Gayle Wilson – Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart (страница 15)
‘No.’ Morgana shook her head. ‘It is not possible—I cannot—It does not bear thinking of.’
‘Excuse me, miss.’ The girl covering herself with the shawl stepped forward. ‘We do understand your hesitation. This must seem like an outrageous request on our part, but you are our only hope.’
Morgana was stunned. The girl spoke in cultivated tones. ‘You sound… educated.’
She bowed her head. ‘I have fallen on difficult times, miss.’
‘Rose here and me may not be educated in books and all,’ the red-haired one broke in. ‘But we’ve had hard times, too, and the way I figure it, we’re as deserving as some of those others that gets to be a fine gentleman’s fancy-piece.’
The one with the shawl added, ‘We have determined that it will be better to be under a gentleman’s protection. If you are able to teach us how to achieve that, we would be grateful enough to pay you whatever you wish.’
‘Not whatever she wishes, Mary,’ her red-haired companion cried. ‘Don’t be daft. We have to save enough money to tell all the fellows they can go to the devil.’
‘Don’t use such language in front of Miss Hart!’ Lucy broke in. ‘I’m sorry I brought you here.’
Morgana held up a hand. ‘Never mind, Lucy.’ She gazed at all four of them. It was easy to see why the brothel wanted them. They were all pretty girls, with pretty figures, still in the bloom of youth. What might they look like a few years from now? Like… like the Portuguese girl, all used up and old before her time?
‘Well, I’m sorry we came,’ the girl shot back, ‘because this lady’s going to send us back, and I don’t much fancy the beating old Rice’s man is going to give us.’
A beating? Morgana turned away from them and walked over to the window where she’d so recently seen Sloane disappear into the night. She had not imagined beatings. She had merely pictured them climbing the stairs in the back of the glove shop and entering small bedchambers to await one man after another, night after night. Would she ever be able to look at herself in a mirror if she sent them back to that life?
‘Nobody is going back,’ Morgana said quietly.
Two of the girls squealed and jumped up and down. The third sank into a chair. Morgana gestured for them all to sit.
‘I cannot make any promises to you.’ Morgana looked at each of them in turn. ‘I have not been able to find a proper tutor’—an
Their expressions were much more decipherable now. Desperation was gone from their faces.
Morgana went on. ‘But there are things about pleasing men I do not know—’
‘Oh, we know how to please men,’ laughed the bold girl.
‘Yes. Of course…’ Morgana blinked, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, then. Let me know who you are.’
The bold girl spoke first. ‘My name is Katy Green. I’m from Derbyshire, at least I was until I came to London.’
She pointed to the dark-haired beauty, ‘This is Rose O’Keefe. The new girl.’
‘I am not really one of Mrs Rice’s girls, miss.’ Rose spoke with a pleasing Irish lilt. ‘I overheard these two talking. To be sure, says I, t’would be grand to come along.’
Rose was an enchanting vision of dark and light. In the proper clothes, she would cause heads to turn wherever she went. Her success as a courtesan seemed already a
Morgana gave an inward sigh. What sort of life was she offering the girl?
Better than Mrs Rice, she must remember.
‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Green and Miss O’Keefe.’ She turned to the third girl. ‘And you are?’
‘Mary Phipps, miss.’
Morgana had a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue for this girl. What had happened to her? Why was she one of the girls in Mrs Rice’s glove shop? How could someone, so like Morgana herself, be reduced to harlotry? But poor Mary’s energy had been spent. Morgana would save her questions for later. There would be time enough. Mary and the others would be staying for a while.
‘I am happy to meet you as well, Miss Phipps.’
Miss Phipps, looking ashamed, averted her eyes.
Katy gave her a kind, almost motherly look, although Mary was clearly the elder of the two. ‘Mary is a bit quiet, miss. We’ll have to liven her up. Men like spirit, I say.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Morgana cleared her throat. It would be a monumental task to transform quiet, subdued Mary Phipps into the likes of Harriette Wilson.
The enormity of transforming any of them into scandalous women who earned their livelihood by men’s largesse descended upon Morgana like a sudden downpour. She mentally shook herself, thrusting away cowardice and determining to set herself to the tasks before her, one step at a time. That was how to battle self-doubt. Charge ahead. Perform the task. Save the deluge of emotions for later.
Was that how poor Mary survived? Did each of these girls set themselves to the task and suffer their emotions later?
Uncertainty came creeping back. Morgana curved her hand into a fist. Time to act. Worry could come after. She turned to Lucy. ‘We must find places for everyone to sleep, Lucy. Is there room abovestairs?’
‘We will manage, miss,’ Lucy assured her.
‘And tomorrow morning we must find other dresses. Plain ones. These will not do at all.’
‘We must wear plain dresses?’ Katy frowned.
‘Yes, you must. In this neighbourhood, you must not attract any notice. I cannot tell you what trouble there would be if our… our courtesan school is discovered.’
‘School?’ laughed Katy. ‘Fancy me going to school!’
‘Please do not speak a word of it,’ Morgana begged. Not only was the enormity of the task ahead threatening to engulf her, but the risks as well.
Lucy led them out of the drawing room, and Morgana rang for Cripps, who immediately presented himself.
‘Cripps, we have three guests in the house.’ She spoke in crisp tones. She knew she must think of some way to explain the girls’ presence in the house, but that was a task she could put off for later.
His brows rose an infinitesimal distance. ‘Very good, miss. Do you require me to rouse Mrs Cripps to make rooms ready?’
Morgana was equally uncertain of the housekeeper’s opinion of their guests. ‘That will not be necessary. Lucy will see to their lodging.’
His brows rose another notch. Lucy would have been the last of the household staff Cripps or his wife would have chosen for such a task. ‘May I inform Mrs Cripps which rooms will be occupied?’
Morgana gave him what she hoped was a quelling look. ‘We shall address such matters tomorrow.’
He blinked twice. ‘As you desire, miss. How else may I serve you tonight?’
‘I will not require anything else. Thank you, Cripps.’
The dignified butler bowed and left the room.
Morgana sank back on to the sofa. How would she explain all this to Cripps and his wife? And the other staff? And Miss Moore? She dropped her head into her hands. How could she explain the presence of these girls to respectable Miss Moore?
She sat erect again and lifted her chin. She would simply manage it. She must, because she would not be responsible for sending any of those girls to Mrs Rice, that horrid creature.
Morgana stood and resolutely walked out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.
Sloane relaxed in the coffee room of White’s, nursing a brandy and vaguely watching the other gentlemen. He wondered how many of them resented his ease and welcome here. He was a member and there was not a thing any of them could do about it, not even the Earl who had acknowledged him as a son. A legacy from a grandfather, a man with whom Sloane shared no blood ties, made it possible.
Years before, when the Old Club and the New Club merged into White’s, the present Earl’s father had arranged to have all his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons guaranteed membership for the next hundred years. The old man died before knowing that a rotten apple had appeared in the barrel.
As a young man Sloane had refused to set foot in White’s. Anywhere his father was welcome, Sloane disdained, but now the wisdom of age prevailed.
If he was to take his place in society, he must appear where society gathered, and gentlemen of importance appeared at White’s. This night he’d played a few sedate games of whist, careful to fold his cards before winning too much lest he be accused of fleecing the true sons of the
In Sloane’s darker days, his next meal had often depended on the turn of a card. The hungrier he became, the more skilfully he played, until he could count fairly well on living high as long as there was a nearby card game.
In fact, one marathon round of whist last autumn had deepened his pockets considerably. With such an abundance of riches, it dawned on him to change his game.
In these difficult economic times, wealth was gaining prominence over the elevation of one’s birth. Soon nabobs and cits would amass enough wealth to buy all the power and influence his father’s generation believed to be their birthright. Sloane, however, need not wait for such a day. Sloane had the status of birth, counterfeit though it was. He had more capital than his father. All he needed was a respectable reputation and nothing would stop how high he could rise.