Authors: Danelle Harmon
Perry merely grinned and sipped his
wine.
"I say, has anyone seen Chilcot?"
"Not since we parted outside the church,"
Audlett muttered. He raised his voice to imitate Chilcot's
high-pitched nasal whine. "Said he was exhausted and had to get his
beauty sleep."
Laughter erupted around the table.
"Exhausted? As though the rest of us
aren't!"
"To hell with Chilcot," Hugh mused, his face
tight with concern as his fingertip idly traced the edge of one of
the painted cards that decorated the table's green baize. "What
I
worry about is how Gareth's going to take care of them. A
young wife, that little baby, no money coming in and no place to go
..."
Immediately, the mood sobered, for their
friend was in trouble, and all of them knew it.
"The duke's got enough blunt to buy up half
of England," Audlett proclaimed. "Gareth's got nothing to worry
about."
"Except that Gareth's got too much pride to
go running back to his big brother, especially after the row he had
with him yesterday," Hugh countered worriedly. "He'll have to get
money from some other source."
"How?" Cokeham asked.
"He's got credit."
"And us."
Perry, staring into his wine glass, shook
his head. "Gareth's credit is about as bad as his ability to pay
his debts. The duke shut him off, you know. Stopped paying his
bills."
"Bloody hell!"
"Well, then,
we
can help him. We're
his friends!"
"Right," Perry said, sarcastically. "Most of
us are no better off than he."
"God's blood, Perry, what do you think he'll
do, then?"
Perry's lips curved in a faint smile.
"Perhaps he'll have to — God forbid —
work
for a
living?"
"Gareth?
Work?
Preposterous!"
"How else are they going to eat? It's either
that or beg, borrow, and steal," Perry mused. "And, frankly, I
think our friend has too much honor to resort to the latter. Now —
shall we get on with our game? I dare say I am feeling lucky this
evening."
Chapter 16
As luck would have it, Gareth's dilemma
about where to take his new family for the night was solved for him
just after an early lunch.
They had gone into a bakery, where they'd
indulged in raspberry tarts glazed with sugar, and were taking a
meandering route back across London when they ran into Lavinia
Bottomley sweeping along in her fancy carriage. She stopped, of
course — Lord Gareth was a client she wouldn't have minded
servicing herself — and, upon hearing that the Wild One had just
gotten married and that he and his family were in need of a place
to stay for the night, she immediately offered them a room at her
place.
"At no cost to you, of course," she said
kindly, eyeing Juliet and the baby with sympathetic eyes. "In fact,
you can have the Crimson Suite on the second floor; it's the best
room, you know, and no one will disturb you."
"Good God, Vin, I cannot bring my family
there!" Gareth cried, mortified.
"Don't be a prude, Gareth. Why, you can even
consider this to be my wedding present."
"Absolutely not, this is unthinkable —"
"No, Gareth, wait ..." Juliet, either
ignorant or uncaring of what Lavinia's erotic perfume and low-cut
bodice implied, put her hand up to silence his protests. She turned
to the older woman. "You're very kind. We have no place else to go
tonight, and we'd be happy to accept your offer."
Gareth nearly choked. "Juliet, we cannot —
that is to say ..."
"I'll not mince words here," Lavinia said,
smiling. "What his lordship is trying to tell you is that I am an
abbess. That is, I run a brothel."
"Oh!" said Juliet, darkening to crimson and
looking quite embarrassed.
"However, it is a very
nice
brothel,"
Lavinia added. "Exclusive. I only allow clients who have wealth,
wit, and breeding." She winked. "Keeps out the riff-raff, you
know."
"I, uh ... I see," Juliet said faintly. She
mustered a wan little smile. "Please forgive my hesitation, Mrs.
Bottomley; staying in a brothel is not something I have ever done
before, and this is a bit ... well, awkward. However, we
are
in need of a place to stay tonight, and you are being most generous
—"
"There's no need to apologize, my dear, I
understand perfectly," Lavinia said, patting Juliet's arm. "But a
room is a room, yes? I'll make sure it's made comfortable for you
and that no one disturbs you; why, I think I can even find a cradle
for the baby. How does that sound? And if we leave now, whilst it's
still fairly early, no one will even know you're there."
Juliet nodded once, her mind made up. "Very
well, then. We'll take it."
"Now, wait just one moment," Gareth
protested, growing angry. "I will not have my wife and daughter
spending the night in a bawdy house!"
Juliet took him aside, leaning close to him
and tilting her face up to whisper in his ear: "Gareth, I don't
like this any more than you do, but it's only for one night, and it
will
save us some money."
"We have plenty of money, we don't need to
be frugal!"
"That is the most absurd statement I've yet
to hear you utter."
He set his jaw.
She continued, "You gave most of your money
to the vicar, and what Perry and the duke gave us, though
substantial, won't last forever. We cannot
afford
to be
choosy, Gareth. Now, please — put aside your pride for a moment and
be practical, would you?"
"It has nothing to do with pride. I want to
bring you to a hotel," he said sullenly. "A
nice
hotel. It's
our wedding night, Juliet; you deserve no less."
"A wedding night is a night just like any
other," she said pragmatically, her unthinking words inadvertently
cutting him to the bone. She saw the sudden hurt in his eyes and
laid her hand on his wrist. "We don't have money to waste,
Gareth."
He stared at her, crushed by how lightly she
seemed to regard the symbolic parts of marriage that
he
considered special — that she, had she loved him, would consider
special, too. Was that how she rated their marriage, as well?
Dispensable? Not worth some extra effort? He wondered, rather
bitterly, if her marriage to Charles would have meant so little
that she would have dishonored it by spending their wedding night
in a brothel, as she was happy to do with theirs.
Somehow he doubted it.
"Very well, madam," he said, retreating into
formal aloofness to disguise his hurt. "Have it your way,
then."
~~~~
Gareth didn't want anyone to see his wife in
the presence of London's fanciest whore, so he asked Lavinia to go
on ahead of them, telling her they'd take their time in arriving.
And take their time they did. Gareth took his time bringing his
family back across town. He took his time finding mews in which to
stable Crusader, rubbing the big animal down, feeding, watering,
and making a fuss over him — anything to prolong the inevitable.
Finally, when he could delay no longer, he chose narrow sidestreets
so that no one would see them heading toward the brothel.
Juliet, walking beside him, was very quiet.
He sensed her despair, her knowledge that she'd done something
wrong coupled with an inability to put her finger on just what that
something was. She probably thought he was upset because of pride;
after all, no self-respecting nobleman would ever bring his lady to
a brothel, let alone on their wedding night. But it was more than
that. Much more.
If she had married Charles, she never would
have dishonored their marriage by spending their wedding night in a
brothel. She would have wanted everything to be as perfect as he
was.
She finally spoke. "Gareth?"
"What?"
"I don't know quite what it is I've done,
but I do wish you'd tell me what is the matter."
"It shall pass."
"Are you angry because I didn't want us
spending money unnecessarily?"
He winced.
Unnecessarily.
"No."
"Then is it because I took charge, and
having a woman take charge does not sit well with your male
pride?"
"No."
"Then what have I done?"
He shook his head. He didn't want to talk
about it. What was he supposed to do, tell her he was angry with
her because once again the inevitable comparison to Charles had
been made — albeit in a roundabout way — and he had again been
rated second-best? No. That sounded self-pitying.
"It's nothing, Juliet. I'll get over
it."
She looked at him for a long moment,
shrugged, and fell back into quiet once more.
The brothel was in sight now, standing
unobtrusively on the corner. Gareth avoided the main entrance and
discreetly took his family around to the back one, terrified that
someone of consequence might see them, horrified that his wife's
name and reputation would be in shreds before he even had the
chance to properly introduce her to society.
By God, what a bloody, thundering mess!
He stood on the steps and rapped the knocker
sharply. Moments later the door opened, emitting a cloud of smoky
incense, a glimpse of the foyer's high ceiling, painted with its
colorful orgy of naked, cavorting figures, and Mario, staring down
at them from his height of six and a half feet. He was exquisite in
a powdered wig and suit of gold satin, but such elegance did
nothing to disguise the brute strength of a man hired only to toss
anyone who didn't quite fulfill madam's standards of birth,
breeding, and cleanliness out on their ear. He took one look at
Gareth in his slightly rumpled suit and a face that begged for a
razor, at the petite young woman standing behind him with a fussing
babe in her arms, and his heavy black brows shot straight up to his
hairline.
"My lord!
" he gasped; then, with a
clearing of his throat and a sudden yank at the knot of his cravat,
in a more dignified, subdued voice: "My lord."
Gareth was unflappable. "Lavinia said we
could stay here for the night, Mario."
"Yes — yes, of course. Come right this way,
please."
"The Crimson Suite," Gareth said, greatly
humiliated. "We are
not
to be disturbed."
"You will not be, my lord."
"No interruptions. I mean it."
"No interruptions, my lord."
Bowing, Mario ushered them inside. From
somewhere inside the building, Gareth heard the tinkle of feminine
laughter. He glanced at his wife. Her face was very pale but
resolved. Determined. Strong. Behind them, Mario shut the door.
Once inside the warm, familiar surroundings,
however, Gareth's anger faded to dismay, then awkwardness, and
finally a stifling-hot embarrassment. Above their heads was
Lavinia's famous painted ceiling, highly colorful, detailed, and
lushly erotic, depicting an orgy of some eight or nine cavorting,
sultry, full breasted women. They were all stark naked. Some were
sucking on cherries and grapes, several were drinking from gold
chalices, one was smearing wine over the nipples of another while a
man crouched open-mouthed beneath, catching the droplets on his
tongue as they ran off her creamy, wine-blushed breasts. He had a
huge erection. Beneath him, another woman lay on her back, her
hand, and tongue, hard at work on him.
Juliet was staring up at the painting.
Juliet was not saying a word.
And Juliet was turning pink. Scarlet.
Marble-white.
Gareth wanted to die. He looked at the dark,
panelled walls. At the ornate, gilt-framed mirror. He felt the
plush burgundy rug beneath his boots, soft enough to pillow a bare
foot, a bare bottom, a bare anything-else, while the sound of husky
feminine laughter, male guffaws and tiny shrieks came from a
distant room. The walls, hung with suggestively lewd paintings that
complimented the masterpiece on the ceiling, began to close in. The
erotic mix of scents — expensive perfumes, incense, the subtler,
more discreet aroma of sex — began to make him faintly nauseous,
and memories entered his brain that he suddenly blushed to
remember. Oh, hell. Oh bloody, thundering
hell
! And beside
him, his gentle, virtuous wife was drawing Charlotte protectively
against her bosom, her face carved in stone, her gaze fixed
straight ahead as several of Lavinia's choicest girls came gliding
out from around corners and behind closed doors, watching them in
curiosity and high amusement.
And then madam herself, resplendent in
diamonds, shimmering mauve satin, and a bodice cut so low that her
rouged nipples were in danger of popping fully free, came sweeping
out of her salon in a cloud of heavy perfume. In her wake trailed
her two famous redheads, Melissa and Melita.
Gareth knew them both well.
Too
well.
Heat burned through his blood as their
sultry gazes caressed his body, and he remembered certain unique
pleasures each was capable of bringing. One with her mouth, the
other with her toes.
God help him.
"Ah, you've made it," the abbess purred, all
smiles, all charming hospitality. She touched Gareth's arm, then
turned her smile on Juliet. "Come, now, follow me. I'll have Melita
bring up supper, as well as soap, a razor, and some clean sheets to
tear up for baby napkins. You'll be quite comfortable, I can assure
you."
"And a cradle?" Juliet asked.
"I do believe it's already there."
Juliet nodded. "I guess that's all we need,
then." She glanced uncertainly at her husband. "Right, Gareth?"
"Right," he muttered and, taking her arm,
wordlessly led her upstairs.
~~~~
London was growing dark.
To the west, fiery bands of salmon and gold
streaked the fading sky, silhouetting hundreds of chimney pots and
glinting like fire against windowpanes caked with grime. In the
streets and outside the fine houses, oil lamps were lit, and
traffic was heavy as people hurried to get home. It was not safe
for decent folk to be out after dark, for with darkness came the
city's desperate and hardened criminals like a wave of scavenging
rats: hundreds of thieves, housebreakers, purse-snatchers,
grave-robbers, prostitutes, beggars, and other riff-raff best left
unencountered.