Out
of these thoughts he felt a kind of ease slip over him, not satisfaction, but
merely the feeling that she was beyond him, that she must be protected. The
drumming in his head subsided. He lay, face downward, both hands pressed
beneath his body in a peculiarly twisted position, thinking that once he saw
her safely through this night, he should go away for a while, recover as it
were, France maybe, to see firsthand the madness running rampant in that
country, see, out of curiosity if it matched his own, his alarming digression
back to the emotional stability of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Weariness
crept over him as though he had fought and won a battle, as indeed he had. To
the best of his memory, it was the first time in his life that he had ever
denied himself a woman. Any woman. Before tonight, all his body had to do was
signal and a campaign had been launched.
Now
he would sleep. At least he had that small comfort But a soft knock at the door
signaled that even that was to be put off. He turned his head slightly so that
he could see, but kept quiet. The door opened and he heard a faint call of
"William, are you awake?"
Dear
God, he'd never been more awake, but for Jane, standing silhouetted in the
door, fresh from her Judas role, he feigned sleep.
She
called again, "William?"
He
considered summoning her to the bed, stripping her, and using her for a
substitute. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. For one thing, it wouldn't
work. Jane, a most generous mistress for over three years, had given him access
to every portion of her body. He knew it as intimately as he knew his own. In
total darkness he would be able to pick Jane out of a hundred women. She was
both predictable and reliable, twin features which in the past had made their
relationship a comfort. But not now.
So
he let her go, heard her call softly a third time, "William?" and
receiving no answer, saw her close the door quietly behind her.
He
lay, wondering, what had been the bargain? What arrangement had she made with
Thomas Eden? At what precise hour was he to appear? When would he be given
access to the staircase which led to the second floor? On what pretense would
she lure the "prize" up before him?
His
face became resolved. Stealthily he left his bed and moved across the room to
the locked cabinet on the far wall. In the dark, he felt on the ledge until his
fingers found the key. Not requiring illumination of any kind, he unlocked the
cabinet and reached for the black leather case resting on the second shelf. He
pushed the clasp to one side and lifted the lid, and his hand went forward as
though his fingertips were eyes, closing firmly about one of the smooth, cool
dueling pistols. The weapon felt strange in his hand. A handsome set they were,
never used, although twice they had made it as far as Lincoln's Inn Field on
cold, foggy mornings where only at the last minute reason had intervened, the
outraged gentleman of the moment settling on a less severe, less permanent,
judgment.
Still
he knew them to be effective, knew himself to be an adequate marksman, having
put himself through long hours of target practice in the empty fields beyond
Bloomsbury when he had been a youth and the possession of dueling pistols and
the skill to use them had been necessary for a man's survival.
He
studied the weapon in his hand and felt slightly melodramatic. Surely it would
never come to this. Thomas Eden was arrogant, but he wouldn't risk his life for
a sixteen-year-old girl.
Restored
by this commonsense attitude, he continued to fondle the weapon, coming to
enjoy the feel of it in his hand. Just in case Eden was not as intelligent as
he thought, the weapon might be an effective deterrent.
Finding
considerable relief in the decision, he returned the case to the cabinet, minus
one pistol. He placed the pistol on the table, allowed his hand to linger on
it. What was she doing now? What thinking? Could she guess at what was ahead of
her? Did she fear the man? Hate him?
All
was silent in his room. There were no answers. He would protect her. Nothing
more. He would see her safely through this night, then hopefully Thomas Eden
would return to North Devon and leave her alone and, within the fortnight,
William would take a fast coach to Dover and pray for a high summer wind which
would swiftly push the channel packet to Calais.
Tentative
plans made, he stretched out on the bed. Dinner soon. Then his salon would be
opened.
For
now, he was blessedly alone. The hours that remained to him belonged to that
silent partner whose realm started just where logical thought ended.
Quietly
Jane closed the door behind her. He was sleeping. Good! She would not have to
tell him where she had been, in whose impressive company she'd passed the last
several hours, riding with him, with him in the carriage well beyond the city,
Lord Eden himself, in whose awesome shadow she'd passed all her childhood,
never dreaming even in her wildest imagination that one miraculous day, she
would be arranging for him to have a victory that it was only within her power
to give him.
Still
breathless from the excitement of it all, she stared at the closed door beyond
which William lay sleeping. Of course, he wouldn't approve, so it was just as
well he knew nothing of it. Slowly she let her eyes move down the corridor to
the closed door beyond which the "victory" sat waiting.
Jane
felt a surge of the old jealousy. She tried putting herself in Marianne's
place, not as a woman who had survived unspeakable brutality, but as a
mistress, lying beside Lord Eden night after night. If she were in her sister's
place, no "arrangement" would have to be made at all. If she had been
her sister back on Eden Point, she would have gratified his desires instantly,
remembering from her childhood the several young women who had suddenly
appeared in new gowns with heavy purses, the fortunate ones who had been
summoned to the top of the cliff and who thereafter always seemed to be
provided for.
It
was very difficult for Jane to imagine anyone with good sense turning their
back on such treasure. But perhaps it was not too late. Lord Eden's appetites
now ran to her sister, and if Jane could help him to satisfy that appetite,
then surely some of the riches would spill into her lap. Marianne had caused
him grief. Now she simply had a debt to pay, a delightful debt at that, for the
man in middle years had grown handsome and assertive, lean and hard, a fine
specimen, resembling in no way the slightly paunchy Lord Eden of earlier years
who had on occasion deigned to walk the cobblestones of Mortemouth, dispensing
shillings and smiles.
Innocently
Jane smiled. She had only the highest of motives, offering her sister a second
chance, making it possible perhaps for her to be set up in an elegant London
house all her own, her own coach and four, a complete staff at her disposal,
coin enough to purchase the finest of French gowns, and even when he tired of
her, as he surely would, still she would be handsomely set up for life.
These
unlimited possibilities produced a kind of shock in her. "Marianne is the
quick one," she'd heard her father say hundreds of times. As she
approached the closed door down the corridor, she still was struggling to
understand the behavior of this "quick" sister. One thing she
understood. Marianne must suspect her of nothing and must trust her completely.
For the duration of the evening she must put aside all the old hurts and
jealousies, must open her arms to this sister who had caused her such grief,
must trick her with unabashed love, must bring her to the point where she would
follow her willingly to the—
She
stopped. Slaughter was the word that had entered her mind. But that wasn't
true. It wasn't slaughter. It was rebirth in a new life, rich beyond her
comprehension. Lord Eden's mistress!
"Oh,
God," she thought, leaning against the wall outside Marianne's door.
"If only it had been me."
She
slipped past the oil lamp burning in the niche beside the door. She lifted it
from its place, knocked softly, and called, lovingly, sweetly, "Marianne?"
"Marianne?
Are you there?"
"Bring
the
other
carriage!" Thomas shouted angrily down from the
second-floor window of his house on Oxford Road.
It
was almost midnight, a close June evening made doubly close by the steady
drinking which Thomas had indulged in since the late hours of afternoon. Starting
at White's and continuing in his own sitting room, a glass had never been far
from his hand.
Still,
he wasn't drunk, and certainly he was more in control of his senses than the
large, fleshy simpleton who stood on the pavement below with a hired chaise at
hand.
The
man—what was his name?—stared up blankly, lantern aloft. "Other carriage,
milord?" he repeated, parrot-like.
"In
the coach house," Thomas called back, trying to rein in his anger. It
simply served no purpose to lose one's temper with these people. They were
beyond comprehension. He reached quickly into his purse for coin. He tossed
several onto the pavement below. As his man scrambled for them, he called out,
"Send the chaise on its way, and I'll double what you hold in your hand if
the carriage is ready within the hour."
Ah,
at last the man understood. The clear language of coin. Thomas smiled as he
watched the hired chaise pull away, amused at his man running now as though
something were pursuing him down the narrow alley in the direction of the coach
house.
The
street was empty, dark. A few carriages passed now and then, linkboys with
flaring torches running ahead to light the way. For a moment the whole earth
seemed to be heaving and rolling. Thomas felt giddy. He stepped back from the
window and sank heavily into a chair. "A hired chaise!" he thought
ruefully. Oh, yes, he could see himself approaching William Pitch's house in a
hired chaise.
Quickly
he sat up. What time? Timing was all. His watch said it lacked ten minutes of
midnight. The Locke woman had proposed two thirty. It seemed late to him,
everyone with sense long gone to bed. But she had assured him otherwise. The
salon only reached its peak at two. The girl would be weary, she had further
assured him, having been up since dawn. She would see her to the upstairs
bedroom shortly before two. Then a quarter of an hour more for her to disrobe
and fall sleepily into bed. Then, at two thirty Thomas was to appear where she
would greet him and slip him the key to the upstairs bedroom. Beyond that he
was on his own, she had said, blushing profusely. How different these two
sisters! The one called Jane was that sort of character which is often met with
in England; very lively without much wit. Her fault was speaking too much. And
the other one—
Reflexively
Thomas reached out for the half-filled bottle on the table. No! Enough! He
wanted to be alert tonight. Now it was much more than a simple conquest. There
was a sizable wager in the bargain as well.
He
sat up, resting his head in his hands. The mix of wine and brandy had left a
bad taste in his mouth. The heat of the day had taken a toll of his garments.
He smelled foul, a mingling odor of body sweat and day-old linen. With
amusement he wondered if he should go to the trouble of bathing for her. The
wenches that his men took after a night's ride never seemed to object. Why
powder and fuss for this one who was no better than a haystack frolic?
It
was decided. He would go stubble-chinned, wigless, in the plain dark brown
jacket that had seen him through two days.
His
mind could not refrain from throwing one or two more thoughts into the
bargain—the first, a curious one, that if he were a woman, it would matter little
what the man wore or how he smelled, and second, what hell it must be to be a
woman, born for the worst, and early on receiving it.
In
spite of his earlier resolve, he reached for the bottle and tipped it upward. He
should have gone back with Ragland and Locke. He should be there this night
when his fishing boats met Girard in the middle of the channel. He should be
where he was needed instead of here in London, waiting out the long hours of a
foolish night.
Sharply
he slammed his fist against the table. What had possessed him? What was she to
him to cause such a fever?
Below
him on the street he heard the rattling approach of a carriage, the flat-faced
hefty man—what was his name?—on the reins. "Bit dusty, milord," he
called up. "The horses already abed, but here you are, ready and
waiting."