In the Flesh (25 page)

“I’ll send you a note,” repeated Ritchie, squeezing her hand and sweeping on his hat again, then letting her go as he stepped away. “Now go inside, my dear. You’ll catch a chill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then, tipping his hat, he strode away and climbed into the carriage, pausing only to cast her one last look, strangely complicated and yearning, before the coachman clicked the horse and it sped away into the night.

It wasn’t until Beatrice stood in the hall, and the footman held out his arm to receive it, that she realized she was still wearing Ritchie’s astrakhan-collared overcoat.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Billets Doux

NO NOTE ARRIVED
the following morning, despite all Beatrice’s exertion of wishful thinking and willing one to. Every time a servant appeared to bring her a newspaper or a cup of tea, or consult with her on some domestic matter, her heart lifted. Every time that there was no communication forthcoming, either Polly or Charlie or Jamie Brownlow or any other received a bright, but secretly hollow smile from Beatrice.

She was bored. Flighty. Unsettled. A new state for her. Ever a self-sufficient individual, Beatrice had always found ways to occupy herself, either with long hours of reading, with duties of the house, when times had been hard, or visiting and other social pursuits in better days.

Now there was no need for her help with housework, and no one really but Sofia Chamfleur to visit. Beatrice sent round a card, but got only a card in return from Sofia, promising a visit another day.

Too busy running her ladies’ house of assignation or whatever she calls it.

But Beatrice squashed her disappointment. No doubt Sofia’s risqué enterprise took up a lot of her time.

The copy of
Punch
she’d been reading—usually a favorite diversion—slid from Beatrice’s fingers. Its satirical mischief was as barbed and amusing as ever, but she couldn’t concentrate. She could only think of Ritchie, and his smile, his hands, his cock.

“You’ve ruined me, you blackguard,” she muttered, and yet the epithet was fond on her tongue, and she knew that the ruin was only that he’d spoiled her for all other men, because, unless she was mistaken, she loved him.

Absurd! I barely know the man…how can this have happened?

But it had. Which was why a sensible girl like her was now mooning around the house like a lovelorn ninny, hanging on the prospect of a few scribbled words from her object of adoration.

“Fiddlesticks!”

Leaping to her feet,
Punch
forgotten, Beatrice fetched a well-studied copy of
The Modern Woman
from the sideboard, and started flicking through it, seeking an advertisement she’d noted, announcing Addlington’s Patented Typewriting Machines. Better to be practical and look ahead. Be ready for…afterward.

But the advertisement didn’t fire her with quite the independent zeal that it had formerly done. Beatrice frowned, almost annoyed by the soft, slyly circling thoughts of marriage, night after night in bed with Ritchie, and maybe one or two small children with curly flaxen hair.

“Absurd,” she exclaimed again, and went to the bureau for a sheet of paper. She’d write to Addlington’s now, and order one of their machines to be delivered. At least she had the funds now, and she could begin practicing in preparation for an industrious life after Ritchie.

Before she’d put pen to the paper though, there was a knock at the door, and in her usual precipitous manner, Polly sidled in, not having waited for a by-your-leave.

Beatrice studied the girl momentarily as she held out the silver letter tray. What was it about her that was so different in recent days? A new confidence? No, she’d always had that. It was a glow, an air of suppressed excitement. As if Poll too was fearful of something but thrilled by it also.

I know how you feel…I know how you feel…

“Letter for you, Miss Bea,” Polly announced unnecessarily.

Ritchie’s letter. It must be. Beatrice’s heart pounded hard, and she stopped using her musings about Polly as a diversionary tactic.

“Thank you, Polly.” She took it, slightly surprised by the thinness of the paper, and its cheap quality. That didn’t seem like Ritchie at all, nor did the indistinct hand. “Are…are you well, Polly? You look preoccupied somehow. You’re not concerned about your place, are you? You mustn’t be. It doesn’t matter that Mr. Brownlow’s here, and the others. You’ll always be the senior servant as long as I have anything to do with the matter.”

“Don’t you worry, Miss Bea. It’s not about my place…not really. And you shouldn’t concern yourself.” Polly smiled and winked. “You know me. I always have a way of making things work out right.”

Quite true. Polly was intelligent and resourceful and sensible. Probably far more so than her mistress, Beatrice reflected ruefully.

“Very well, then, Poll.” Beatrice turned the letter over in her fingers, a stir of disquiet rippling. “But if you should ever need to discuss anything, you will come to me, won’t you?”

Polly bobbed her usual cursory curtsy. “Thank you, Miss Bea. Don’t worry, you’ll be the very first I’ll come to, that’s for sure.”

That sounded ominous, but not much so as the letter seemed. Beatrice studied the envelope, still unopened, when Polly had gone.

Not from Ritchie. Absolutely not. On closer inspection the writing bore no resemblance to the firm, decisive hand that had leaped from the page in his proposal.

And yet it was still familiar, but from a far different source, unfortunately.

My dearest Beatrice,

I know we did not part on the best of terms, and perhaps I was a little hasty in breaking off our engagement. The business of the photographs was unfortunate. By a stroke of bad luck, a fellow from the camera club got hold of the plates and seeing their rather titillating nature, he took it upon himself to make a bit of coin from them. They were being circulated before I could pursue the matter, and already in too many hands to save your reputation.

But now, I feel a little guilty that I didn’t stand up to Mother when she said I must break off with you. Young ladies have been the subject of far worse scandals, but have gone on to redeem themselves, so I feel that I owe it to you now to help you restore your place in society.

I have missed you, dear Beatrice, and I’m hoping that we may once again step out together. I will certainly not be ashamed to be seen with you in polite circles, and if you would send a reply to this note, I would be more than happy to call on you so we can resume our friendship. And perhaps more?

With fondest regards, your hopefully to be reinstated fiancé, Eustace.

Fury boiled up like white-hot magma from the heart of an Icelandic volcano, and drawing back her lips in a snarl, Beatrice rent the letter in two, letting out a mighty, wordless screech.

Flinging the pieces to the carpet, she leaped up in the air and jumped on them, pounding them with her slipper-clad foot.

“You unutterably insufferable bastard, Eustace Lloyd! How dare you!” Giving the letter pieces another hefty stamping, she then set about pacing to and fro.

The gall of the man. What outrageous lies and condescension. It was so preposterous a communication that she could hardly believe she’d received it, but when she snatched up the pieces again and read the words through a haze of red mist, there they were, imparting their unbelievable message.

I wouldn’t take up with you again, Eustace Lloyd, even if Ritchie ruined me and left me half-naked and begging in the gutter and you the only offer of succor in the whole wide world.

Her gut still simmering, she swept the pieces back onto the floor and stomped across and rang the bell.

A cup of tea was in order. A familiar, comforting beverage to calm her ire and set her thinking straight, even though her immediate inclination was to specify a pint of brandy for herself and instruct that a cask of hemlock be sent to Eustace at the earliest opportunity.

Men!

She threw herself down into a chair, to seethe and think.

* * *

A WHILE LATER
, Beatrice was calm again and not in the least inclined toward murder. She’d read the shredded letter several times. Eustace’s motives were still a mystery to her, but somehow, when it came down to it, she couldn’t find it in her heart to really hate him. In fact, as she’d already noted, if he hadn’t done what he’d done, there was very little chance that her path would ever have crossed that of Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.

“Thank you, but no thank you, Eustace,” she murmured, taking up her pen again.

My dear Eustace,

Thank you for your letter and your offer of renewed friendship. I appreciate the kindness you would bestow on me, but regretfully, I have to decline, as I no longer believe we are suited to each other and I would not want you to risk your reputation on my account.

Fortunately, for my own part, I’ve recently made the acquaintance of a wealthy and well set up gentleman who takes no interest in reputations, good, bad or otherwise, and I hope that you too will soon meet an amenable young lady who is a much better match for you than I would ever have been.

All best wishes, Beatrice Weatherly

“And I hope you accidentally tread in a pile of horse droppings next time you’re out and about too,” she added to herself as she signed the note with a flourish, “and then slip and end up on your pompous hind parts in the middle of the street.” With little regard for the folds, she stuffed the note into an envelope before she could think better of her braggadocio.

Perhaps it wasn’t wise to mention a “wealthy and well set up gentleman”, but Eustace did have an impossible degree of cheek implying that she was damaged goods and that he was doing her a monumental graciousness by being seen with her again.

There was nothing wrong with her at all. In fact Ritchie seemed to think there was quite a lot right with her!

About to ring the bell again, Beatrice was surprised by another knock on the door and the entrance of Polly with the silver salver again.

“Another letter, Miss Bea.”

Now this was the one she’d been waiting for. She could tell that strong, decisive script from several feet away. She snatched the missive off the tray and asked Polly to come back in a little while for both the answers.

Ritchie’s note wasn’t condescending. In fact there wasn’t much to it at all. Simply the time and place—
Belanger’s at 7:30 p.m.
—and the words,
My carriage will collect you.

His large, uncompromising signature followed, with a postscript.

I hunger for your beauty.

She ran her fingertip over the letters, imagining the pen held in his long, elegant hand.

As I do for yours, Ritchie. As I do for yours.

* * *

SEVEN-THIRTY FOUND HER
at Belanger’s and in receipt of yet another billet doux, handed to her by the maître d’hôtel, who treated “Madame de la Tour” with anxious solicitude as if she were a valued patron of many years standing.

Beatrice, forgive me, I shall be delayed a little. I’ve arranged for a light meal to be served in our suite. Enjoy it while you wait for me, it will bolster your strength.

She could almost see him wink at her, those indigo eyes of his twinkling with mischief. What the dickens was he planning that needed such fortification? She hardly dare anticipate, but at the same time, couldn’t prevent herself.

So, no pretence of respectable public dining this time?

Having settled in, she surveyed the room they’d shared previously. It looked just as lushly appointed and welcoming as before, with fresh flowers in the vases and lamps turned low, but this time, supper was laid out on a folding rosewood table. Game pie, cold fowl, cheeses and a selection of rather exotic-looking fruit, varieties imported at great expense. There was champagne on ice, and jug of lemonade too.

The food looked delicious, and tasted splendid too, when Beatrice took slice of chicken in her fingers and nibbled it. Here on her own, there was no need to stand on ceremony, and even though she wasn’t really all that hungry, she picked at items from the table, standing tapping her feet, waiting, waiting.

How long would Ritchie be delayed? What was he doing? Where was he?

Surely a courtesan would take the late arrival of her lover in her stride, paid to please when and where and how the man who’d bought her so disposed?

But increasingly, Beatrice knew she was thinking in a different fashion. Fooling herself, despite her better intentions, that she and Ritchie were engaged in a more “conventional” love affair rather than the indecent transaction it was in reality.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chastised herself, taking a sip of lemonade in a champagne glass. The drink was heavenly, sweet, yet sharp and crisp, challenging the taste buds. It reminded her of Ritchie, somehow, but then, everything did.

Abandoning the supper table, she crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, her senses excited simply by the fact it was a bed. A place where she and Ritchie would make love before long, and hopefully, be naked together. She yearned to see his body, and discover if it fulfilled the promise of his clothed elegance. His bare chest the previous night had been a tantalizing preview, and now her fingertips itched to travel over the rest of him, exploring and pleasuring.

If they were to be naked, perhaps she should set a precedent by shedding her clothes before he arrived. To encourage him to abandon his quickly and join her?

Furthermore, getting undressed was at least something to do while she waited, something exciting and daring, even though unfortunately it wasn’t the first time she’d stripped off her garments for a man.

Botheration
! I didn’t mean to think of Eustace tonight!