Death and the Courtesan (2 page)

Lady Ribbonhat seldom used her full title, since everyone to whom she wrote knew perfectly well who she was, and it took too long to write out. But the dowager wished to strike fear and awe into the breast of her enemy, and like a vulture with its talons out, sought to improve her chances of success by descending from a greater height.

This paragon was the possessor of a large head and a runty body, shriveled with the years. A pair of pale eyes with pendant lids sat too closely on either side of a high-bridged, beaky nose, beneath a heavy pair of crow-black eyebrows. The hair upon her head, however, was the color of mayonnaise.

Rightly ascertaining that the new fashions were too young for her—just now they were modeled on the gowns of the ancient Greeks, and, as Beau Brummel had once famously observed, Lady Ribbonhat was at least as old as the pyramids—she remained more or less loyal to the styles of her own day. Full crinolines and corsets and buckle shoes were much in evidence, but she no longer affected the white lead makeup, nor the high powdered wigs that had always made it so difficult to get in and out of coaches. As a matter of fact, Lady Ribbonhat was thoroughly au courant in her choice of headgear, which, coupled with her complete lack of taste in gowns and accessories, created effects of startling originality.

She would not have dreamt of communicating with our heroine on a social level. Nevertheless, the older woman was obliged frequently to think of her, for the trollop had taken control of her only son, Henry. What if he should marry her! Well, he wouldn’t now, of course; she had managed at last to match him up with Miss van Diggle, but it had been a near thing, probably. No, Miss Beaumont would never become a duchess now, and Henry had promised not to see her again, but she still had the house he had given her. And Lustings was rightfully Lady Ribbonhat’s. Why, it had been built for one of her own husband’s ancestors’ in-laws! And she herself had always intended to spend her declining years there. She
still
intended to do so, for Lady Ribbonhat was a stickler for rules and, like many sticklers before her, knew how to bend them to her own best advantage. Had she not been too grand for nicknames, some wit would doubtless have dubbed her “Lady Loophole.”

Now that Arabella had lost her protector, the path to Lustings would be easier, but it was the fact that Miss Beaumont was also in imminent danger of arrest that had decided Lady Ribbonhat upon her current course of action. For, whereas common decency admonishes us against kicking a man whilst he’s down, there is no corresponding social code pertaining to women.

After placing this letter in the post bag, she drifted slowly through the house, visiting each of its rooms. The situation in which Arabella currently found herself was distressing for several reasons, but principal amongst these was the thought of losing her home. She had sworn allegiance to Lustings, to its lofty ceilings and polished floors—had dedicated the domestic energy and maternal devotion to it that would otherwise have gone into making a family. Arabella had been very happy here and had never had any doubts about her choice of residence, though her friends had been dubious at first.

“Lustings!” they’d cried in alarm. “But, my dear! The place must be over a hundred years old! Surely old Glen
deen
can afford to get you something more up-to-date! Wouldn’t you prefer to live in a town house? Ever so smart, and so much more convenient to everything?”

“No,” said Arabella. “I wouldn’t.”

She had first seen this house as a child of nine—a formal miniature manor of four floors, symmetrical to a fault—and the youthful Arabella had thought, as she gazed upon it with the first stirrings of obsessive passion, that it looked like a child-sized house for full-sized people.

It had been foundering in a state bordering on dereliction when the duke had first given it to her, and she had painstakingly, over time, “brought out its bones.” Even the house’s most vociferous detractors had reluctantly to admit that Lustings was now a most charming, most comfortable, most delightful house in every way.

And now Arabella was going to lose it. Not from her own folly, which she could have accepted, but owing to a set of circumstances with which she herself had had nothing to do. She reflected on this whilst ascending the stairs to her room. It simply wasn’t fair, and in her heart, despite all she could do to prevent it, Miss Beaumont felt the seeds of bitterness crack open and begin to sprout.

This staircase had once been in bad repair, but she and her architect had designed a new one—a graceful spiral—and the stairwell now glowed with the hues of pale roses and soft clouds. A spiritually sensitive houseguest had once observed that traversing the risers, when the sun shone down through the round skylight and past the pendant lantern, was like exploring the inside of a nautilus shell or traveling back through time, to the beginnings of life itself.

Her bedroom welcomed her, too, with that same tranquil beauty that had greeted her when she’d opened her eyes that morning. In the short time that had elapsed since then, however, everything else had changed. The freest woman in London now faced the close confinement of a prison cell. Where she had recently felt intensely, joyously alive, now she faced almost certain death, and in a matter of
weeks
. The contrast between two hours ago and this moment was almost more than Arabella could bear, and yet her bedroom, the outward manifestation of her inner world, had only grown a little brighter with the sun’s transit. Its cool and complementary shades of blue—French blue, periwinkle, lavender—soothed her, though only slightly, by virtue of their contrast with the warm, apricot walls.

“Why don’t you put up a nice paper?”

Her sister had asked her that once.

“If there were such a thing, I would,” Arabella had replied.

Now she pictured what they had both been wearing that day; how Belinda had worn her hair. Memories, even little ones, had suddenly become terribly important.

Above the dresser containing her nightgowns and nightcaps and . . . things (the tools of her trade) hung a painted wooden fruit bat, a gift from her uncle Selwyn. It was beautifully carved, with removable wings, and Arabella had placed it beneath a gold-framed Japanese block print of evening foliage and insects, against an enormous, peach-colored moon, as if the bat had just flown out of the picture or were about to be absorbed into it.

The room’s focal point, though, was the bed, surmounted by a crown of gilt wood, with acanthus leaf details and pendant pearl teardrops. Cascading from this was a quantity of blue-violet silk, divided into two sections and held open at the sides with spears of gilt wood. The lining, thus exposed, was spangled over with gold foil pineapples. In the open space between the draperies hung a round portrait, in a gilt frame, of a pretty young woman—no one in particular, although Arabella called her Venus—given her by the artist, Thomas Lawrence. He said that he wanted her to have something from him that could look at her whilst she was naked. The bed itself was a downy, private nest of plump pillows and smooth summer coverings. One could scarcely conceive of a more comfortable place of work.

She lay down upon it now and gazed at her white marble fireplace, at the two gold wood and blue velvet chairs that faced it, and through the open windows to the garden, with its shady trees and glorious roses. Tears sprang to her eyes as she listened to the lilting strain of birdsong—her world was so beautiful. And she had so little time left in which to enjoy it.

I wonder what it’s like to hang? Arabella wondered, sadly stroking the pineapple fabric. Will it be like choking on a piece of steak, or does it actually hurt?

She rose and passed into the adjoining dressing room. This space had no windows but was sumptuously carpeted and nearly as large as her bedroom. Here she stored the magical hats and gowns and the bewitching accessories that so beguiled her clients. Every single thing in this room, each fan, each brooch, had a beloved memory attached to it. I’m growing maudlin, she thought, and yet, in the circumstances, there was nothing else she could be.

Arabella finished her tour of the house and drifted outdoors. Her heart-shaped property was bordered by two leafy avenues, which joined a circus at the apex where the entrance gate was. And what a gate! Two towering masterpieces of the ironmonger’s art, anchored in an imposing structure of red brick and frothy plaster flourishes. It always gave her a shiver of pleasure to drive through this portal, for it made her feel like a princess. Every time.

On my final trip across this threshold, she resolved, I shall shut my eyes and not open them again until I reach the prison. She then made her way round the back to the kitchen garden, where her tour ended, and where she was eventually discovered by her sister, weeping amongst the pumpkins.

“Here you are, dearest!” cried Belinda, slightly out of breath, for she had run all through the house in search of her. “Oh, look at you, poor darling! You could almost be Cinderella, except, of course, your everyday frock is much nicer than hers was. Look what I have!” And she waved a piece of paper, like a child with a small flag.

“It couldn’t possibly interest me, whatever it is,” said Arabella, blowing her nose and tucking her handkerchief back into her bosom. “You must be very brave, Bunny. Something dreadful has happened.”

“Yes, I
know;
the princess has told me all about it.”

“How does she know?”

“Her servants told her.”

“But how did
they
know?”

“Oh, they had it from the prince regent’s servants, I expect.”

“I see,” said Arabella. “I must remember to remember about the omniscience of servants.”

“But look, Bell!” cried Belinda impatiently. “This will
help!
” She threw herself down beside her sister, quite heedless of the soil and the earwigs, and showed her the document. “You see? It’s a copy of a letter from Lord Sidmouth!”

Belinda was adorable. Shorter than her sibling and plump in all the right places, she had dark hair and dimples, and enormous violet eyes. Outwardly, the two young ladies scarcely looked like sisters. Yet they were twin spirits, for all that.

“What does it say?” asked Arabella listlessly.

“It orders the magistrate to assist you with your investigation!”

“What investigation?”

“The investigation which you will conduct, in order to discover the
real
murderer!”

“Oh, don’t bother me with this now, Bunny. I have neither the time nor the inclination for silliness. I shall die soon. Can you understand that, dear? I am about to be executed, whilst you play about in a fairy-tale world!”

“And if I do,” Belinda retorted, “who was the one read me all those fairy tales when I was small?”

“You’re
still
small,” said Arabella, smiling.

“When I was a child, I mean: My sister did! You should know better than anyone how this is to be borne!”

“Go gallantly to the gallows, do you mean? And then come back as a ghost and whisper the real murderer’s name through the wind in the grass?”

“Oh. I don’t know that one. No, I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Clever Hans’ and ‘The Brave Little Tailor,’ ” said Belinda. “You’re a strong, practical person, Bell, except when it comes to looking after yourself. Now, I don’t often put my foot down, but I absolutely refuse to allow you to lie out here, wallowing in the vegetable marrows, when you should be girding on your sword and preparing for battle! Here! Read this!”

She thrust the letter at Arabella:

And Sidmouth had signed it, with even more arrogant flourishes.

“Well, it does appear to have merit, at that,” mused Arabella. “If I may go wherever I want, and question whomever I want, perhaps I
can
find a way out of this.... You know, Bunny, dear? I think you may have hit upon a terrific idea!”

“Do you? Oh, good, because I think so, too! You’re a lot more clever than most of the people who run things, and
somebody
with a brain certainly needs to find out the truth! Who better than yourself?”

Arabella glanced at the letter again. “But Sidmouth?” she asked. “You actually saw the home secretary? I find that man completely and utterly disgusting!”

“So did I,” said Belinda quietly. “And try as I might, I can’t get the taste out of my mouth!”

Comprehension dawned in Arabella’s gray-green eyes. “Oh, darling!” she cried, embracing her sibling with tender affection. “I am deeply touched! You have gone to great lengths on my behalf!”

Her sister reflected. “No, not really. No more than four and a half inches, I should say. The length wasn’t the problem, you know; it was the—”

“I
do
know
,
dear. Believe me. Well, come along, silly Bunny—you can rinse your mouth out with port.”

In the dining room, Belinda helped herself from a sideboard decanter, and then, because they were alone, she threw back her head and gargled unbecomingly.

“Shocking waste of good port!” she muttered, after spitting into a finger bowl and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I don’t begrudge it in the least, I assure you!” said Arabella. She took the omnipresent pencil stub from behind her ear and began scribbling notes on the back of Sidmouth’s letter.