Fortune's Son (11 page)

Although Philip failed to show the next day for Lady Messingham's gaming lesson, she occupied far more of his thoughts than he would have liked. His attempt to conceal it was in vain, the cause of his black mood obvious to George, who joined him for a tankard.

“What you need is diversion, old man,” said George. “You missed a capital hanging at Tyburn yesterday. You should go with me next month. The rabble are deuced entertaining. They hardly wait until the jig is done before they start jockeying for the cadavers for the medical students. There was one burly fellow pulled so hard on a carcass he took the head clean off.”

“Good God!” Philip shuddered. “You find that entertaining?”

“I am in good company, dear boy. Half of London town turned out for it.”

“De gustibus non est disputandum.”

“You know I hate when you quote Latin.”

“To each his own,” Philip translated.

“I'm sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, but you should do something to celebrate your good fortune. Instead here you are in the devil's own humor.”

“I'm not out of sorts, Bosky. I'm just… preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied? I won't ask by what, but by
whom
?”

Philip's answering glare should have burned a hole through him, but George continued unfazed. “I warned you that first night at the Rose of Normandy she would be nothing but trouble. Her type always is.”

“Just what would you know of
her
type
?”

“You know what I mean. The so-called beauties of the
ton
, they always place unreasonable demands upon a man.”

“And you speak from personal experience?” Philip mocked.

“Well, no,” George replied. “I've avoided the snare, but I have seen enough poor sots completely unmanned by such women, and
you
, my dear chap, were well on your way. Leave her be, I say. There are too many merry wenches who won't complicate a man's life to bother with the Susannah Messinghams of the world.” He emphasized his point with a great frothy gulp of ale.

Philip raised his own tankard as if in agreement, but even in his state of deep resentment over the hold she had upon him, he could not seem to dismiss her and move on.

“I have it!” George interrupted Philip's ruminations. “Just the cure for your condition!”

“My condition? What do you blather on about now, Bosky?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You're boorish company of late, all because you're besotted with a woman you can't have. I can't fathom it with any number of ready whores at Tom's—”

“I think I'm done with whores. These days, one can scarce risk the cure.”

“You hardly have the means to adopt such fastidiousness. At any rate, I daresay you'll have no peace until you've had
a
piece
.” George chuckled. “You know, Drake, there's nothing like a good bacchanal to put a man to rights. I think Dashwood's gathering might be precisely the thing.”

“Dashwood? You mean Sir Francis?”

“The same,” said George. “He and his cronies used ofttimes to gather in this very place.” He gestured to the taproom. “I had near forgotten the… er… club… is now meeting at an altogether new venue. Do you know of Medmenham Abbey?”

“Medmenham? Isn't it naught but ruins?”

“It was, until Sir Francis leased it and began its restoration to create a more private place to host his… er… entertainments.”

“A private retreat for what?” Philip's interest was piqued despite himself. “By all accounts, Dashwood's a complete libertine.”

“Some might consider him so.” George grinned. “A few self-righteous prigs have frowned upon his amusements during his continental travels.”

“What kind of amusements?”

“He is said to have terrorized some poor pilgrims at the Vatican.”

“He did what?”

“Don't look so shocked, ol' fellow, 'twas but a lark!” George needed no further encouragement to relate the full tale.

“It was Good Friday, when hundreds, mayhap thousands, of penitents come to scourge themselves at the Sistine Chapel. Sir Francis enters among them, but hides a horsewhip under his greatcoat and waits for the priest to extinguish all but three of the candles. Then, under cover of near-darkness, Dashwood proceeds to flog the penitents from one end of the chapel to the other. The congregated were shrieking in terror
, ‘Il Diavolo!
' believing the devil incarnate come upon them!” George burst into a fit of mirth until tears streamed from his eyes. “And even
that
story is nothing compared to his exploits in Russia when he impersonated the King of Sweden to seduce the Tsarina.”

“Is the man mad?” Philip asked, incredulous.

“Not mad, but a damn-them-all roistering devil for certain. His wine cellar is deep and the bottles flow freely. Best of all, the company of the self-proclaimed Abbot of St. Francis is mixed, and the women liberal with their favors. Dashwood's precisely the man to provide the diversion you need.”

“He is indeed, Bosky. Wine, women, and unfettered debauchery?” Philip stood and emptied his tankard in a last great swallow. “What are we waiting for?”

***

The two young men threw together some traveling clothes and set out from London on horseback for the ancient Cistercian monastery in Buckinghamshire. Abutting the Thames, the great heap of rubble that was formerly Medmenham Abbey certainly offered seclusion.

Philip's initial assessment was that the so-called restoration had progressed little beyond the incipient stage, but upon closer inspection he realized that this was precisely the impression that Dashwood intended to give. A cloister and tower, laid out in a peculiar mix of Gothic and neoclassical styles, lay partially hidden behind a crumbling wall, but the fresh mortar belied the structure's true age.

“Who the deuce are they?” Philip asked upon their approach, indicating two imposing statues, one male and one female, standing sentinel at the stone entrance.

“This couple, my ignorant friend, is the Egyptian god and goddess of silence, Harpocrates and his consort, Angerona. They remind all who enter to uphold the secrecy of the rites within. Now Drake, before we proceed further, you must swear by all you hold holy that you will speak nothing of this place once we leave.”

“Sacred rites? Swearing secrecy? Good God, Bosky, this seems a bit over the top. What manner of place is this?”

“One whose mysteries shall soon be revealed.” George's expression was enigmatic. “Now do you swear?”

“Yes, yes,” Philip snapped. “I swear on my dear mother's grave. Are you now satisfied?”

“I brought you as my guest. You could at least
try
to enter into the spirit of the game,” George retorted churlishly.

“Very well, George, I assure you my lips are sealed. Now may we proceed?”

They progressed through the gate into the cloister leading to the half-crumbled stone tower, where carved over the entrance were the words
Fais
ce
que
voudra.

Philip enunciated the phrase as a question, while searching his memory. “‘Do what thou wilt'? Rabelais, isn't it? If memory serves, 'twas the motto of the Abbey of Thélème in the tale of
Gargantua
and
Pantagruel
.”

“Precisely so, gentlemen,” came a deep voice from behind. “The monks lived only by their free will and pleasure. 'Tis the adopted dictum of the Knights of St. Francis.” The hidden voice materialized into an elegantly clad gentleman, who stepped forward to rap thrice upon the tower door.

He then turned to face the younger men and made a perfunctory bow. “Sandwich, at your service,” he said. “Ah! Mr. Selwyn,” he exclaimed in sudden recognition. “It has been some time since we have met.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Selwyn agreed, “likely not since the Knights of St. Francis last convened at the George and Vulture. I thought it high time to see for myself all the to-do about Medmenham Abbey. Now pray let me make known to you my comrade in dissipation, Philip Drake.”

“Drake? Hastings's feckless younger son?” The Earl of Sandwich laughed at Philip's scowl. “Now don't take umbrage simply because your reputation precedes you.”

“I daresay my reputation is grossly exaggerated.”

“Then you deny expulsion from Harrow for leading the underaged scions of the noblest houses to the vices of gaming and gin? Or that your name has become the blight of every hazard table from Blackfriars to Covent Garden?”

“Surely my repute is not so wide-spread.” Philip suppressed a smirk.

“Surely not.” Sandwich winked in understanding. “Nevertheless, I bid you welcome to Sir Francis Dashwood's new Utopia, where such men as we may be free of the so-called moral subjections and constraints that keep us down, and where for a time we may shake off and break those bonds of servitude wherein we are so tyrannously enslaved.”

“You are the humanist, George, not I. What the deuce does he natter on about?”

“Mostly whores and booze,” George replied with a grin.

Sandwich continued, while rapping once more upon the door, “Man is led into vice only when he is denied, my friends; for it is his nature to long after things forbidden and to desire most fervently what is denied.”

“Another translation?” Philip asked.

“Whores and booze… in boundless supply.” George added under his breath, “All the better at Dashwood's expense.”

“Ah,” Philip said, “I stand in renewed appreciation of the philosophers.”

They were interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet before the great oak door swung open. The answering servant wore the coarse brown woolen cowl of a Franciscan monk. He maintained silence, indicating by his upheld lantern that they should follow him down the dim stone-paved hallway.

As they walked, the lamplight revealed a long and graphic fresco depicting explicit sexual gratification. Another mural displayed Dionysus and Aphrodite entangled in coitus, leading to the final figure of Priapus in all of his eternally erect splendor under the caption “
Peni
tento
non
penitenti
.”

Philip's brows shot upward at the translation. “A tense penis, not penitence?” He looked to George. “And you described Dashwood as
a
bit
of
a
libertine
? I'd liefer call him a veritable Rochester.”

“You have no idea, Drake.” George laughed.

“You must wait here,” croaked the voice from within the cowl. “None may enter without first paying homage.”

At this Sandwich knelt and genuflected. “I hereby profess my faith and hereafter swear my eternal devotion to Venus and to Bacchus.” He followed with a great draught of wine from a bejeweled chalice.

Philip eyed George once more with overt skepticism. “You still ascribe to this heretical nonsense, Bosky? Weren't you sent down from Cambridge for performing some such sacrilege?”

“Give o'er, Drake. 'Twas just some high jinks, same as this. Just play along with it, for form's sake,” George urged in a low whisper. With a sigh of resignation, Philip followed his companion through the motions and drank from the ceremonial cup.

“And now you may enter the temple of Venus,” spoke the keeper of the chalice before the twelve-foot oak doors swung free on their hinges.

Philip had no clue what he had expected to find inside, but the outer trappings of a crumbling monastery had not prepared him for the scene of decadent opulence within.

The room was ablaze with a thousand tapers revealing what decency should have concealed in the dark. The walls were festooned with tapestries and every conceivable pornographic work. Oil paintings depicted nymphs and satyrs
in
flagrante
delicto
, while the walls bore placards bearing libertine maxims and sexually explicit witticisms.

Oriental rugs were scattered about a room decked out lavishly with Turkish divans and couches of silk and velvet, upon which sprawled numerous couples already engaged in the earlier stages of copulation.

Philip took a long draught from the glass of Madeira offered by one of the flock of wooden-faced servants who stood at the ready with flasks and chalices.

George had already emptied his own, and nudged his companion in the ribs. “A man could quickly accustom himself to this, eh Drake?” He then beckoned the footman for a refill.

Philip's attention was drawn to the entrance of a man robed in crimson ceremonial garb topped with a cap trimmed in rabbit fur. The presumed master of ceremonies approached the raised platform with a smile for his guests. With the slightest inclination of his head, the doors were then closed and bolted from the inside.

With a signal to the cowled figure, a giant brass gong sounded, the resonance echoing throughout the chamber, shaking the crystal chandeliers and putting an abrupt halt to all the aforementioned activities.

“Now the fun begins,” George whispered with a gleam in his eyes.

“My dear brothers and honored guests,” the self-proclaimed Abbot of St. Francis began. “We gather in this holy of holies, the place of voluptuary worship for the professed profligate, to dedicate our newly erected Temple of Venus. And in this vein we do now offer up our first and our best sacrifice.” He raised his hands and cried, “Enter Persephone!”

A side door opened to a parade of women who sashayed into the chamber, clad in diaphanous robes exposing the left breast in the style of Venus Genetrix. At the rear guard, Philip recognized the notorious bawd “Mother” Elizabeth Ward dressed as Demeter. The earlier cowled figure revealed himself as Dashwood's amanuensis, former poet and satirist Paul Whitehead. Between them, they dragged a bound and struggling young woman toward the sacrificial altar.

Dashwood addressed Mother Ward at their approach. “Do you, Demeter, freely and without constraint offer up your daughter Persephone as a pure and virgin sacrifice to the mother god Venus?”

“If I don't, you shan't find another in the entire of London. She likely be the only virgin left!” The retort set the whores cackling and the room rumbled in raucous, drunken laughter, but Dashwood frowned at the levity.

“Perhaps you should just repeat after me. I, Demeter, offer my virgin daughter, Persephone, to the mother god Venus.”

The sacrificial “virgin,” clearly not long out of girlhood, stood frozen before the altar with ashen face and quivering lips. “Mayhap Demeter offers her up, but Persephone appears none too eager to be sacrificed,” Philip murmured low to George.

“She's indeed a fine performer!” George applauded. “Dashwood'll surely pay her treble her normal take for
this
night's work.”

“I fear you are mistaken, Bosky. Note how she trembles. No actress of Covent Garden is that good. I question if it's an act at all.” Philip's disquiet increased when the bawd tore the robe completely off the girl and pulled her, naked, screaming, and thrashing, onto the altar. As the trio proceeded to spread the girl's legs and lash them into place, Philip asked George with rapidly escalating apprehension, “Precisely what does this
sacrifice
entail?”

Lord Sandwich spoke up from behind. “If it's the shedding of blood you dread, fear not, ol' man. The only blood sacrificed will be that of her maidenhead… if virgin she really be,” he spoke with a knowing wink.

“Surely an impressive actress, that one. No doubt I have seen her on the Drury Lane stage,” Selwyn remarked appreciatively while Sandwich ventured a more philosophical reply.

“'Tis really no matter whether she's virgin or not. He's likely too soused to know the difference if she isn't, and if she is, by night's end she'll be well broken in… at least by the time you get your turn.” Sandwich signaled for more wine and then moved to the fore to obtain a better view.

“Can't say I fancy another's dirty leavings,” Philip murmured with no attempt to mask his contempt.

“Since when have you become so exacting in your requirements, Drake? Many a time we've shared a whore betwixt us.”

“And she was ever willing to be shared. I don't countenance the same of this one.” Philip nodded toward the girl, having by this time ceased her struggles.

She lay across the raised platform, exposed for all to see. Her voice, hoarse from screaming, was now a mere whimper. Her breath came in short frantic pants. In desperation, she turned her head away from her captors. She frantically searched the room until her terror-stricken face was fully revealed.

“What in the devil's name?” Philip exclaimed upon recognizing Nell, the barmaid from Tom King's, and in that moment knowing for a certainty. “This is not a game, Bosky. The girl is not a willing party to this.”

“Good gad, Drake! What's come over you? Suddenly you've become a bloody killjoy. I question why I brought you here!”

Philip posed his response deliberately. “While I enjoy a good
romp
as well as any man, I'll not be a party to
rape.
”

“Rape? Is your mind disordered of a sudden?”

“By what other name would you call it, George?” Philip gestured to the dais, closely surrounded by leering men openly fondling themselves in anticipation of the show.

George's visage suddenly flashed something akin to fear. “Pox on you, Drake, I haven't a word for it! Nevertheless, you've no business to interfere.” George's next words came out almost menacing. “See there—the Prince of Wales, and over there, the Secretary of the Admiralty. The room is filled with peers of the realm and members of Parliament. The Knights of St. Francis are twelve of the most powerful men in England and they'll ruin you without a thought—if they don't kill you first. If you mean to do anything foolhardy, I can't stand beside you.”

“Then you may as well stand behind me and watch my back, as I can't allow this madness to progress any further.” With a baffling sense of purpose and flagrant disregard of the repercussions, Philip drew his dress sword and elbowed through the throng to leap upon the stone dais.

“What the hell do you think you are doing? Who is this man!” Dashwood cried out to no one in particular.

“I am come to make my own offering to Venus.” Philip said, drawing the blade of his sword swiftly across his left hand and squeezing a steady trickle onto the altar.

Dashwood stood dumbfounded as Philip sliced through the restraints binding the girl. Realizing what Philip was about, Dashwood grabbed for Nell. Now freed, she evaded by scrambling on hands and knees to cower behind her protector. Philip extended his sword in warning. “I remind you, the requisite blood sacrifice is already made.”

“The hell it is!” Dashwood forced through clenched teeth. “
Your
blood is unacceptable. The rites of Venus require a
virgin
. Now give me the girl, you sodding sack of shit, before I'm moved to spill
all
of your blood on my altar.”

Philip met the threat without a flinch, but the terrorized Nell skittered further back to crouch, quavering and clutching at Philip's coattails. Philip calmly reiterated, “If Venus requires virgin blood, my sacrifice
will
stand.”

He cast Philip a malevolent glare. “You name yourself a virgin?”

“I'll fix that for ye, dearie,” one of the whores called out.

“Surely you do not gainsay me, Sir Francis.” Philip quirked an implicating brow. “Unless you claim to have been present upon the occasion…”

The remark caused a cacophony of teeters and snickers.

Dashwood's reply was low and menacing. “There is but one answer to your insinuation.”

“But what a quandary for any
gentleman
to decide which accusation to defend—Blasphemy? Sodomy? Or attempted rape?”

Dashwood's eyes bulged with murderous intent.

“When you decide, Sir Francis, pray direct your seconds to the George and Vulture.” Philip snatched the girl by the arm and headed straight to the side door from whence the harlots had entered, justly fearing that the hounds of hell would soon be hot on his heels.

“You've surely done it now, ol' chap,” said George as he passed.

***

They navigated the passageway in complete darkness, not knowing where it would lead. Philip blessed Providence that they emerged just outside the stables. “Can you ride, Nell?” he asked the girl.

“N-no,” she answered.

He cursed aloud. “Why should you know to ride after all else that's transpired this night?” He had spoken more to himself but she cringed in fear. “Damn it, girl. Do you think I would strike you when I've just risked my idiotic neck to remove you from that den of iniquity?”

He wasn't sure if her teeth chattered more from fear or exposure to the cold night air, but in the midst of this contemplation it began to rain.

“Bugger it all!” he stripped off his coat and helped her into it. Perceiving the dim lantern light of the stables, Philip led her to crouch behind the adjacent hedgerow. “Just wait here and don't make a sound.”

She clutched his sleeve frantically. “Yer not leavin' me?”

“Don't be daft! Even I am not so brazen to ride through the town with a half-naked girl behind me. I must go and find you something apart from my coat to cover yourself.”

“Y-you'll come back?”

“Yes. Yes,” he snapped. “Do you think it likely I would now lay waste to an entire night's heroics?” He heaved a sigh and turned for the stables.

After locating his horse and pilfering one of the rough monk's robes for the girl, Philip took her up behind him for the three-hour ride back to London. The ride gave him ample time to reconsider his foolhardy impulsiveness. He felt like a wanted man, and suspected that he might very well soon find himself at Dashwood's sword point.

What had come over him? He seemed now to be making a career out of misguided acts of chivalry. At least, aside from the incessant chatter of her teeth, Nell had the wisdom to remain silent. But what to do with her now?

He turned in the saddle to ask, “Why, Nell, after all this time did you decide to leave honest labor?”

“B-but I am still an honest girl,” she insisted with an injured sniff.

“Are you indeed? If that is true, how did you come to Medmenham Abbey?” he demanded with overt cynicism.

“'Twas by the conniving of Mistress Ward,” she said. “Like a grand lady, she comes by and offers me an apprenticeship at her milliner's shop. At a shilling a day, mind ye. A far cry from me wages at the tavern, and a chance for a respectable trade to boot. But I wasn't there a sennight afore I sees 'twas not a respectable establishment at all, but a house of wickedness she runs!

“When I tries to leave she locks me in the garret for three days wi' only stale bread and water. It was so dark and the mistress says if I do what she tells me she won't feed me to the rats! That's when we goes in the carriage to the abbey.”

“Dashwood undoubtedly paid a good price for you too, if you were truly presented as a… maiden.”

She dipped her head in guilt. “I
was
saving myself, but when ye up and left t'other night…”

Philip felt a momentary flash of guilt that she would have waited for him, but knowing she'd have succumbed to another soon enough. “What the devil am I to do with you now?” he asked.

“Many fine gents keep a girl.” She ran one hand provocatively down his torso. He released one of his own from the reins to return hers to its place at his waist.

“Nell, please understand that I don't have the means to keep a mistress… even if I was so inclined.”

“Y-you won't try to sell me to another, will you?”

“God no! I'm no whoremonger, though I durst not cast the first stone,” he added deprecatingly. “Mother Ward and Francis Dashwood will go to the devil in their way and I in mine. Now, if you don't wish to return to Tom King's—”

“Lor' no!” she cried.

“Then I am at a complete loss what to do with you. Where's your family?”

“In Cheapside, but me Mum had so many mouths to feed. She's a God-fearin' woman, me Mum. She won't want me back when she hears where I've been,” she sobbed.

“Good God, Nell! Don't start weeping! Surely you have some other skill that will lend to gainful service in a respectable household.”

“B-but who would take me wi'out even me proper clothes?” she wailed.

“I'll find you some bloody clothes. Now cease the whimpering while I figure this out.” She sniffed again, and he felt her wipe her streaming nose on the back of his coat.

“Devil take me this night!” he swore in exasperation.