Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5)

by Brant, Lucinda

  “And he came into the room with the book that’s now in your basket…?”

  Becky nodded.

  “’E did. I never noticed ’e ’ad it at first ’cause I was busy lookin’ at ’im. But then I went back to scoopin’ up the ribbons and as I was puttin’ ’em away Mrs. Markham gets off ’er dressin’ stool—and this is the truth, as God is m’witness—and pulls off her chemise and lets it drop to the floor. Just like that! And that’s when I see me pink garters keepin’ ’er stockin’s up! She took ’em all right! But can you blame ’im for forgettin’ about ’is book? ’E takes one look at ’er naked, and lets drop the book into m’basket while she’s helpin’ ’im out o’ ’is breeches—”

  “May I see the book, Becky?” Lisa interrupted and stuck out a hand.

  She was no prude, but she did not pry into the private lives of others either. What they did behind closed doors was no one’s business but their own. Her shock had more to do with the couple’s lack of circumspection and disregard for their servants. No wonder gossip about members of Polite Society managed to find its way into the newssheets for her cousin Minette to pore over with her tea and cream cakes, if that is how they behaved. She did not doubt that enterprising servants managed a secondary income from passing on such salacious tidbits about their masters to the newspaper hacks.

  Quickly shaking her thoughts clear of Mrs. Markham and her nameless lover, she returned to the business at hand, because the afternoon was closing in, and they were still seated on the servant step in Gerrard Street. The sooner they delivered the book to Lord Westby’s townhouse, the sooner they could put this episode behind them.

  The book was larger and heavier than she had anticipated, and opening it, the frontispiece told her almost everything she needed to know. It was in fact a catalog, worth the princely sum of five shillings, and contained a listing of the entire contents of the Portland Museum, once owned by the Dowager Duchess of Portland, and which now, upon her death, was being sold by auctioneers Skinner and Co. Lisa had read reports of the month-long auction in Dr. Warner’s copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine. The Dowager Duchess had been a great patroness of Natural History, and a voracious collector of all things associated with the science, from corals, to all manner of shells, animals, insects, petrifications, plants, minerals, and related paraphernalia.

  Flicking through the catalog’s pages, she noticed annotations in the margins beside items for sale, and returning to the frontispiece she saw inscribed in the same elegant fist the initials H and A, separated by a hyphen. So the catalog did not belong to Lord Westby, and perhaps Peggy Markham’s lover was this H-A? Her interest in the actress’s lover increased tenfold, for according to Becky, not only was the gentleman handsome beyond what was expected of a mere mortal, he was possessed of an elegantly sloping script, and from the mark-ups in the catalog, had an interest in old snuffboxes and sea shells.

  What immediately crossed Lisa’s mind and made her heart beat faster was twofold: That the owner needed the catalog to be admitted to the auction, and as he had marked particular items not yet come up for sale, she was confident he would most certainly be looking for his missing catalog. Secondly, and most disturbing, as the catalog was worth more than a shilling, its theft would be considered grand larceny, and a guilty verdict meant a sentence of death by hanging.

  None of this Becky needed to know at that precise moment, so Lisa smiled bravely, hoping not to give away her fears, and returned the catalog to her.

  “Is there anything else you should tell me about your visit to Lord Westby’s? Or about this catalog before we head off?” When Becky shook her head, she stood and brushed down her petticoats, adding in a tone she hoped exuded confidence, “Good. Then when we arrive at Lord Westby’s, you had best let me do the talking.”

  Becky nodded and smiled, picked up her basket, put it over her arm, and gave a huge sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Miss. I knew that if anyone can get that book back inside without me bein’ dropped into a ’ot vat o’ trouble, it’d be you!” She cocked her head in thought. “D’you think you could get ’er to put ’er mark to ’er account, too?”

  “One small miracle at a time, Becky,” Lisa said with false buoyancy, and went up the steps to street level.

  ~ ~ ~

  LISA AND BECKY walked as one down Gerrard Street and up Princes Street towards the river. The racket and bustle at street level precluded conversation, so they stayed silent, the basket up front between them, and kept on the lookout for pickpockets amongst the criss-cross of pedestrians and vocal street vendors. Soon the narrow streets opened out and they were on the corner of a spacious cobbled square, fronted with rows of elegant townhouses, the grand mansion of Leicester House, once home to various members of the Royal Family and now occupied by Sir Ashton Lever’s Museum of Natural History, forming the square’s northern border. Central to this wide expanse was a large quadrangle of grass with gravel crosswalks and dominated by a gilt statue of the first King George. Here, within the confines of an iron fence, privileged residents took idle walks, and nursemaids supervised children in leading strings or running about in the summer sunshine with their hoops or kites. A crossing sweep worked every corner, and there was enough space for carriages, sedan chairs, riders on horseback, and pedestrians to pass one another with ease.

  Once the center of Polite Society, and still home to a few aging remnants of Hanoverian royalty and their hangers-on, the square was an echo of its former glory. The city and its industry had sufficiently encroached on its elegance that several of the townhouses were now occupied by shops and manufactories, a sign of the changing times. Persons of title, wealth, and influence had moved out a decade or more earlier and gone west to a more countrified aesthetic, where the palatial squares were filled with new townhouses, healthier air, and were occupied exclusively by their own kind. Those who remained in Leicester Square, whether through lack of funds or foresight, and whose townhouses were squeezed in amongst industry, did their best to ignore their changed surroundings and their mercantile neighbors.

  Lord Westby was one such resident. Heir to the Duke of Oborne, His Lordship occupied a townhouse belonging to his father, who had long since departed for the noble environs of Westminster, leaving his son to exist in a tall, narrow townhouse squashed between a carpet manufactory and the Dowager Marchioness of Fittleworth’s residence. Whenever His Lordship stepped out into the square he made a habit of looking north to her abode, and never south to his mercantile neighbor.

  Lisa, who had never had reason to visit Leicester Square, was fascinated by it all. In her preoccupation with the variety of pedestrians and the continual parade of carriages and sedan chairs going to and fro, she almost forgot why she was there. That was until Becky stopped in front of Lord Westby’s residence.

  “The servant door is back down the lane and—”

  “Oh no, Becky,” Lisa said, holding fast to the girl’s arm. “We enter by the front door, or not at all.”

  Becky’s eyes went wide and she swallowed. She had never entered a house by the front door, ever.

  Lisa went up the shallow step and lifted the silver knocker, only for the door to be wrenched open before she could knock, as if someone had been at the window peering out into the street in anticipation of their arrival. Startled, Lisa stumbled back onto the cobbles.

  A short squat man with bulging eyes and a grizzled wig appeared out of the blackness.

  “You’re late!” he hissed, and opened the door wider. “Come in! Come in! Quickly! Quickly!”

  TWO

  THE PORTER moved aside to let them enter, but when Lisa and Becky just stood there, recovering from the shock of such a reception, he stomped out onto the footpath, darted behind them, and fluttered his hands low, at his bended knees, as if driving a flock of geese.

  “Go in! Go in! Don’t stand about! Go in!”

  The girls shuffled forward, looking over their shoulders to see what the little man was up to. And once they were in
the vestibule, he slammed shut the door, making them jump. They clung even tighter to one another and glanced about. But there was a decided lack of wax in the sconces, and after the bright sunlight of a summer’s day outside, their sight needed time to adjust to the darkness. This was denied them when out of the gloom pounced a tall, stick-thin man with a long chin and furrowed brow. He glared down at them from a great height before looking over their heads to demand imperiously,

  “Where are the others?”

  “O-o-others?” Lisa stuttered, a swift look up from under her peaked bonnet.

  But he hadn’t addressed her. He was talking to his squat associate.

  “No carriage, Mr. Packer. These two came on foot.”

  “No carriage? On foot?”

  The tall, imperious personage, who Lisa decided was the butler of this establishment, rolled his eyes and sighed, as if this were the worst possible news he had ever received. He stepped to one side of the staircase, giving Lisa no time to explain, flicked a bony finger in direction of the first landing, and said in voice heavy with the worries of the world upon his pointy shoulders, “You two will have to do—for now. Up you go. First landing. Second door on the left. No need to knock. Just go in.”

  “I beg your pardon, but there seems to be some misunder—”

  “My dear girl. Don’t beg my pardon. It isn’t up to me or you or your cherry-cheeked friend to wonder at the whys and wherefores, or the how-tos, for that matter. You’re here, aren’t you? His lordship and the Batoni Brotherhood don’t make a habit of waiting—for anything. Now up you go.”

  “Bat—Batoni Brotherhood?”

  “You’re an inquisitive one, I’ll say that for you!” the butler snorted, rudely looking Lisa up and down. “Take my advice and keep your voice bottled. You’re not here for your conversation.”

  Lisa balked to be so familiarly addressed, and arched an eyebrow in disapproval. “Am I not?”

  “Hardly! Though to look at you—Well! You all come in different shapes and sizes and—um—talents, don’t you. So it’s not for me to say—”

  “—because you’re not here for your conversation, either?” Lisa quipped, and accompanied this with a deceptively sweet smile.

  “Ha! I suppose I deserved that,” the butler replied good-naturedly. “If you’re quick about it, you might even get to choose your quarry, before your friends arrive.”

  Lisa had no idea what he was talking about. She glanced up the stairs, which were as ill-lit as the vestibule, and then smiled reassuringly at Becky, who, if she had any confidence in this venture before they entered Lord Westby’s townhouse, now had none. She had lost her rosy glow and her eyes were wary.

  “Friends?”

  The butler rolled his eyes again and gave a snort, a glance at Becky. “If not friends, then your female brethren.” He jerked a thumb at the staircase. “Now up you go! Quick! Quick!”

  Lisa wasn’t sure what compelled her to take the course of action she did because her first impulse was to hand over the catalog to the talkative butler with the excuse she had found it in the street, then flee the scene with Becky without divulging who they were. But something compelled her to hold her ground—curiosity, stubbornness, impetuosity, she wasn’t sure which. She decided that to ascend the stairs into the unknown without fear of the consequences might at least provide some light relief from the ordinariness of her present and predicted future, and prove an adventure worth taking.

  It was this same adventurous—the headmistress of Blacklands called it impetuous—streak that had seen her abscond from the school grounds to meet a friend at the Chelsea Bun House. It was the third such visit and the one reported to the headmistress, and it was her undoing. She was expelled just six months shy of her graduation. The Chelsea Bun House incident had forever tarnished her in the eyes of her school and her family. But when she reflected upon her actions—and she’d had two years in which to do so—she was confident she would not have acted any differently. And with a reputation so tarnished it would never regain its luster, taking this risk would be of little consequence, surely?

  But she had no wish to drag Becky into further misadventure, so she did her best to dissuade her from venturing upstairs.

  “Give me the catalog, Becky,” she whispered. “You may stay here while I—”

  “No, Miss. I’m comin’ with ye!”

  “Please. I have no idea who or what we’ll encounter upstairs. Very possibly an angry lord and his mistress. And as they don’t know me, I may be able to persuade them to accept the catalog without further explanation. So it would be better for you to remain—”

  “No, Miss. Beggin’ ye pardon. I done brought y’ ’ere,” Becky stated stubbornly and hugged the basket closer. “We go up together, or not at all. They’re me terms.”

  “Very well. But promise me, if I decide we need to leave—for whatever reason—we will—immediately.”

  When Becky nodded, Lisa untied the ribbons of her bonnet, and handed this to the butler. He held this article of feminine attire between thumb and forefinger, as if it were poisonous, and gave it to the porter. Lisa lightly patted the wisps of hair come free from her coiled braids, then smoothed her cotton mitts over her slim arms, as if steeling herself for the interview. Finally, without a second look at the butler, she nodded to Becky and they went up the stairs.

  They followed the butler’s directions, and at the first landing Lisa picked up a lighted taper in its holder from a corner table to light their way along the dark passage. At the second door on their left they stopped. Instinctively, Becky hung back, and Lisa gave her the taper. She did not knock to announce their presence, but opened the door and went straight in.

  Not in their wildest imaginings could they have foreseen what awaited them.

  ~ ~ ~

  SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER, members of the Batoni Brotherhood had gathered for their regular bi-monthly get-together, this time at the townhouse of Lord Westby, whose turn it was to play host. The Brotherhood’s membership consisted of a select group of young gentlemen who had taken the Grand Tour together. Sent off by their noble parents with tutors, valets, and servants in tow, they had wandered through France, Switzerland, the Italian States, and Greece for three years. Returning home via the Mediterranean coastline and with a better appreciation of their classical education, they brought with them trunks laden with artworks, sculptures, books, finely-tailored clothing, and anything else from antiquity that took their fancy.

  While abroad, these sons from Polite Society’s first families made a pact that, upon their return, they would meet up once every other month to reminisce, discuss their collections of objets d’art, to eat a splendid supper, and drink themselves under the table. These gatherings had been going on now for just over a year, and were eagerly anticipated by all members of the Brotherhood.

  But the Batoni Brotherhood was about to change forever. Sir John ‘Jack’ Cavendish was to be the first of the foursome to take the plunge into matrimony. While they had been well aware of the inevitability of the match—Jack had become engaged to his future bride almost immediately upon his return from the Continent—they were still in denial. The marriage had been set for early spring, only to be delayed to allow the bride’s mother to sufficiently recover from the birth of her fourth child.

  The delay suited the Brotherhood. No one wanted change, though they all respected Jack’s wish to marry his childhood sweetheart. It was just that this get-together would be the last time they would meet as bachelors. And while everyone was determined to enjoy it for Jack’s sake, there was an undercurrent of disgruntlement that this could very well be their last meeting.

  Yet none of the members had voiced their concerns publicly. Lord Henri-Antoine ‘Harry’ Hesham, Jack’s best friend, had not said a word. But that was typical of Lord Henri-Antoine, who kept his thoughts to himself, was economical with his words, and scathing in his opinions.

  The other two members, Sebastian ‘Seb’ Lord Westby and Mr. Randal ‘Bully’
Knatchbull, had known Jack and Henri-Antoine since Eton. They considered Jack an affable, uncomplicated fellow, loyal to a fault—a true Trusty Trojan. Seb and Bully understood Jack. Henri-Antoine was another matter entirely. He was black to Jack’s white, and always had been. He was as open with his feelings as an uncracked walnut, and about as friendly as a March gale. They had never understood him or, for that matter, the close friendship between such opposites. Jack wouldn’t hear a word against Harry, even when his best friend directed his acerbic remarks at him, which was rare but occasionally happened.

  Lord Westby and Randall Knatchbull were a little afraid of Lord Henri-Antoine Hesham. It was not that he would ever lift a finger in violence, raise his voice, or not help them out of a scrape. They were confident of his loyalty. It was just that, unlike with Jack, or the fellows in their extended circle of friends, they were never entirely comfortable in his company. They were uneasy being silly for its own sake, and playing a prank just for laughs became asinine under Henri-Antoine’s fixed gaze. His silence spoke volumes. It made the back of their necks itch.

  As for venturing an opinion on a subject which held gravitas, such as politics, religion, a point of law, or the latest play, in Henri-Antoine’s presence they thought twice about blurting out the first thing that popped into their heads. It made Bully’s head hurt.

  Bully hated confrontation of any sort about as much as he hated formulating a counter-argument, so he held no contrary opinions and agreed with everything anyone said, which meant he agreed with no one.

  And they most definitely did not offer an opinion about the French—Henri-Antoine’s name was French, and so was his mama; half his blood came from the other side of the Channel. Truth told, he spoke Frenchie better than he did English and, as they discovered to their eye-rolling amazement while abroad, he was fluent in the Italian language, too.