Virginia Henley (20 page)

Of all the guests present Tony liked Henry Luttrell best. She was already familiar with his satirical poems and Sherry gave her a thumbnail sketch that whetted her appetite. “He’s only welcome here because of his wit. He’s the son of an Irish peer and his gardener’s daughter. Hasn’t a pot to piss in or a window to throw it through, but he dines out in style every night.” Sherry tapped Luttrell on the shoulder. “Here’s an admirer of yours Henry; Tony Lamb. Give us a limerick, old man.”

“Well, let’s see,” Henry drawled, “would you like one about excrement or one that abuses the clergy?”

“Oh, abuse the clergy, by all means,” Tony urged.

Tony burst out laughing and Henry was most flattered. “Lord, man, we’re not in mixed company, give us something with a little more zing,” Sherry urged.

Sherry bent double with mirth and began to cough. Tony had to clap him on the back to stop him from choking.

Suddenly a shot rang out, engaging everyone’s attention. “By Satan, we’re going to have a little pistol practice. George has one of the finest collections in town.” When they arrived at the other end of the room, the betting was heavy and the money piled high.

His Highness bade a footman put up a portrait of the King and they all took turns, wagering obscene amounts of money. When Tony selected one of the pistols it was much heavier than she had anticipated. She admired the workmanship of the weapon with its smoothly polished olivewood handle and long silver barrel.

His Highness said, “Ah, here’s a fellow after my own heart. Loves the feel of a gun in his hand. That one has a hair trigger.”

Before she could be warned to take proper aim, her finger brushed the trigger and the pistol exploded. The bullet nicked the wire holding up the portrait and it crashed to the dining room floor. For a moment Tony was
aghast that shed put a hole in the plaster, but a cheer went up and they declared Lord Lamb the unconditional winner. She sat down white faced as two hundred guineas was pressed upon her.

The enthusiasts moved into the ballroom for greater scope, but the occasional wild shot soon had the orchestra scattering for cover. They behaved like a gang of unruly schoolboys let loose at a fair, with His Highness egging everyone on to join in the madcap antics. He sobered somewhat when a footman took a bullet in the shoulder. As the servant was carried off His Highness turned to his friend Charles Fox. “We can’t continue like this. Good footmen are hard to get these days. After dinner well visit your
tir.”

Tony turned to Sherry. “What’s a
tir?”

“Its a shooting gallery. Haven’t you had training in the code duello? Wrote a damned good duel into m’last play, but damned if I can think of the title.”

Something made Tony look toward the entrance of the ballroom. The tall dark figure of Savage loomed in the doorway, a look of frozen contempt on his face for the juvenile antics he’d just witnessed. His eyes flicked over Tony, then dismissed him as if he were no more than a spoiled puppy.

As if Savage’s arrival was some sort of cue, dinner was announced and the assembly filed back into the dining room. Tony had never seen so much food consumed in her lifetime. Without realizing she was doing so, she began to count. There were four soups, then four fish courses, followed by thirty-six entrees. The menus were printed entirely in French. She had learned a smattering of the language from a tutor and read:

Tony didn’t have a clue and wondered idly if it was a direct result of the
diaboleèos
she’d imbibed. Claret and burgundy were considered too thin; sherry, hock, and port were served instead. As a result long before the meal was over some of the men had drunk themselves speechless and a footman loosened the ridiculously high neckcloths of those who had fallen beneath the table before they asphixiated themselves.

Frederick, the young Duke of York, toppled over dead drunk. His Highness, who was famous for his wit, glanced down at him with mock solemnity. “And there, according to our royal father, lies the hope of our family.”

As those who could still walk arose to make up a party to follow Charles James Fox, Tony asked Sherry, “Where is this
tir?”

“It’s somewhere in the bowels beneath Fox’s gaming hell.”

“He runs a gambling house?” Tony asked surprised.

“By Satan, you’re a babe in arms. After we knock off a few rounds belowstairs, we’ll gamble till dawn.”

Tony felt her winnings inside her pockets. “Hellfire, I thought I’d save my money to wager in Newmarket.”

“Oh, we’re not going. Hadn’t you heard? His Highness sold his horses to that Indian fellow.”

Adam Savage observed everything that went on at Carlton House through narrowed eyes. He had cynically assessed and catalogued the lot of them as useless spendthrifts down to the last man. The floridly handsome Prince of Wales might have easy and engaging manners and be a patron of the arts, but he couldn’t see that his Whig friends used him. Savage knew the Regency Bill would not be signed, for George gave more time and attention to his tailor and bootmaker than the business of the realm.

Charles Fox was easily the most influential of the prince’s friends. He drank heavily and sat for days at a stretch at the gaming tables, usually in his own establishment.
Wags said his charm came from his great-great grandfather, Charles II, but Savage knew he was both profligate and dissipated.

Richard Sheridan was dissolute. He and Edmund Burke often abused each other in the House of Commons, but they all pissed in the same pot and believed themselves the masters of England.

Savage was determined in his own small way to effect changes. They wouldn’t happen overnight, but with a genious like Pitt now running the government, England stood a better chance than it had in years of doing something to improve the lot of its common citizens. Granted, he would have to use the system of bribes and patronage that had been in place since the early Georgian reign, but if he was relentless enough, insistent enough, determined enough, and forceful enough, he could effect change.

It had been Fox, Sheridan, and Burke who had introduced a bill to deprive the East India Company of its powers and trading privileges. As a result the government fell and Pitt became chief minister. The fools did manage to have poor old Warren Hastings, the Governor of Bengal, impeached. They spoke witheringly of matters about which they knew nothing. Burke in particular was a hypocrite, for his family had made its money by dipping its fingers into the Indian pot of gold.

Suddenly Savage’s regard became fixed upon his young ward, Anthony Lamb. A lecherous-looking rake had his arm about the youth’s shoulders and a disquieting thought rose full blown in Savage’s mind. Instead of thrusting the thought away, he examined it carefully. Anthony was a beautiful youth with his long legs and dreamy green eyes. A succulent plum to be plucked by a profligate seducer.

The muscle in Savage’s jaw flexed into a lump of iron. Was this the reason for the lad’s disinterest in women? No, Tony was innocent, he’d not yet been tainted, but the sooner he was introduced to the addictive pleasures of female flesh, the better. He made a mental note to see to
it himself before the week was out. As he moved down the room toward Tony, the group started to depart.

“Leaving so soon?” Savage asked lightly with a lifted eyebrow.

Tony got the impression she was being checked up on. Savage hadn’t bothered to disclose that he’d bought George’s thoroughbreds, so she said almost insolently. “We’re off to a
tir,
if you must know. I’ve chosen my weapons as you suggested. My choice is pistols, hands down.”

Savage looked after the bucks thoughtfully. London stretched for ten miles along the Thames from Millbank to Blackwell. There were grog shops by the thousand and every denomination of bawdy house from the bagnios of Covent Garden to the padding cans of London’s underworld. Gaming hells were notorious, from respectable clubs like White’s and Watier’s to the Gamecock’s Spurs in the slums. But Savage guessed they would end up in Charles James Fox’s very own hell.

He waited until two in the morning before he strolled in and picked up the dice to play hazard. He found Tony, drunk as a lord, his pockets turned inside out. Savage tipped his top hat over his eyes, bade the occupants goodnight, and hauled young Lamb to his feet.

When Mr. Burke opened the front door of Curzon Street, the family servant thought it his duty to protest. Savage took the blame without a word. Before Mr. Burke got the door closed. Tony muttered. “Get the bucket.”

Tony lounged in a chair before the fireplace in Half-Moon Street. Her mouth was very sulky as Savage ripped up one side of her and down the other.

“You haven’t the brains you were born with. How much did you lose?”

“Two hundred,” Tony mumbled.

“Couldn’t you see they were out to fleece the lamb?”

Tony inwardly cringed at the pun, but her anger began to rise. “Surely you’re not suggesting I was cheated?”

“No, I’m not suggesting, you gullible young fool, I’m telling you flat! His Highness is in debt to his eyebrows, the beauteous Georgiana can’t even tally her gambling debts! Tell me, Tony, when you add two and two together are your wits too addled to come up with four?”

Savage took a deck of cards from the drawer of a cherrywood wine table and began to shuffle them. “Christ, that’s why I never play faro. You never get to touch the cards and all too often the cards are trimmed or roughened to hold together in the brace box. A crooked box and a clever dealer can impoverish a prince.”

Savage rifled the deck. “Pay attention. Anyone with a degree of smoothness in handling cards can be taught a ‘blind’ shuffle in five minutes. This puts the desired cards at the bottom of the deck. It’s all a matter of ‘stocking’ and ‘culling.’ The one single artifice that gives you the greatest advantage is bottom dealing. Damn it all, boy, I don’t want those men you were with last night corrupting you!”

In light of how he was now urging her to learn how to
cheat. Tony saw the dark humor of it. “Obviously you prefer to corrupt me yourself!”

“I am merely educating you. If you learn all the tricks, you will be able to detect cheating. Whether or not you play on the level is a decision you can make for yourself,” Savage said coldly.

Tony picked up the deck of cards, determined to master the blind shuffle. “Are you finished reading the riot act?”

“I’ve only just begun. I don’t care a pinch of bat shit that you spew your guts up every night, but I do care that you are drinking to the point where you have no control over your own actions.”

“You forbid me to see my friends now. I suppose?” Tony challenged.

“You’re missing the point. I want you to be able to handle yourself in any company or any situation from the card room to the bedroom, from the glittering court to a dark alley”

Some of the wind went out of Tony’s sails as she recalled the plans that had been made for the evening. She glanced at Savage and said, “How the hell do I get out of going to the Turkish baths in Covent Garden? For six guineas you get to bathe, sup, and sleep with a fashionable harlot.”

“I can think of more corrupt ways to spend your time.” Savage warned lightly.

“I’ll just bet you can,” Tony retorted angrily.

Savage shrugged. “Tell them you’re going to the theater with me … the engagement slipped your mind.”

Tony felt vastly relieved. There was something else she had enthusiastically agreed to be part of when she was half sotted, but she didn’t dare breath a word of it to Savage. She searched her mind for a safe subject. Demonstrating her finesse with the cards, her long, slim fingers shuffled the deck, cut it, then proceeded to lay out four aces, followed by all the face cards. “I’m a quick study.
When are you going to start teaching me how to make money?”

“So you can lose it all in some gaming hell?” Savage asked dryly.

“Don’t be daft, from now on I shall win consistently. How about South Sea shares? Everyone and his mistress are buying them.”

“That’s precisely the reason you will not. They’re inflated beyond their value.” Savage’s eyes were forbidding as Arctic seas. You did not disobey this man’s orders.

Tony shrugged. “Well, as I told you, the only unwritten law I know is that I cannot dip into my principle.”

His voice came to her like silk as he demanded with exquisite sarcasm, “How in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost can you increase your interest without spending your principle?”

“I—I don’t know,” Tony stammered.

“Risk is the name of the game. The higher the risk, the higher the return. I’ll offer you a deal made in Heaven. Take every copper you have to your name and buy a cargo for the Indies. Then with the fat profits, buy a cargo to fetch back to England. Use one of my ships; just over eight weeks in each direction. In four to five months with the right cargo you can quadruple your money held in trust by Watson and Goldman.”

“But the risk—ships go down every day of the year. I’d lose everything.”

“I’ll even insure you, seeing I’m on intimate terms with the vessel and the crew.”

Tony was overwhelmed by his generosity. “That’s very noble of you. Why would you do such a thing?”

“Believe it or not, I care about you.” Savage hesitated for a moment, then added lightly, “Think of me as a father.”

Antonia thought of him often and in many capacities, but the last thing she ever wanted from him was a fatherly relationship.

“We shall continue your lessons this evening,” Savage said lightly, dismissing her.

“Are you chucking me out?” she inquired. Their relationship had reached the stage where they could be very plain with one another.

“I am. I have a great deal of business to get through before we go to the theater.” He took out a gold watch. “I’m expecting someone.”

“Excuse me for cluttering up your life,” Tony said with a tinge of amused sarcasm.

Savage shrugged philosophically. “It takes a deal of time and patience before a cub is housebroken.”

Tony only pretended amusement. She was piqued that all he wanted to do was read her the riot act, then dismiss her. She walked slowly around the corner and waited a few minutes. She doubted he had a business appointment. She felt better when a well-equipped carriage drew up with a crest upon its black, shiny door. Savage had been telling the truth after all. She felt decidedly worse when a beautiful woman was handed down from the carriage, elegantly attired in cream damask and black ostrich feathers. He had business to attend to, all right. Funny bloody business!

When the Countess of Essex was shown into Savage’s office, he had nothing but business in mind. He was determined to loosen her purse strings for a cause that was important to him. She threw out obvious lures to which he responded verbally, but he had more good sense than to seduce the Earl of Essex’s wife when he might need the man as a political ally.

Tony sat in the window seat of Anthony’s bedchamber with her knees drawn up to hold the journal. She dipped her pen and wrote decisively:

Tony clutched the pen so intensely, the nib made a large blot of ink. She snapped the journal closed, appalled at where her thoughts were leading. The damned journal lured her secrets from her. She decided to put her time to better use than daydreaming over Savage. She must decide on a cargo to export to the Indies.

That afternoon she browsed about London’s shops, but the only things that struck her fancy were furnishings for Edenwood. She purchased a pianoforte on the spot, knowing instinctively Savage would want the latest musical invention, which was a vast improvement over the harp-sicord because it could be played loud or soft on the same keyboard. She also bought a dinner service for twenty-four designed by Wedgwood, in a pale shade of lavender with white ornamental relief. The classical design was perfection
, the craftsmanship unparalleled. Edenwood should also have a tea service of Sèvres china and probably a breakfast service as well, but knowing Savage she thought perhaps he’d make those purchases on a visit to the Continent rather than pay inflated import prices. By the amount of imported goods in the shops, however, other people must be willing to pay the inflated prices, she realized. Then it struck her: The rarer the object, the higher the price, the greater the demand. Only think what the demand in the far-off Indies must be for scarce Continental and English goods!

The thought of making money made her mouth go dry. She licked her lips and thought of her mother and the other ladies transplanted to the East. They must create an insatiable demand for the latest fashions, especially those that lent themselves to a hot climate, such as parasols, leghorn hats, painted fans, muslin undergarments, tulle evening gowns, satin slippers.

After a woman adorned herself, she adorned her home. Tony’s excitement built as she thought of exporting Venetian mirrors and crystal goblets and all the other elegant French and Italian furnishings. She couldn’t wait to tell Adam Savage that she had decided upon her cargo.

On the carriage ride to the theater she broached the subject. Adam watched Tony through narrowed eyes as he became animated about women’s underpinnings, parasols, and other fal-lols to frippery. Young Lamb’s ideas were not without merit but they were decidedly feminine.

Crushing down the curl of fear inside his gut, Savage was determined to eradicate the youth’s effeminate tendencies and allow his masculinity to assert itself. After the theater they would visit a bordello, where he would make certain Tony was initiated. In his wisdom Savage knew that the youth would remain in limbo until he had asserted himself sexually. Once this first hurdle had been taken, nature would do the rest.

Adam had been thinking of attending the opera; now he
changed his mind and decided to visit the Olympian, where a broad sex farce was playing.

At first he watched Tony from the corner of his eye as the scantily clad beauties romped about the stage delivering lines ripe with innuendo, but soon he was caught up in the bawdy fun of it all and his laughter rolled out frequently. The entire plot was taken up by men trying by one device or another to get into their ladies’ knickers, but it was all done with such clever, sly banter, the audience was almost rolling in the aisles.

Tony laughed, too, but she was glad the lights were low, for her cheeks were suffused with blushes. Before the halftime curtain came down, the principal actress strutted to center stage and sang a song about “The Dew Upon the Lily.” She was an outrageously saucy baggage and the men all sat forward, rapt with undivided attention.

The minute the curtain was down and the house gaslights were lit, Savage stood up. “What a delightful little dollymop. Let’s go backstage.”

Tony was annoyed. “You’re easily pleased. I thought the song insipid.”

As they made their way backstage, Adam cocked a dark brow. “Don’t you know what ‘dew on the lily’ is?”

“Of course I know …” Tony faltered. Obviously there was a more subtle meaning. “I suppose I need a translation,” she admitted.

“It means she wants it so badly, she’s wet for you … dew on the lily.” Savage clearly saw Tony still did not fully comprehend. He was beginning to think the lad would make a monk.

Backstage was crowded with performers, dressers, scenery movers, and members of the audience who were seeking assignations. Savage walked a direct path to the actress of his choice and joined the circle of admirers who surrounded her. He introduced himself and the saucy cocotte held out her hand for him to kiss and told him her name was Angela Brown.

“I should like to introduce you to my young friend, Lord Anthony Lamb.”

Her eyes went wide and then her smile did the same. A young man who stood beside her said, “Well, stab me, you’re my cousin Tony. I’m Bernard Lamb. Small world, isn’t it?”

Antonia almost fainted. She stared at Bernard Lamb and hoped the horror she felt inside of her didn’t show upon her face. She could almost taste her fear. Here was the greedy cousin who coveted her twin’s title, Lamb Hall, and all their worldly goods. Why did bad luck dog her footsteps? Bernard Lamb must learn nothing from her. Very coldly she murmured, “How d’you do,” and turned away to strike up a conversation with a petite girl from the chorus.

The girl had overheard that the young buck who spoke to her possessed a title. She hung on to Tony’s every word, managing to touch the hand and brush against the thigh of the slim young man all at the same time. She chattered on in animated fashion, but all Tony heard was that her name was Dolly. The only thing she wanted was to escape from Bernard Lamb’s presence.