The Pleasure Merchant (44 page)

Tom couldn’t help adding a flourish to his signature. “Wonderful!” he cried, as Mr. Blythe signed as well, and replaced the quill gently, so very gently, in its inkwell. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Blythe. But I suppose I should not thank you yet… all you have done is take my thousand pounds.”

“Indeed, but I anticipate you will have reason to rejoice soon enough.” His smile was absolutely showing the strain! “When I have arranged matters I shall send you a letter with your instructions. Take care to follow them exactly, when you receive them, and I believe you shall come away from this experience quite pleased.”

“I should hope so!” said Tom, extending his hand. Mr. Blythe shook it limply. “Well! This
is
exciting. No no, don’t get up—I’ll see myself out. I know the way. Oh, Mr. Blythe… I am
so
glad I came to you about this.”

“As am I.”

Tom made as if to go, but when he came to the door he turned around—and just caught sight of Mr. Blythe, slump-shouldered, staring at the contract with a peculiar look on his face. It might have been sorrow, or defeat, or simple resignation. Tom couldn’t tell, but Mr. Blythe feeling any or all of those sensations was fine by him. It was exhilarating, having something to hold over his hated rival; he felt no remorse, for at long last the worm had turned, and now he was laughing at the man who so recently laughed quite heartily at his expense.

“Good day, Mr. Blythe.”

Not realizing he had been observed, Mr. Blythe straightened immediately, and smiled weakly. “Good day, Mr. Dawne. I expect you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

In high spirits, Tom decided to walk back to his lodgings in Covent Garden. It had turned into as fine a day as they’d yet seen that year, bright blue and bracingly cold, and he whistled as he strolled along, detouring through Leicester Square while contemplating his triumph. Things were going exactly has he’d planned—the man would be the instrument of his own undoing! And he had to go through with it! After all, if he failed to deliver, Tom could have the law on him, for breaking a contract—and on Mrs. Knoyll, for adultery. It hadn’t proven necessary, but he had planned all along on threatening her safety if Blythe refused him. Tom had certainly seen enough to condemn her, or at least plant such doubts in her husband’s mind that he would never look at her again. While it wasn’t likely the woman would be hanged for her crime, not in this more enlightened age, her being sent to the stocks or embarrassed with a public whipping were certainly within the realm of possibility. Of course, he’d always preferred the idea of spending a night of pleasure with Mrs. Knoyll… but all’s fair, as they said.

“Tom!”

So deep in thought was Tom that he startled to hear his name. Looking around widly, he heard it a second time, before seeing who called to him. It was a pretty, well-dressed young woman, waving like a country maid greeting her cousin in the lane. Her gentleman companion did not look at all pleased by her behavior, understandably, but she said something to him and rushed over to Tom, dragging the man by the hand, a smile on her rosy-cheeked face. As she came closer, Tom realized it was Hizzy, of all people.

“Goodness, look at you!” she cried. “So changed! You look like a gentleman, Tom. But that’s no livery—is it your day off?”

He stood gawping at her before recovering his wits enough to make some reply. He scarcely knew what he’d said until she said she was very sorry.

“Very sorry?” he asked, still in a daze.

“To hear that Mr. Bewit passed. Are you employed elsewhere now?”

Not respectably, at any rate, given that revenge had become his sole occupation. “No… I…” he shook his head. “Mr. Bewit saw fit to make me independent.”

“Oh!” Hizzy looked astounded, as well she might. “That’s wonderful, Tom! You must have served him very well!”

“I did my best.” For some reason, he found himself blushing.

“I see now why I scarcely recognized you! I said to Mr. Jenkins, why, that gentleman looks just like my father’s former apprentice, and I confess I stared at you for a bit until I was quite sure. How merry, that we should meet here, and like this! It calls for a celebration. Shall we all go and have a drink?”

By Jove, she was a beauty! Tom marveled at her as she laughed, looking from him to her companion. How had he failed to appreciate her myriad perfections? He’d been a fool not to write her, she was a prettier girl by half than any he’d wooed in Puriton, and a sight for sore eyes after spending so much time looking at Mrs. Knoyll, who was good looking considering her age, but not more than that.

Perhaps he ought to stop by Dray’s some day, and see if Hizzy was in… it might be fun, reconnecting with his old flame…

“We have some good news of our own, don’t we, Mr. Jenkins?” she was saying, gazing up at her companion. “Oh, I haven’t introduced you. Mr. Jenkins, this is Tom Dawne, my father’s former apprentice. Tom—Mr. Dawne, I should say!—meet Mr. Bruce Jenkins… my fiancé.”

“Your what?”

“My fiancé!” She really was beautiful when she smiled like that. “We’re to be married.”

“I know what fiancé means!”

Why, the bold little slut! It was unconscionable, after all the grief she had given him! How dare she go off and marry someone else? The girl had no decency—no constancy whatsoever!

With a start, Tom realized it had been just under a year since last they’d seen one another. Though part of him acknowledged that perhaps she could be forgiven for moving on, especially considering his silence, the other, larger part was still deeply annoyed.

Mr. Jenkins did not look as though he was enjoying this very public, and very awkward interaction. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dawne,” he said, proffering his hand. “We have only just asked Mr. Dray’s permission, and now that we have his blessing I believe we shall be married very soon.”

“Congratulations, best wishes, and all that,” muttered Tom, shaking his hand gingerly. “I expect you’ll be very happy.”

“Disgustingly,” said Hizzy, gazing mawkishly up at this rotter Jenkins, who returned the look with interest. “Mr. Jenkins has just recently taken over his father’s perfumery, and we’re hoping—”

“How nice,” interrupted Tom. “Well, I really must be going. Sorry about the drink, I simply can’t spare the time it right now. But perhaps when I need some toilet water, or a new wig, I’ll stop by and see you both. Until then…” He bowed stiffly and he walked on, leaving them in his wake, murmuring to one another. Well, let them. He had more important things to do than stand around chatting with vile tradesmen—tradeswomen, for that matter; better things to spend his money on than a glass of porter in some shitty little ale house. They’d likely expect him to pay their tab, as well as his own.

The sunshine seemed a bit less shiny, the blue of the sky less blue, as Tom stomped the final half-mile or so back to his lodgings. He tried and failed to conjure up his earlier sensations of joy, but he could not prevent his thoughts from returning again and again to Hizzy. To think, settling down with her had once been his greatest ambition in life! Well, for someone in his former circumstances, that made sense.

In any circumstances, some treacherous part of his mind whispered to him. Other than Miss Rasa, Hizzy was the only girl he’d ever met who had more sense than hair. If only she had been a bit more patient! Then, she might have crossed paths with Tom and found herself engaged to a gentleman instead of some rotten smell-mixer.

This thought, at last, brought a smile to Tom’s face. In five years, when Hizzy’s fingers were worn to the bone and her breasts had gone soft from feeding her pack of hungry brats, she would think of him, yes she would, and wonder what she could have had—if only, if only! Well, she could always apply to Mangum Blythe, and hire him to retrieve Tom for her… if she scrimped on household expenses.

Cheered, Tom turned on his heel. He hadn’t eaten much breakfast—perhaps he’d go ‘round to the Devil and see if Elton, Bottomly, and the rest were anywhere. He could use a bit of diversion after his stressful morning, and he was quite at his leisure until Mr. Blythe wrote to inform him of the imminent granting of his dearest wish in all the world.

Dear Mr. Dawne,

I’m certain it will please you to learn I have been able to arrange a meeting between you and the lady. She proved as modest and unassuming as you reported, and was quite intrigued to hear she had an admirer. My descriptions of your passion were received with many blushes and protestations of ‘how can it be,’ and ‘surely he has mistaken me for someone else.’ I assured her that was not the case, reporting the details you were so kind as to provide me. I then made bold to suggest an interview. It will not surprise you that at first she was loath to jeopardize her situation, but I made it very clear that refusing to humor your wishes would endanger her happiness far more than honoring them. She eventually agreed—to one night, as you specified, though I made it clear the nature of your attachment made you hopeful of future liaisons.

This time of year the lady’s time is understandably occupied by social engagements, but I ascertained that this Tuesday next she is at her leisure. Her husband is attending a gentleman’s supper, and not expected back until the wee hours, meaning she will be free for a substantial block of time.

I have provided her with the enclosed address, which I have already rented for the evening. The house in question appears respectable, as does the lady who rents the rooms, but in reality both are flexible. If a light burns in the uppermost right window, knock three times on the front door and you will be answered. If no light is apparent, something has gone wrong, and I will make contact with you as soon as I have information. These precautions are most necessary, in my experience, so please follow my instructions to the letter, for your sake, and for the lady’s.

I should mention that I have arranged for a supper and wine, so you need bring only yourself—and any favors you might wish to bestow upon the object of your desire. I gave her no jewels or trinkets, reasoning she might take offense before I had even made your proposition, but if you wish to bring her a token that is of course up to you.

I have done everything within my power to secure your happiness. More even than I have detailed here, I assure you. The rest is up to you. I wish all you the best.

I remain,

Your servant,

Mangum Blythe

The letter had come early, hours before Tom rose. He had been out quite late with his friends, so it was with unsteady hands that he broke the seal and read the contents. It did more to clear the fog from his mind than sips of tea and very small bites of the plain toast his serving girl had brought him, along with the missive.

Tom gloated over the details, imagining what must have occurred between Mr. Blythe and his lover. Had she wept? Had he? He must have needed to explain to her the nature of his occupation, if he had not done so before. In either case, what she must think of him now! His influence had not saved her from exposure of the most personal kind; his wealth had not protected her from needing to sacrifice herself for the sake of her reputation. The phrasing of the letter suggested Mr. Blythe had found it necessary to force her to agree. How could anyone continue to love a man who made such a demand? Their relationship had endangered her person and her character. Not only had she risked all to be with him, she was now required to risk everything to keep him.

Tom poured himself another cup of tea, feeling much better. He had not expected his revenge to feel this satisfying.

It was a shame the lady wasn’t more handsome, but the thrill of the act would surely supply whatever excitement was lacking. And once he stripped her down, if he couldn’t manage to perform the coup de grâce—he had his concerns, having never romanced someone of her age—he could deliver that insult to Mr. Blythe just as easily.
I thank you for your efforts, sir, but upon closer inspection of the lady’s charms she did not satisfy… perhaps for a less discerning man she would do… but not a connoisseur such as myself…