the men in her meetings… and apparently, if the man was to be believed, he hadn’t recognised her that day in the Club. Neither did he attend any meetings.

  He was probably lying. But then, she did look different without her spectacles. And—and her behaviour had certainly differed most powerfully from the strident, shrewish attitude she had adopted for goodness-knew how many years.

  He was as tall, dark-eyed, and quietly frightening as ever. But was frightening the best word?

  She felt fear when she looked at him, but not because he was dangerous. The fear came from what she could do. What she had done with him before.

  What she wanted to do with him again.

  ‘There you are. Rebecca Westbrook.’ Peterson bowed. ‘We meet under slightly more usual circumstances.’

  ‘Mr. Peterson.’ Rebecca curtseyed as frostily as she could. ‘I do not know why we are meeting again. At all.’

  ‘Then you’re considerably less intelligent than I’ve gathered.’

  ‘You—you are insulting.’

  ‘I most certainly am not. From what I gleaned of your speech, you’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. Or rather, met twice.’

  ‘I… you make it impossible for me to receive the compliment with grace.’ Rebecca wished she could stop looking at the man—his gaze seemed to demand attention. When had she become so weak? ‘You insist upon referring to something that cannot, and will not, be discussed.’

  ‘I disagree. I think that it requires discussion.’

  ‘Well, I—if we must say anything about that day—’

  ‘—And we must.’

  ‘Yes. No. I…’ Rebecca stopped, putting a hand to her chest as she struggled for composure. The man had already made her body feel dangerously abandoned—he couldn’t possibly run verbal rings around her as well. ‘I think it should be noted that—that what occurred, occurred under false pretences.’

  ‘Why? Did you pretend to have drunk the Reviver?’

  ‘I beg your pardon! Not—not my false pretences, yours! You misled me about the nature of your work!’

  ‘I did no such thing. You assumed the nature of my work, and gave me no time to correct the assertion.’

  ‘You had—you had plenty of time!’ Lord, why did her cheeks have to turn so red when she was exercised? ‘Abundant time!’

  ‘Time in which I was most happily occupied, as were you. After a crucial moment had been reached, as it were, I saw no reason for revealing the true nature of my work. I certainly didn’t think that we would ever see one another again, after all.’ Peterson shrugged. ‘And are you honestly saying that you would have rescinded your offer, had you discovered the lowly nature of my work? Not a tremendous expression of solidarity with the common man.’

  ‘You know very well that isn’t at all what I meant.’ Rebecca narrowed her eyes, noting with a thrill of rage the smile curling at the corners of Peterson’s mouth. The man actually had the temerity to be enjoying this! ‘I simply assumed, from your presence in the establishment and—and—’

  ‘And my appearance.’ Peterson moved closer, leaning idly against the wall. ‘You were commendably clear about that, as I recall. Dark, brooding, brutal…’

  ‘You are most unpleasant to have remembered.’

  ‘Oh, come now.’ Peterson’s smile widened, white and wolfish. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.’

  Of course she hadn’t forgotten. That was the worst part of this whole sorry business. Whenever she looked into John Peterson’s dark eyes, or heard his voice, the moment of abandonment on the Cappadene Club’s desk flooded her senses like a forest fire.

  It was deeply inconvenient. It was certainly sinful. It was also, to Rebecca’s deep shame, more intoxicating than any drug. Even the strange potion she had swallowed that day had faded into significance compared to the physical reality of John Peterson, and the sensations he had conjured in her.

  ‘We are not meant to speak like this. Not in public.’ She straightened her back, trying to recover what was left of her dignity. ‘And you certainly should not have waited for me here.’

  ‘Are you honestly surprised that I waited for you?’ Peterson’s brow furrowed. ‘How on earth was I meant to ignore you, after what we—’

  ‘You were meant to ignore me completely! We—we are meant to be strangers to one another!’ Rebecca clenched her fists, dangerously close to stamping her foot. ‘Any true gentleman would know that!’

  ‘A pity, then, that I’m no gentleman.’ Peterson’s face darkened further as he moved closer still. ‘And if we are to speak of true ladies and gentleman, Miss Westbrook, true ladies certainly aren’t meant to wander into places like the Cappadene Club and demand that the nearest available male give them a good—’

  ‘Stop!’ Before Rebecca could stop herself, she reached out a hand to cover his mouth. Peterson’s eyes widened. ‘Please—please. Stop.’

  Her gloves suddenly felt far too thin. What on earth had possessed her? If he said what she had done, it would become real… and her body still thrilled at the memory of his touch, his kiss, the mixture she had drank still singing through her extremities.

  It was as if she were touching her own body. Another half of herself. Rebecca, biting her lip, kept her fingertips pressed to Peterson’s stubbled skin.

  She would have to remove her hand at some point. She would have to come to her senses, and remember who she was. Rebecca, staring into Peterson’s dark eyes with a delicious feeling of helplessness, removed her hand with a sigh.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked down, her cheeks hot. ‘Terribly sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Peterson’s voice grew lower as he leaned closer; Rebecca realised she didn�
��t want to move away. ‘Cover my mouth whenever you wish. I talk too much.’

  It wasn’t true. If anything, it was the opposite—John Peterson didn’t speak enough. He left silences, just like this one, that Rebecca felt the urge to fill with something far more sinful than words.

  Could it be the Reviver? That deeply floral potion she had drunk… did it keep working long beyond the first spike of desire? Because desire was what she felt now, beneath the awkwardness, beyond the shame…

  ‘Tell me to go, and I’ll go. I mean it.’ How could his gaze be so open, so all-encompassing? ‘I’ll leave now, without a word. But I need you to tell me.’

  She couldn’t be dishonest. That would only compound all of the new sins that she had managed to commit in so very short a time. Rebecca, her hands beginning to tremble, bit her lip as she looked away.

  ‘I thought not.’ There was no triumph in Peterson’s voice, now—only a curiosity, a softness, that was almost worse than any coarser feelings. ‘Anyone would think you were frightened of a little pleasure.’

  A little pleasure? A walk on a sunny day was a little pleasure—a currant bun was a little pleasure! Rebecca almost laughed at the idea of what she had felt at the Cappadene Club being categorised as a little pleasure, rather than the most powerful thing she had ever felt.

  ‘Maybe you’re frightened because it’s new to you.’ Peterson paused. ‘Maybe you should practice.’

  ‘If you are referring to—’

  ‘I’m not. I’m talking about a walk in the park, next to a gentleman who could make you laugh. Who could listen to your plans for remaking half of England, and marvel at them, and have a few points of his own to offer. Who could buy you a cup of tea and a cake.’ Peterson’s eyes showed even more cautious vulnerability than his voice. ‘Unless, of course, you—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, you don’t want to?’

  ‘No. Not that.’ Rebecca held a hand to her forehead, trying to control the swirling morass of her thoughts. How could she be so good at firmly telling unfortunate souls what was best of them, but so terrible at speaking to a man? ‘I can’t.’