Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella) (4 page)

It was at the back of her thoughts to
wrangle an introduction from Bertie to some powerful theater personage when by
chance she received a request to meet him at a St James' Street fencing salon.
She had made an off-hand comment that she wanted to learn more about the sport
sometime before, so she was pleased that he remembered.

Of course, she had wanted to make sure
she had more than one method of protecting herself from the likes of Ecton.
That it was an interest of her paramour was a lucky coincidence.

The fencing salon was bright and, not
surprisingly, filled with prosperous-looking men and even women, most of them
dressed in white shirts and leggings. When she arrived, she was whisked away to
an anteroom, where there was a similar white outfit for her.

The prince was in a good mood as she
arrived in the practice room. He was dressed in the odd suit that was
apparently requisite in the sport. That was the English for you. “There you
are,” Bertie greeted her, nodding. “Think you’ll like this. Helps if you’re
light on your feet, and you are.”

“I’ll try, Your Highness,” Nellie said
with a smile. “
En garde
, isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?”

She took to fencing like a duck to
water, and by the end of a few sessions over the course of a week, she had got
the hang of it without much trouble. She liked it enough that she took a lesson
or two when the prince was not in attendance, just to make sure she continued
to improve. Never know when it was going to come in handy, after all. She’d do
it as long as she could, before the baby made her too big to move quickly.

Even better, fencing seemed to bring her
closer to the prince again, and the week after Christmas was filled with
exercise, followed by amorous exploits at home. Nellie found it hard to sleep
as she wondered what would happen when she became awkward and ungainly, but
from what she had discovered, British royals liked their mistresses and some of
them had ten children by their men. If she kept her personality pleasant and
learned enough about society to be a good hostess to the prince and his friends,
she should be all right.

Even better, she needed to figure out
how to help Bertie choose his friends, so that she was surrounded by people she
wanted to be around. That would make the situation far more pleasant, rather
than simply luxurious.

On December thirtieth, she was pleased
when her parlor maid announced the prince. He had promised to bring her news of
what party they would be attending the next night, to celebrate the New Year.

But when he came in, his mien was grave,
his posture ramrod-stiff. Instead of holding out his arms to her in the
customary fashion, he kept his hands clasped behind his back. She might have
asked another man if he was missing his father, but her lover had not gotten
along with Prince Albert before his death. The old stuffed shirt hadn’t
believed in sex outside marriage and thoroughly disapproved of her. Well, he
was gone now.

“What is it, Bertie darling?” she asked,
rising gracefully, allowing her red shawl to flutter behind her as she went to
him.

He stepped back, and his expression
didn’t change. “Madam.” His tone was cold.

“Bertie?” she asked, her hackles rising.
This didn’t bode well. “What is wrong, my love?” She reached out a soft hand to
his smooth cheek. At least he had shaven before he came to her. But his eyes
narrowed as she touched him.

Oh, not good at all.

“Mr. Ecton has reported some disturbing
doings in this house.”

Her heart skipped a beat. The punishment
she had feared since that night Ecton had attacked her had finally arrived. “I
don’t know what you mean, darling. Disturbing doings? Do I have an immoral
servant?” That little parlor maid. Please.

His eyes bulged. Never had he looked
more righteous than he did now, so much like his father. “Do I?” he countered.
“Ecton tells me you made advances toward him.”

The cur. She should have known. “Never,”
Nellie gasped. “How can you think such a thing? You are everything to me,
everything I need.”

“Cornet Mills warned me that the likes
of you was no better than you should be,” he said, his gaze flinty in a way she’d
never seen before. “That you’d had other men, and that a whore had to be kept
amused or she’d stray.”

“How could he say that? I was a virgin.
There was blood, you saw! You know I adore you.”

He sneered. “And to think, I was away a
week because of my father’s death, and you couldn’t keep your skirts at your
ankles. Under such circumstances!”

She put her hand to her stomach. Her
pulse had sped up now, her heart making up for the skipped beat with an
increased rhythm. “Please,” she whispered. “It’s all lies. I have no interest
in Mr. Ecton. I only care for your well-being, sir.”

“Who was the man?” Bertie asked, eyes
blazing. “The man with the long black beard and red trousers?”

Who? She had to think a moment about
whom he was referring to. Then she remembered. “A theatrical producer,” she
stammered. “I inquired about work in his new production. I didn’t expect him to
come himself.”

“You were looking for
work
?” the
prince thundered, forgetting or not caring that most of the world had to make
their way by working for a living instead of suckling at his royal mother’s
teat.

Still, her outrage warred with her
senses, surprised at the sight of her milquetoast prince so fired up. She’d
never seen him so commanding before. Maybe he was a man after all. “Mr. Ecton
made advances toward me. I was afraid he’d tell you lies. I’m a poor girl, sir,
at your mercy, and I looked for work in case of this. He told me you’d be
giving me my leave.”

“You looked for a new protector,” he
sneered.

She shook her head. “I did not. Simply a
position in a theatrical company. I was an actress, you know.”

“You were a whore.”

“You made me a whore,” she said simply.
“I was new and clean.”

The dullard must have dimly felt the
truth behind that statement, for he turned away before he spoke. “You will
leave this house tomorrow,” the prince said. “Ecton has cancelled the lease and
the house goes up for rent on the first of the year.”

Her back straightened and her chin went
up. One last plea. She had to try. “I’ve done nothing wrong, sir,” she repeated.
“It’s Ecton.” She touched his sleeve. “You know me, I’m a good girl, faithful
to you and our love.”

He stepped back, loosening her hand from
his arm. “I know nothing of the kind. Why would I believe you over Ecton?”

“Cornet Mills sent me to him,” she said.
“You never met Mr. Ecton before the end of summer. Why, you’ve known even me
longer than that. Why trust him over me?”

“Because he’s a gentleman,” the prince
said, with a sniff. “And you are anything but a lady. Pack your things. You can
take your clothes.”

She wanted to spit, but forced herself
to beg. “I have no money, nowhere to go.”

“You’ve been receiving an allowance,
surely.”

“I have not,” she cried. “I never
received a shilling. If there was money, it never came to me. Ecton took care
of everything. Except you. You took care of me.”

Bertie’s dim eyes looked more puzzled
than usual. “Whatever do you mean?”

She played her last card. “There’s a
child coming. Yours, Bertie darling. Don’t put your child on the streets.”

His nostrils flared. “That’s a whore’s
trick. There is no child. Ecton told me you’d try such a thing.”

She realized then what the English dog
had done. Ecton, who’d paid all the bills and run the house, had been kept
abreast of everything. No doubt the parlor maid had told him she’d never had
her courses. He was ridding the situation of her before it became complicated.
“Ecton knew. He had spies.”

Her voice rose, and she was almost ready
to cry. “They’re all spies! I have no friend in this country. At least send me
home, to my shame.”

Bertie shook his head, yawning, having
already lost interest. “What happened to my laughing girl? This life has quite
destroyed her. Be out of here by tomorrow.” He patted his pockets, taking out a
cigar. Slowly, as if he hadn’t just all but killed her, he went through the
motions of preparing and lighting it.

When the smoke hit her nostrils, she
instantly felt a wave of nausea come over her. She turned toward the fire,
retching.

“Please, I need money,” she gasped,
holding her stomach.

He shrugged, washing his hands of the
matter. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a single coin, then placed it on
a table. “I would be happy to increase the sum but I must put it down as lost
at cards or my governors would find me out,” he said. “And I have nothing more
with me. Best of luck to you.”

His footsteps faded away before she sank
to the floor in a cloud of expensive fabric. Her head sank into her hands. Damn
the heartless English.

Through wet eyes, she stared at the dark
blue silk pooled around her. Her dresses. All fine pieces, luxurious fabrics.
Selling her clothes would bring her a spot of money. She’d stay in London and
find work as an actress, make herself notorious. Maybe he’d come back to her.
Surely even Bertie would eventually realize Ecton was the liar. He’d be caught
out eventually.

Finally, she let herself cry, holding
the sovereign the prince had left her. But only for a few minutes. She no
longer had any faith in princes or their changeable love. The prince had been
as heartless toward her as his mother had been to Ireland. She did have plans
to make, and she only had a day in which to do them.

The rest of that night she spent
gathering her fancy dresses. Silks and satins and dainty little slippers,
slippers that wouldn’t last long in the cold of the London winter. Most of the
dresses she knew she could sell without a single thought, but not the red
shawl. Everything else was so grand and rich, but the silk shawl was almost too
precious to let go. She also kept the thickest cloak she had, because she would
be spending time walking from place to place.

Much to her chagrin, there was precious
little in the way of stores open the day before New Year’s, not even in the
grand city of London. But she had to sell them now because she couldn’t take
the costly dresses with her. The ragpicker she found who would open the door
for her was surprised to see the amount of goods she was desperate to sell, but
he was willing to buy from her. She had some persuading to do, telling him that
the fine dresses and shoes were hers and nothing she’d stolen. By the time she
left, she’d got rid of it all though, with not nearly the money she’d thought
she could get. All she had left to her name was the cloak, the wool dress, the
sturdiest slippers among the ones she had, and the shawl.

By the time she got back home—no, not
her home; the fancy apartments that had been where she spent time, damn
Ecton—she was chilled and hungry and angry.

“You’re still here.” She heard the voice
coming from the top of the staircase. A loathsome voice, an English toff voice.
She lifted her chin to see Ecton, smiling triumphantly as he came down the
steps. “I believe the prince gave you instructions to be out by tomorrow. By
that I would think he means midnight tonight.”

She curled her lip. “And where would I
be going at midnight? You’ve the heart of a snake, sir. You may call yourself a
gentleman, but you are anything but.”

He laughed, tapping his cane on the
floor. “Better than your kind, Irish whore. If you knew your place, you would
have no problems, but since you thought yourself better than you are, your
place is out on the streets.” He gestured at her with the cane. “Now get out.”

“I have three hours. I will leave on the
dot of midnight, not before,” she snapped, feeling the heat of the fire as she
stood in front of the fireplace.

“What does a few hours here and there
matter? Get out, whore,” he said, poking at her with the cane.

Nellie grabbed the poker and moved
around the embers. “I told you. Three hours,” she repeated. “Even your kind
must be able to tell time. No honor, but time telling is fairly basic, surely.”

“Watch your tongue,” Ecton snarled,
hitting her cloak and dress with the cane again.

That did it. She took the poker out of
the fire and shoved his cane away from her. “If you watch that cane, I’ll watch
my tongue,” she answered.

“Remember your place, you filthy whore,”
he shouted, stumbling away. He was drunk, of course. She should have realized.

“Remember yours as the prince’s
whoremonger,” she returned.

At that he raised his cane, and she
raised the poker. As he tried to bring his cane down on her, she blocked him
and forced him to drop the cane, leaving him without a weapon. The poker
touched his coat, burning a hole in the fabric.

He noticed, surprisingly, shouting,
“Look what you’ve done, filthy Irish whore!”

“For a gentleman, you don’t have many
words, do you, you English snake!”

The coat kept burning. Ecton noticed
that too—perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he seemed—as he hurriedly yanked it off
and stamped on the low-licking flames. “You’re trying to burn me alive, you
filthy whore!”