Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (10 page)

The ladies were already arranged in Agatha’s front room when Victoria arrived. She hurriedly waved off the barouche, glancing round the quiet residential Mayfair street as she did so. No one stopped and stared. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door and was shown immediately into the salon.

Victoria nodded and smiled at the ladies she knew—Miss Guthrie, Miss Fanthorpe—they seemed to be fast friends—and Melissa, the new Lady Harding.

Agatha bustled in and, pushing her into a chair, handed her a plate of cake. “Sorry there are no cigars today,” she whispered. “Although you look like you might need it. I’ve slipped something special into your tea.” Agatha thrust a teacup into Victoria’s hand and moved to direct her butler to attend to the other ladies.

Victoria smiled as she watched Smythe, the butler she had known so well when she lived with her brother, jump to Agatha’s every word. He was obviously smitten. In fact he had been since Agatha had appeared in the Anglethorpe household as a young girl. Victoria’s brother had disguised her arrival as something he had to do for Agatha’s brother, but Victoria knew that he had in fact done it for her, Victoria. Her melancholia had worried him—he had no understanding of it, and having thrown all the money and doctors he could at the problem, he had finally thought to bring a companion into their home. It had worked for the year—until Agatha had fled.

Victoria took a sip of her tea and blinked, working hard to keep her features still. Agatha had laced the tea with a generous tot of brandy. A ball of fire trailed its way down her throat and plateaued in her stomach.

A seductive giggle to her left made her look up as the fire took hold in her lower regions. Agatha had seated Celine next to her whilst Victoria had been thinking.

Celine nodded. “Lady Colchester.”

“Celine.” Victoria looked back down at her tea. For once she was at a loss for words. She couldn’t think what had come over her. She had fought long and hard to regain her position in society, to always feel like she was in control when in a social gathering. To even take some small risks again with her investigating, and yet here she was, surrounding by people that she knew, silent in the face of the courtesan next to her.

“You look like you could do with some treatment.”

Victoria looked at Celine in horror. Had she been reading her mind? Did she know about the treatment that Victoria had suffered at the hands of the doctors that had blood let her and half-strangled her in order to let the ‘bad humors’ out?  “Treatment? I’m not sure what you are talking about,” she said weakly.

“Not treatment,
treatment.
” Celine winked. “Mr. Standish provides excellent
treatment,
but you must know that already.”

Should she pretend to not know anything about what Celine was saying—which was the truth, or should she act in a shocked way that Celine was talking about this in the open—which again was the truth?

How could Bill have done this?

She hedged her bets. “It’s only for very special cases…” And she nodded knowingly. Celine nodded slowly with her.

“I can attest to that,” Celine said dreamily. “It’s the way he touches you with those long fingers whilst he’s doing it, he is so sincere. He makes you feel like you are the only woman in the world.”

Victoria’s mouth fell open. She snapped it shut and glanced quickly around the room to see if anyone else was listening. They were too busy gossiping about Lady Harding’s new marriage. Melissa—Lady Harding—was laughing along merrily with them. Good.

“And you feel so much more
together
afterwards.” Celine was still rattling on. “This is good tea, isn’t it?”

Victoria just about managed to keep up with the change in pace. She took another sip of her firewater. “Yes indeed it is,” she murmured. “How did you approach Mr. Standish?”

“Oh he was very amenable.”

Was he indeed?

“Several of the ladies that I know had either heard or experienced his prowess.”

Prowess? Blinking, Victoria waved a hand casually in front of her face, desperately keeping her face blank as a deep heat coursed through her body. Nothing that Lord Colchester had ever done had made her feel the same way. She had to admit, though, that her marriage had not contained all the usual items that young girls who whispered amongst themselves came to expect. It made her feel very glum indeed.

“What does Mr. Fiske think about your activities with Mr. Standish?”

Celine waved airily. “He doesn’t know. We’re not speaking at the moment.”

Victoria breathed slowly out through her nose. Was this the way ex-courtesans took revenge on their lovers?

Celine’s mouth turned down at the edges and a small tear rolled out of the corner of her eye. “I should amend that. He’s not speaking to me. I think I might need to go back to Mr. Standish for some more treatment.”

“That’s rather hasty,” Victoria said quickly. “Have you tried speaking to Mr. Fiske?”

“That has been suggested,” Celine said mournfully. “But I just don’t know how to approach him.”

Oh dear, Celine really did look quite upset. Hastily, Victoria changed the subject. “Have you heard of the scent that Lady Harding has brewed with her knowledge of flowers? I’ve heard it is all the rage. We must ask her about it.”

Victoria sighed as it did the trick. The rest of the salon passed in a blur of laughter and gossip. No doubt fueled by the brandy in her tea, Victoria managed to make a dignified exit before collapsing in her carriage on the way home.

An hour later, her head was pounding. Perhaps she had had more ‘tea’ than she thought. She could barely remove her shoes as she sat on her bed. Flashes of the day resurfaced as she hung onto the bed post. The missing girls, Carruthers’ reluctance to speak of his childhood, her feeling of being out of place at the salon. Then Bill’s comments about her activities, his criticism of her lifestyle. Victoria bit back a scream as an iceberg of blackness teetered at the edge of her subconscious. She fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling as the black crept to the edge of her vision.

She didn’t want it anymore. Not now. Not here, not again. Last time she had almost given up the will to live. She couldn’t understand it. She was playing by the rules. She had investigations on the go. The blackness should not appear.

What had Celine said?
Treatment
had made her feel more
together
. Certainly, earlier in the barouche she had felt like Bill could take all her cares away. And that was just by laying his hands on her shoulders. What if he placed those famous hands elsewhere?

Goodness.
Best not thinking about that
. But… the innocent summer she had spent in Brambridge sharing every day with Bill
had
been free from blackness.

Despite telling herself she needed a very good excuse to engage further with him, if she were very honest, she didn’t care any longer how it looked. Or what it would do to her standing.

She
would
go to Bill and ask for
treatment. But their
interaction
would be on her terms only and under her control. And then she would stop it once the blackness had gone away. That was all she wanted, for the blackness to
disappear
.

And she would find out what had happened to those girls. Life had pushed Victoria down an unpleasant path, one that she should have avoided. She owed it to them, to those girls. At least their lives could be different.

CHAPTER 8

Freddie’s morning room seemed much smaller with the four men in it. Bill leaned forward with his head in his hands and moaned softly. “Unbelievable.”

“Good God man, what’s the matter with you?” Freddie said, entering the room in his dressing gown.

Despite their respective injuries, three of the men stared with rounded eyes at Freddie’s outlandish silk dressing gown decorated with dragons and phoenixes.

“What are you looking at?” Freddie exclaimed before picking up a coffee cup from the sideboard. “It’s like a waiting for the omnibus round here.”

“Since when have you ever taken the omnibus, Freddie?” Bill demanded wearily. “As far as I remember, you have four carriages at your disposal and no need to take public transport. And they are looking at your awful dressing gown.”

“I’ll have you know that it is a Japanese design of early last century,” Freddie huffed. “I bought it from a dealer—”

“Yes, yes. Like all the rest of the junk in here.”

“It’s not junk—” Freddie stopped and took a closer look at the men sitting around the breakfast table. “You should put some steak on that,” he said reprovingly to one of the men whose eye was turning black.

“Good idea, Freddie old man—if you could just fetch us some?” Bill had had enough.

Freddie thumped his empty cup back down on the sideboard and gave a dramatic huff as he left the room.

“That’s Lord Lassiter—you can’t speak to him like that!” said Percy of the black eye as Freddie disappeared through the door.

“I would just shut up and not bite the hand that feeds you, Perce,” Bill said wearily. “He
is
getting you a steak after all.”

“I’d rather eat the steak.” George sat next to Percy. His stomach grumbled audibly. “I haven’t eaten for days, and my shoulder hurts.”

Bill closed his eyes and opened them again, hoping that his men would perhaps vanish. Bit of course they didn’t. They were the last three to arrive back and report from the six that he had sent out. Between them they boasted two broken arms, one case of severe food deprivation, one case of pneumonia, two black eyes and five cases of bent pride.

And no information whatsoever.

It’s easy, Henry had said. Just send out your most trusted individuals. He had done that. And they had come back as broken as fragile branches after a storm.

He waved at them. “Lord Lassiter has set up some rooms for you above his stables. I’ll send over some food. The others are already there, they arrived yesterday.” He caught George’s sleeve as he made to get up with the rest. “Stay please, George. I’d like a word.”

George nodded silently and waited as the others left the room, pleased that they had a good rest and food ahead of them.

Bill got up from his chair and closed the door behind them. He leaned against it. “What went wrong? Why has no one got any information, and why have you all turned up in such a state?”

George sat silently and started as his stomach rumbled again. He smiled weakly. “I’d think better on a fuller stomach.”

“Rubbish! You are simply procrastinating.” Bill knew his butler too well. He had been his apprentice at the forge for the longest before becoming his butler.

“I think,” George said ponderously. “I think that we didn’t prepare very well for the situations in which we found ourselves.”

Bill snorted. “Evidently.”

“No thanks to you.”

Bill leaned forward and took George by the lapels of his coat. “What do you mean?”

George put out his hands and gently unhooked Bill from his coat. “We went out to find out information about a dangerous man. Six erstwhile smiths that had been trying to do household jobs who were now excited to be spies for the Crown.” George smiled crookedly. “What did we know about spying?”

“As much as I do.” Bill stretched his neck. He did not want to mention the operation banana debacle to George.

“I beg to differ,
Mr. Standish
.” George folded his arms. “You seem to always have more information at your fingertips than we had.”

Bill frowned. He found out the information. That is what spies did.

“You move among us and
them
comfortably.”

That was not true. He wasn’t comfortable any more, with either rich or poor. Neither treated him equally.

“And you have had practice.”

Bill supposed that he had been controlling the trade route between France and Brambridge for a long time—and that had meant much contact with Henry and Granwich. “So you are saying that because you didn’t have any of this, none of you could come up with any information, and you all ended up injured?”

George pursed his lips. “N…o I wouldn’t quite say it so bluntly. I would agree that none of us are cut out to be spies. You know how Lord Granwich played me and winkled all that information out about your activities.”

Bill nodded. He well knew.

“And how Percy complains all the time? That didn’t stop when he went out looking for information. It just brought him trouble in the shape of a black eye.”

“So he didn’t get that injury in the course of trying to find anything out?”

“No. He was complaining about the beer in an inn in Dorset. They knew he wasn’t local so they cudgeled him and threw him onto the street. That was one day into his effort. He didn’t try to do anything else because he was too recognizable with his injuries.”

Bill sighed. “Alright George, that’s enough. Thank you. Go and get something to eat.”

George nodded gratefully. He stood and limped towards the door, turning slightly before opening it. “It’s not all your fault, Bill,” he said quietly. “We’re perhaps not cut out for this like some people are. I’ve thought often that sometimes it is better to recognize your abilities and capitalize on them, without trying to be something that you aren’t. Some of those poor people in the ‘exotic fairs’ I visited… they’ve had no choice in the path life has given them. God, there was this one in Dorchester where the man—”

Bill nodded. “It’s alright, George. You don’t need to say it in such a coded way.  I’ve been thinking about you and butlering. I know you haven’t felt comfortable in it. I wondered, with your ability to read and write and obvious interest in numbers, whether you would rather become my man of affairs?”

George frowned, and his face brightened again. “I think what I just said could apply to
many
people… but I would be delighted—nay ecstatic—to be your man of affairs.” He opened the door and laughed. “Cor. Look at me. From smith to butler to man of affairs.” He laughed again and shut the door behind him.