Rules for Being a Mistress (19 page)

“The law! On me! That’s rich, coming from you,” replied her tormentor. “Oh, you’ve plenty of money to go out on the town, I see,” he panted angrily. “In your pretty white dress! Hoping to catch yourself a rich husband, I daresay! And who will marry you, pretty as you are, with nothing but debt for a dowry? You’re lucky I’m an honest man and marriage-minded, that’s all I have to say. Some others might not be so nice.”

Cosima calmly picked up an umbrella from the stand and brandished it. “You have two choices now. You can leave quietly, or you can leave
very
quietly, with your brain leaking out of your skull. It doesn’t matter to me, but it might matter to you.”

The burly man swelled up with righteous indignation. “How dare you threaten me! I’ll throw you in prison until you are ready to listen to reason!” He roared in pain as Nora Murphy suddenly jumped on his back and ripped at his greasy hair.

Benedict slammed the door, startling everyone. He had seen enough of this tedious, farcical melodrama. What troubled him the most was that Miss Vaughn seemed quite used to dealing with impertinent tradesmen. “You!” he said, pointing at the most egregious offender.

“Me?” cried Nora, trembling.

“You,” he affirmed. “Get down from there. This is not a circus, I trust.”

Nora obediently hopped down.

“Thank you, sir,” the collier said gratefully, rubbing his head.

Benedict smiled at him thinly. “Did you say this young lady owes you twenty pounds?”

The collier realized at once that he was dealing with a gentleman of means. He eyed Benedict warily. “That’s right, sir. She’s been taking advantage of my generous nature. Of course, if you’d care to pay the debt yourself, sir, I’ve no objection.”

“You have not yet established to my satisfaction that there
is
a debt,” Benedict pointed out. “Thus far we have only established that you are a bully.”

The collier looked astonished. “A bully? Me?”

“You.”

“Well, I never—! Who the devil are you, sir?” the tradesman demanded angrily.

“Who am I?” Benedict repeated, getting into the dramatic spirit. “I am Wrath, collier. Wrath. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

The collier shook his head.

“That’s because I had neither father nor mother,” Benedict explained. “I leapt out of a lion’s mouth when I was scarce an hour old; and ever since have run up and down the world with a case of rapiers, wounding myself when I could get none to fight withal. That’s how I lost my arm, as a matter of fact. I was born in Hell, collier! Does that clear it all up for you?”

“Oh God!” said Nora, her eyes starting from her head.

“I thought you said he was our cousin,” Allie whispered to Cosy.

“Well, Mr. Wrath,” puffed the collier, blinking at Benedict in confusion, “be that as it may! I have business with this young lady—”

“Not half as much business as you have with me,” said Benedict very quietly.

The collier began to stammer. “Sir! I don’t know what this Irish hussy has told you, but she owes money all over town. Did she tell you that?”

“No, she didn’t,” Benedict said.

“Well, it’s none of your business!” said Cosima.

“None whatsoever,” he agreed. “Collier! You say she owes you
twenty
pounds?”

“She ordered a great deal of coal, Mr. Wrath.”

Benedict raised a brow. “Did she? Where is it?”

“She must have used it,” the other man replied stubbornly.

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty pounds’ worth? She’s only been here two months. Tell me, collier. Do you cheat
all
your female customers, or just the pretty ones?”

“I
told
you everything was exorbitant!” Cosima triumphantly declared.

“Forgive me,” said Benedict. “I thought you were exaggerating. May I see the bill?”

“It would seem I accidentally brought the wrong bill with me,” said the collier, stuffing papers into his coat.

“Indeed,” said Benedict. “I suggest you go home and find the correct bill! When you have found it, kindly present it to
me
at Number Six, Lower Camden Place, and I will be happy to take a look at it. My name is Sir Benedict Wayborn. I will tell my man to expect you tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

“I thought you said you was Mr. Wrath!” the collier protested.

“That was a little joke,” Benedict explained.

The collier laughed weakly. “Very funny, sir.”

“You may go, collier,” said Benedict. “You may exit stage left while I continue the scene with these young ladies. And thank you for laughing at my joke. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor.”

“What was all that?” Cosima demanded, closing the door on the collier. “Mr. Wrath!”

“That was a speech from a play we did in school,” he said modestly. “
Doctor Faustus.
Do you know it? No? The title character sells his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge, power, and, of course, Helen of Troy for a paramour.”

“Gracious!” said Nora.

“What’s a paramour?” Allie demanded.

“I don’t know,” said Benedict.

“So you’re not Wrath at all?” Allie said disappointed. “You’re only Cousin Ben?”

“To you, I am Cousin Ben. To your enemies, Miss Allegra, I am Mr. Wrath.”

“What about the butcher?” Allie asked excitedly. “And the greengrocer? We owe
them
lots of money, too!”

Exasperated, Benedict glanced at the elder girl. “Perhaps Miss Vaughn would be so kind as to provide me with a list of her creditors,” he said.

“I will,” Cosima said, herding Allie up the stairs. “Tomorrow! Right now, I have to check on my mother, and get this girl into bed. Nora will let you out.”

“Until tomorrow then,” he said quietly. “Good night.”

As he watched the two sisters go upstairs, he wondered how many men had tried to take advantage of Miss Vaughn in this shabby way. As he went out, he glanced at the stooped woman holding the door for him. “Good night, Nora.”

“How do you know my name?” she cried in terror.

“I’m clairvoyant,” he said dryly. He bit his lip, remembering that he needed to stay in Nora’s good graces. Otherwise she might raise “holy hell,” and prevent her young lady from leaving the house. Perhaps sarcasm was not the best way to endear himself to the Irishwoman.

Nora plucked up her courage. “She’s a good lass, and you’re a bad man!”

Benedict saw that they would never be friends. In any case, it was better to be feared than loved. He smiled at her coldly. “If you ever try to keep her from me, I will show you, Nora, what a bad man I can be.”

“Oh God!” Nora breathed, closing the door on him as quickly as she could.

Benedict used his key to enter the park. He waited for her there, lingering just inside the gate for what seemed like hours, looking out through the iron bars like a prisoner. Twice he saw the constable of the Watch pass. The man was unpleasantly conscientious.

Finally, the lights in the Vaughns’ house began to go out, one by one. The Watchman passed by once more, whistling. A few minutes later, Benedict’s heart jumped as a figure in a dark cloak came out of the house and ran toward the park. She was in her stockinged feet. Her feet made no sound on the cold cobbles.

She gasped in surprise when he opened the gate for her.

“Hurry,” he whispered, pulling her inside the park. “The Watchman has been unusually diligent this evening.”

“Anyone would think we were committing a crime the way we have to sneak around,” she said, locking the gate. She turned to look at him.
He always looked perfect,
she thought enviously. She always looked thrown together. She had been in such a hurry to go to him that she had done little more than tuck her own hair under her mother’s wig and throw a cloak over her petticoats. She ran with him across the park in her bare feet, her teeth chattering.

As they reached the gate on the other side, she caught his arm.

“The constable,” she said softly.

It was so perfectly quiet that he was moved to quote Macbeth. “‘Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep.’ All the good people of Bath are in their beds, sleeping.”

She reached for his face. “It’s just you, and me, and the bloody constable makes three,” she whispered, pressing her mouth to his. Her mouth and hands were cold.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get you warm.”

He unlocked the gate, and together they went up the steps to his door. She slipped inside the warm house first. Benedict was in the act of following her, when a voice startled him.

“You, there!”

He turned. The busy constable was running up the street with his lantern. Cosima stood just inside the door, holding her breath.

“Yes, Watchman?” Benedict said pleasantly.

The constable stopped to catch his breath. “I beg your pardon, sir!” he panted. “I thought I saw a woman, sir!”

“Do I look like a woman to you?” Benedict asked sternly.

“No, sir!” stammered the watchman. “I think she went into the park.”

“Only residents of Camden Place are given keys to the park,” Benedict said sternly. “You must have been hallucinating.”

“Yes, sir,” said the constable, unwilling to openly disagree with one of his betters. “But we’ve had reports, sir, of a woman thief. Only last week a gentleman was stripped, robbed, and left tied to a tree in that park. You’ll want to be careful, sir.”

“He had it coming,” said Benedict.

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Thank you, Constable.”

He entered the house and closed the door. “I’m a very bad man,” he said sadly. “Lying to a constable of the Watch.”

“I think you’re nice,” she said, opening the door to the study.

“I can’t let you do this anymore,” Benedict told her sternly when they were safely in his study. “It’s too dangerous. I shudder to think what might have happened if that brute managed to get his hands on you.”

She sat down on the ottoman in front of the fire and peeled off her wet stockings, stuffing them into the pocket of her cloak. She put her cold feet up on the fender. The warmth of the fire felt lovely. She unclasped her cloak and let it fall, stretching out her bare arms toward the fire. She fully expected him to try to ravish her, and she was not quite sure she wanted to continue resisting. It was a moot point, however. The gentleman made no attempt to ravish her.

Instead, Benedict poured her a brandy, and insisted that she accept it. She took a cautious sip. He poured one for himself and looked at her: “Miss Cherry” in her white “dress” with her red “hair” spilling down her back was a beautiful sight.

“If I were a man, he wouldn’t bother me,” she said resentfully.

“If you were a
gentleman,
he wouldn’t bother you,” he corrected her.

She looked at him shyly. “It was nice of you to walk me through the park, though.”

He finished his drink all in one. “Come,” he said, going out of the room through the side door. She followed him, but stopped on the threshold of his fire-lit bedroom. The big bed of carved oak dominated the space. With its dark, half-closed curtains it looked like a small stage. The threshold was cold marble. She gulped down the rest of her brandy and took one small step onto the plush rug. She was in a man’s bedroom. A
gentleman’s
bedroom, she corrected herself.

“I don’t know, Ben,” she called to him nervously. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

He appeared in a doorway on the other side of the room. “Get in here, you fool,” he said impatiently. He disappeared again.

She walked slowly past the bed, as if fearing that someone might jump out and attack her. His black robe and white nightshirt had been neatly laid out on the coverlet—by his valet, no doubt. The master’s slippers were on the floor waiting for him.

In the next chamber, he was lighting the candles in the sconces on either side of a huge, floor-length mirror. The other walls were shrouded in black crepe. Cosima shivered. “What are you doing, Ben?” she asked fearfully. “What is this place?”

He looked at her, candlelight dancing in his eyes. “This? This is my dressing room,” he said, tugging at her hand.

She resisted him. “What’s behind the black curtains?” she asked fearfully.

“What? Mirrors, I’m sorry to say. For a gouty old man, Skeldings certainly was vain.”

Superstitious dread took hold of her. “Mirrors! Why did you cover them up?” she cried. “Are you practicing black magic or something?”

“Black magic?” he scoffed. “Don’t be silly. Unlike Skeldings, I am essentially a modest man. I don’t need to see myself from every angle. In fact, I prefer not to. Now, get in here.”