Death and the Cyprian Society Page 3

  At this, the dowager duchess actually tried to strike Arabella with her faux-ruby-and-genuine-topaz-headed-vermeil-plated-coronation-walking-stick-with-concealed-perfume-vial, and that adroit young woman, leaping back, barely avoided being smacked across the shins with it. Then, affecting complete disdain, the grand dame swept off with her nose in the air, whilst our heroine, lighter of heart than heretofore, continued to make her way toward her latest money pit—and the reason she so urgently required that forty-six thousand pounds.

  If we are to understand why this typically cautious courtesan decided to purchase an hotel before she received her money from Costanze, we must hearken back to the previous winter, when, virtually housebound by bad weather since her return from Italy, Arabella had fairly burst from her house upon seeing the sun for the first time in a week and had directly taken herself off to milk a cow.

  This was not as odd as it sounds, for there was a farmyard at Green Park, “got up special” for the benefit of urban dwellers with rustic yearnings. And that, reader, is every bit as odd as it sounds, for the gatekeeper was none other than Beau Brummell’s own aunt. The haute ton were welcome to stroll over, six days in the week, to see her brandishing a Bo Peep crook whilst tottering round the barnyard on pattens and trailing the hem of her crinoline-bolstered gown in the mud. Perhaps for this reason, the place was often referred to as an English Petit Trianon, and London’s high society loved it just as much as the Parisian aristocracy had once loved the original. Here, for little more than double what one might expect to pay elsewhere, the wealthy shopper could buy fresh roses and plums, as well as butter, duck eggs, and cream. If she were so inclined, she might even milk the beast herself, whilst enjoying bucolic views of a thatched cottage and a picturesque pond, complete with waterfowl. It was a neat little place, and people called it “a country idyll in the very heart of the city!” But they will generally say that of any open space in London where there is grass.

  As the farm proved equally popular with exalted great ladies and notorious courtesans, the management had proclaimed alternate “doxie” and “dame” days, in order to avoid any impropriety. The two types were not permitted to mix socially. After all, many of them were sharing the same men, and you may imagine the disgraceful scenes that would have caused! On second thought, I pray that you will not imagine it, because that is precisely the sort of thing the owners of the farm are trying to avoid. The separation of good women from bad can be devilish tricky.

  Fortunately, there is no parallel to be found in the world of men, for these creatures have extra bits, which, in addition to their natural purpose, function as universal passkeys to the sort of situations that women find socially inconvenient. The masculine sex might attend the farm any day in the week, regardless of the type of female company congregating in the cow byre. Hence, men did not attend the farm very often, because, for them, the place lacked the allure of exclusivity.

  Fortunately for Arabella, that first sunny day was a Friday, one of the designated “doxie” days. There were only three cows, however, and many other would-be milkmaids ahead of her, so she passed the time in exchanging witty remarks with her fellow courtesans.

  These ladies were naturally quite clever, because that is one of the requirements of the profession, and somewhere in the midst of it all, it suddenly dawned upon our heroine how much she missed the regular society of other women. Her domestic staff was composed of females, of course, and they were wonderfully loyal and supportive, but they shared few of Arabella’s interests. There was also Belinda, long accustomed to taking her lead from her older sister, and Constance, who was thick as a cow pat. It would be nice, Arabella thought, if she might mingle freely with women like herself; if there were someplace where demi-reps could gather without worrying what day of the week it was. Preferably some very pleasant indoor place that was permanently off-limits to respectable ladies, so that one should not have to worry about mud, weather, or having to clear out in order to make way for the socially unstained.

  She dismissed the idea before fully considering it. But then, on her way home, Arabella had received an unmistakable sign—in this case, an actual sign—advertising a property for sale in St. James’s Place. Here was a chance not to be missed, for St. James’s Place is just off St. James’s Street, where gentlemen of wealth and renown have their social clubs. And what could be more practical than to open a courtesans’ club mere steps away from the clubs of the gentlemen who most admire courtesans?

  Even thus was the seed of the Cyprian Society planted in Arabella’s imagination. And within a fortnight it had sprouted, blossomed, and borne fruit, when our heroine, possessed of a deed and a shiny brass key to the front door, had found herself the new owner of an old hotel.

  That had been nearly six months ago. Now construction was well under way, and there was little for Arabella to do except pay the bills. The scope and grandeur of the plans were already in evidence: There was to be a picture gallery, a ballroom, a hall for concerts and lectures, several private meeting rooms, and a great restaurant, with space for a gift shop. Up on the skeletal stage of the club’s unfinished Bird o’ Paradise theater, Richard Brinsley Sheridan was already rehearsing his latest play, and the Great Sarah Siddons herself would be coming out of retirement to deliver the opening-night dedication. It was vital that the money to pay for all this be recovered, and sooner rather than later.

  As Arabella turned off Piccadilly onto St. James’s Street, bucks and beaus of every description emerged from doorways, rushing out to the street to admire her. Because, as previously noted, this was club row, and the fashionable gentlemen who belonged to those clubs were a troop of roués on the rampage, a reprobate gang of rogering rogues. One of their establishments even had a sign in an upstairs window proclaiming to all and sundry that trespassers would be violated!

  No respectable woman ever walked down St. James’s Street unescorted, nor would Arabella have dreamt of doing so without a goodly supply of calling cards listing the address of her new social club. But the cards were not yet printed, and the club was not yet ready. So, whilst the gentlemen chased after her, doffing their hats, applying their quizzing glasses to their eyes, and jostling one another as they tried to catch up with and speak to her, Arabella smiled at them without slacking her pace. For she knew that greatness must always maintain a certain distance from the herd, or risk losing its luster through over-familiarity. And with head held high, she turned from St. James’s Street onto St. James’s Place, where the welcoming façade of the future Cyprian Society seemed to wink a welcome as she mounted the steps.

  Few, if any, historical periods have produced such classic, elegant interiors as those of the English Regency, with its polished woods; clear, pale colors; graceful furniture; and large, sunny windows. The Cyprian Society was to be the epitome of Regency refinement, because Arabella would rather not have had a club at all than possess one which failed in its attempt to gratify the most sophisticated expectations. To this purpose, she had retained the services of John Soane, the great architect who had designed the Bank of England and so wonderfully remodeled Lustings. But Arabella’s own house was modest in comparison to this project, which was expected to generate more income. Besides, Mr. Soane had professed himself forever in her debt, and was donating his services free of charge. She would still have to pay for everything else, though.

  Soane had been watching out for her, and the moment Arabella entered, the great man darted out like a trapdoor spider, bundling her into the small glass booth he was using as an office.

  “I have had a most remarkable inspiration, Miss Beaumont!” he cried. “What would you say if I told you that your public rooms might be accessed from the next street over, through the rear of the club?”

  Arabella was shocked.

  “From the rear entrance? From Little St. James’s Place, d’you mean? Oh, surely, Mr. Soane, that would never do! The public rooms must have a grand and sumptuous entrance, to satisfy the most exacting tastes!”


  “Naturally! That is why I propose to make the rear entrance look like another front entrance, with columns, marble steps . . . the lot!”

  “Just like the other?”

  “No,” he replied, rubbing his hands with glee. “As fine, certainly, but altogether different! The Cyprian Society shall have two front entrances, and no rear portal! Deliveries can be made via the side doors!”

  She was not at once convinced of the necessity for this, but Arabella had complete faith in her architect.

  “I am listening, Mr. Soane.”

  He took up a blueprint and unrolled it upon the table, using his pencil like a magic wand to guide her eye along the enchanted paths of his imagination.

  “Once the public enters through here, they will walk along this corridor, which runs the length of the structure, to the public rooms, completely bypassing the private club quarters. We can construct the passage so as to absorb all sound; members who are reading or napping on the other side of the wall will not be disturbed in the least.”

  “Oh!” breathed Arabella. “This is absolute perfection!”

  He smiled at her as he rolled up the blueprint. “All in a day’s work, madam. And the very least I could do, after the kindness you have shewn to me.”

  Arabella nodded her acknowledgment of his thanks. During the previous autumn, she had sailed to Italy and achieved the near-impossible feat of discovering and then recovering a group of bronze and marble artifacts, which had been “stolen” after she and Mr. Soane had already paid for them. The marbles were currently the pride of his collection: a frieze of ducks; a pair of lizards; and the statue of a young girl, absorbed in the act of pinning her gown.

  “I thought this might interest you, as well,” said Soane, unrolling another chart. Arabella saw an elevation of the hotel, depicting what looked like giant ant tunnels excavated beneath it.

  “Yes,” he cried, scarcely able to contain his enthusiasm, “it is a series of tunnels, leading off in a variety of directions! Your new club was once the site of an ancient monastery! But I have not yet given orders for the tunnels’ exploration, pending your approval: If you wish, I could simply have the entrance closed off, which would save you money. Or, we could see where the tunnels lead, install sign posts and a directory, and I could design you a secret ingress panel. Because one never knows when one is going to need a sudden escape route.”

  Arabella approved the panel, but the exuberance which she should ordinarily have felt was checked by the realization that without the money from Constance, she would not be able to pay for it.

  Chapter 3

  Following her street encounter with Arabella, Lady Ribbonhat had spent a restless night. It had never before occurred to her that she might not be destined for a comfortable after-existence: The dowager duchess had never been denied admission to anything in her life, and she found the prospect of damnation extremely unpalatable.

  She had been good enough, hadn’t she? It wasn’t as though she had killed anyone! Admittedly, Lady Ribbonhat did feel a certain kinship with the Roman empress Livia, who became a goddess after murdering most of her family, but that was not the reason for the affinity. The dowager admired Livia’s inflexible will; her determination to succeed, whatever the odds. Added to this was the fact that Livia had gone to heaven despite her nefarious doings, through the intercession of her grandson, the emperor Claudius.

  Lady Ribbonhat’s son was not an emperor and, so far as she knew, he had no particular celestial connections. Still, she saw no reason why Henry should not relieve her mind on one or two points, and after eyeing him morosely for a time across the breakfast table, she asked him outright whether he thought her cruel.

  “With reference to what?” asked the duke, somewhat absently, for he was attempting to challenge himself by trying to read a letter and eat toast at the same time, and the unexpected addition of a question that required an answer was on the verge of overtaxing him.

  “Oh!” cried his mother. “Then I suppose you do think me cruel, sometimes?”

  Her tone warned him that he had better stop his other two activities and attend to this new one, so Henry put down the letter and swallowed his toast. Yet he was still uncertain how to respond, for all he had retained of his mother’s question was the word “sometimes.”

  “When?” he asked cautiously.

  “The time you brought home that mongrel, for instance, and I had the coachman dispose of it without telling you.”

  “A mongrel?”

  “Well . . . an Alsatian.”

  “How old was I?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “I don’t recall ever bringing home a dog, Mama.”

  “Not a dog, dear . . . a bitch. I told you at the time that she’d run off with the postman.”

  “Oh . . .” said the duke. “So, that’s what happened to little Jeanette! You know, I never quite believed your story, Mama; our postman was nigh on eighty at the time, and he continued to deliver the post, the same as usual. But, hang it all, I was deuced fond of that girl!”

  “I was fully aware of your feelings, Henry; that’s why I had the creature removed. We cannot have Miss No-bodies from No-where aspiring to the peerage. If we admitted everyone, there would be no room left for us! You can hardly call it cruel; the girl wasn’t worthy of you.”

  Glendeen, who was chewing his toast again, made no immediate response.

  “Henry? It wasn’t cruel. Was it?”

  “I suppose not,” he said, swallowing. “Cruelty would imply that you took pleasure in it, and acted on purpose to hurt me. No, I think you are merely self-centered to the extent that you are unwilling to acknowledge the effects of your actions upon those around you.”

  “Oh,” said his mother, somewhat mollified. “Well, that’s not a sin, is it?”

  Henry had resumed reading his letter.

  “What?”

  “Self-centeredness is not a sin?”

  “Um,” he said, picking his teeth. “I rather think it is, Mama. Remember the time you came into the schoolroom when I was supposed to be studying Euclidean algorithms, and caught me reading The Governess, or The Little Female Academy, instead? Do you recall what you did?”

  “Oh, Henry, of course not! That was thirty-four years ago!”

  “Was it?” he asked mildly.

  Their eyes briefly met in a moment of naked comprehension.

  “Anyway,” he said briskly, “you had my library torched. All my books whatsoever: the illustrated French fairy tales, the studies of insects, the books full of puzzles and brain teasers . . . everything.”

  “I don’t remember that,” said Lady Ribbonhat, dabbing her lips with a napkin and dropping her eyes to the tabletop. But at the word “torched,” two hot red spots had appeared on her sallow cheeks.

  “No?” he pursued. “You don’t remember the big bonfire you had made beneath my nursery window, and how the gardeners had to scramble to keep it from consuming the house when the wind changed?”

  Lady Ribbonhat said nothing, and the duke returned his attention to his letter and his toast, to which he had now added a third complication: coffee.

  After a few moments, she said, “That was a terrible thing, Henry, and I am sorry it happened to you.”

  “Hmm? Oh, don’t give it another thought, Mama; I only mention it because you asked.” After a moment, he added, “I never had much use for books anyhow, and was only reading The Governess, or The Little Female Academy because I thought the title suggestive. I was disappointed. But, hang it all, I’m no expert in these matters; why not ask that new rector chap? Whatshisname? Appaloosa? Percheron?”

  “I can’t trust Reverend Clydesdale! He has indiscreet eyes!” she said, and sighed. “You know, Henry, things have come to a pretty pass when a member of the peerage is not even permitted the solace of religion!”

  But Henry’s mind had turned to other matters. Rising from the table with a carefully cultivated air of distraction, he bent to kiss his mother on the chee
k and quitted the house. Glendeen was famous for his complacency. He held a rank of considerable distinction in His Majesty’s Navy because of it, and it would scarcely have done to have a row with his mother. People would blame him, as the man.

  And so they should! Men are the sensible sex. They excel at problem solving, are magnanimous to a fault, and scorn to nitpick. At least, most of the time they are and do. Well, perhaps we had better amend that to “some of the time.” Because when a man is focused upon a certain subject, all his common sense flies out through the window. Or, more accurately, out through his flies.

  “That one, also,” said Belinda, indicating a particularly pretty branch of apple blossom.

  The gardener severed it for her with his long-handled secateurs.

  “There be some pretty lilac bloomin’ by the footbridge, miss. Mayhap ’ee might like some a thay’m, as weel?”

  “No, thank you, Searle. These are all I want. They’re for the little wall vases in the landau, you know, and my sister holds that lilac cloys in confined spaces.”

  Belinda was leaving for Scotland today, and the sisters, soothed by the scent of apple blossom, were to travel together as far as St. Albans. There they would stay the night at Ye Olde Fighting Cocks, an inn of which they were fond, that looked like nothing so much as a cake that has collapsed on one side. This trip would be a way of prolonging their time together, because Scotland was so far away, and the date of Bunny’s return as yet indefinite.

  On the morrow, Arabella would see her sister safely off in a post chaise, an expedient that was not only desirable, but necessary. Thieves would often lurk in the inn yards, offering to carry one’s luggage from doorway to carriage. Then they would steal it, generally after their unsuspecting victim had paid them.

  A lady traveling alone, especially a tender innocent like Belinda, would be an easy mark. Once she was settled in the post chaise, though, she would be safe enough, for the driver would look after her. Besides, at Coventry, she would be joined by Peter Gentry, a gentleman of her acquaintance who was also going to Redwelts, and in whose company and care she would make the rest of her journey.