In the Flesh (19 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Ladies’ Sewing Circle

“SO, EDMUND ELLSWORTH RITCHIE,
young lady? It seems he’s taken a shine to you, you lucky thing. You must tell us everything.”

Having hoped to avoid the subject of Ritchie at the meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle the following morning, Beatrice now realized that she’d been sorely deceiving herself if she’d thought she could get away with it. Ten sets of eyes were riveted in her direction, and ten sets of eager ears were clearly waiting for all the details. Not least of all, those of Lady Arabella Southern, who’d fired the first salvo of enquiry.

Beatrice flashed a quick glance at Sofia, who gave an infinitesimal shake of the head. There was no way her discreet friend would have disclosed even the merest hint that Beatrice had shared a tryst yesterday with Ritchie at her house in Hampstead, much less their scandalous financial transaction. But this was the first meeting since Arabella’s ball, where several Circle ladies had been in attendance, and now curiosity was rampant.

“There’s nothing to tell.” She crumbled the cake on her little plate. They were at Prudence Enderby’s house today, and the Enderbys’ cook was only marginally more accomplished than Beatrice’s own. Prudence always served a Madeira cake that was notorious across London, possibly as a source of building material, and mostly hacked into doorstep-thick slices. “I met him, and we engaged in some conversation. He seems very personable. I found him entertaining.”

“Yes, and I blush like that when I’ve been
entertained
by Mr. Enderby,” remarked Prudence, smirking gleefully. “Please don’t say that that rogue Ritchie hasn’t asked to call on you. The man’s a carnal renegade and you’re just the kind of lush young thing who’d tempt him.”

“Especially if he’s seen those photographs of you,” cut in Lady Arabella, clearly keen to still lead the attack. “Knowing you’re such a bold young woman, he’s bound to be intrigued by you.”

Not
quite as bold as you, it seems.

Beatrice hid her smile, but the fact that she’d seen what she’d seen gave her a degree of confidence. The fact that friends of hers were no angels themselves assuaged at least some of her disquiet about being a bought woman. She glanced at Sofia, who seemed to be suppressing a smirk of her own. Not all the women here at the Sewing Circle were voluptuous adventuresses. Some simply liked to tell tall tales about their daydreams. But Beatrice could now count herself amongst the number who were more than simply talk.

“Mr. Ritchie is very charming and good-looking. I’d be a liar if I didn’t say I found him attractive.”

“Attractive, that’s putting it mildly,” continued Lady Southern. She was one of the few ladies who was actually making an attempt at sewing today, although it appeared she was darning a woolen sock for some reason known only to herself. “He’s delectable. So manly and so…so threatening. He’s notoriously daring and ruthless, and ooh, one just knows he’s equally dangerous in bed.” The peeress rolled her eyes, as if in anticipation, then gave a little shrug. “But alas, he’s never once made a play for me, much to my sorrow. You should think yourself lucky, young woman. He’s reputed to be one of the best lovers in London, so if you get a chance to verify that claim, please take it.”

“Lady Southern, please!”

It was mock outrage, and from the grins around the room, it was obvious most of her companions realized that. For the second time, Beatrice had to suppress her smile at Lady Southern, and hold back a pert remark to the effect that
she
had obviously found compensations aplenty. Principally in the form of her limber, dark-haired swain at Sofia’s pleasure house.

“Oh, do call me Arabella, my dear,” the other woman remarked, cheerfully stabbing at her eccentric needlework. “We’re all friends here, and all perfectly discreet.”

Discreet? Maybe. Prepared to accept a whore, albeit an expensive one in their midst? That was debatable. Some things were best not expatiated upon.

“Thank you, Arabella,” replied Beatrice, accepting another cup of tea from Prudence, who was still eyeing her avidly, as if anticipating further revelations. “I must admit that Mr. Ritchie has expressed a strong desire to call on me…and I… Well, I would like to see him again.”

Ever one for understatement, Bea. You can’t wait to be with him again, and you’re simply dying for him to do the deed and fuck you!

“In what way would you describe him as ruthless?” she continued instead. That was the perfect word for him. She’d never known a man as single-minded when it came to getting what he wanted. But at least he was openly determined, not sly and underhanded like that low rat Eustace.

“Well, he’s notorious for not letting anything, or anybody, get in his way if he’s set his mind on something…or somebody.” Arabella gave her an arch look.

“He does sound excessively determined by all accounts,” remarked Miss Ruffington from her seat set a little to one side of them. “It might be wise to let him know exactly where you stand…and not allow any liberties you’re not prepared to grant.”

Startled, Beatrice looked at the other woman closely. She’d sounded vaguely bitter, as if she had perhaps her own experience of gentlemen taking liberties, one that had not turned out quite as amenably as Beatrice’s dealings with Ritchie thus far. Adela Ruffington was another relative newcomer to the group, and though a bit of an oddity, a pleasant one for all that. She was a little older than Beatrice, and quite handsome, if unusual in appearance. Her nose must have been broken at some time, and was now very slightly kinked at the bridge, but she had a proud, gracious bearing, intense eyes and lustrous dark brown hair so abundant it always seemed to be right on the point of escaping its pins. The fact that slender Adela too wore mourning, as Beatrice herself had lately done, only added to the serene drama of her appearance.

And to further set her apart, Adela Ruffington didn’t sew either, but instead spent her time drawing pocket studies of the other members of the Circle in her sketchbook. When Beatrice had glimpsed them, she’d been stunned by their seemingly effortless artistry.

“You’re quite right, Adela. I will be careful, please don’t worry.” She turned back to Arabella Southern, fixing the peeress with a purposeful look. “So I would be obliged if you could perhaps illuminate me with some insights into Mr. Ritchie’s ruthlessness. I think it would serve me well to know his nature a little better.”

“Well, a lot of what I’ve heard is about boring business dealings, so I don’t know the precise details.” Arabella pursed her lips, clearly not a keen follower of the captains of commerce and industry. “Except that he has a reputation for oh so cleverly outsmarting a rival when in pursuit of a lucrative concern or a financial advantage of some sort. His timing is amazing. When Aloysius Potter, the newspaper tycoon, was after the famous Lazard Printing Works, he turned up to sign the papers and found that Ritchie had been there two hours before him, and secured title to the entire works for a mere fifty additional guineas and a judicious ladling of entrepreneurial bonhomie.”

“Didn’t he outbid Sir Bentinck Gieves for a Bronzino at Christie’s recently?” interjected Lucy Dawson, blinking behind her spectacles. “The old fellow was dead set on getting the painting, but Ritchie just kept on bidding and bidding until he had to give up.”

“Exactly…excessively determined…” Adela Ruffington looked up from her sketchbook, her hand stilling. “Although, in this case, I commend him. Gieves is a miserable old so-and-so… He’d hide a thing of beauty like the Bronzino away, where nobody can appreciate it. Whereas Ritchie immediately donated it to the National Gallery just to annoy him.”

So, Ritchie could be both brigand and philanthropist in one stroke?

“Ah, tish pooh, paintings and printing works,” mocked Prudence. “As the gossip columns will attest, it’s in the pursuit of amour when he’s at his most audacious.” Eyes gleaming, she leaned forward, confidentially.

“Is that a fact?” Beatrice gave her an old-fashioned look. Now they were getting to the heart of the matter, it seemed, and a little demon of jealousy stirred. She shouldn’t have cared a jot about Ritchie’s other women, given the temporary nature of her own liaison with him. But somehow she did.

“Oops, sorry,” apologized their hostess, although without any apparent hint of repentance. “But didn’t he once snatch Mrs. Chevington right out from under the nose of a certain Very August Personage, who also had his eye on her, and had more or less ‘decreed’ that she would be his latest conquest?”

Wide eyes all turned, agog, toward Prudence. Not least of all Beatrice’s. Was the other woman referring to perhaps the most exalted connoisseur of women in the land?

“You don’t mean…?”

Prudence nodded solemnly. “Indeed I do.”

“But…goodness, it’s a wonder Ritchie wasn’t banished from society altogether. Wasn’t the, um, August Personage angry?” The demon danced again in Beatrice’s bosom. To take such risks, Ritchie really must have desired Mrs. Chevington a great deal.

“Oh no,” interjected Arabella, eagerly taking up the thread. “I was at that reception myself and I saw a little of it. Apparently HRH laughed heartily, slapped Ritchie on the back, and supposedly said, ‘Well done, old fellow, take her, she’s yours’!”

“Good Lord!”

“Good gracious!”

All around the Circle there was fluttering and gasping and other expressions of feminine excitement. What must it be like to be desired by a man who was prepared to risk royal displeasure to get what he wanted?

Does it thrill me? Or does it terrify me?

It was both emotions at once. Excitement and apprehension. And yet none of this talk seemed to touch on the real Ritchie—it was all sensationalist, his public reputation. She wanted to ask her friends what they knew about his past, and his deeper life, but something held her back. Silent she remained, mulling over her thoughts while the rest of the ladies continued to chatter. She was grateful when the topic—perhaps driven by a sympathetic female sensibility that enough was enough—turned from her and Ritchie to the latest daring dalliances, real or imagined, of Mary Brigstock, who seemed to be enjoying an uxorious renaissance in the mature years of her marriage.

Yes, Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was a daring and remarkable man, Beatrice acknowledged, picturing the hard blue glitter of determination in his eyes. He was bold enough to steal a woman from the clutches of the Prince of Wales himself, and then presumably relinquish her again when the novelty value of his prize inevitably faded.

That will be me when our month is over. So I’d better prepare for it and view him as a delicious adventure, nothing more.

She wasn’t a valuable printing works, a famous painting, or some other lucrative asset, so there would be no need to keep her any longer when he’d got his money’s worth.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Pact

POLLY WAS BORED,
and she didn’t like it. Used to being in service her entire adult life, having this much leisure was unexpectedly tedious.

Not that she’d ever been overworked by the Waverlys. In the country at Westerlynne, she’d been part of a large household, and as Miss Bea’s personal maid, her duties had been far from onerous. Her mistress was a kind young woman and one of those very rare souls who treated servants like equals. She went out of her way to be as little trouble as possible.

Even here at South Mulberry Street, with just herself and Enid to do housework, Polly still hadn’t been sorely overtaxed, thanks to Miss Bea again. She’s pitched in where she could, and done a fair share of the chores, something unknown in the best houses.

But now, everything had changed. The household had transformed. Thanks to Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, there was money aplenty to pay bills, buy goods and employ staff. And his right-hand man, Jamie, was around to keep order and steward the establishment.

In the space of a single day, Polly had been returned to her duties as Miss Bea’s lady’s maid, and the housework was to be done by a trio of maids from an agency, with Simon, a rather serious but amenable enough footman, on hand to open doors, hail cabs and deliver messages.

Today, while Miss Bea was out visiting her friends. Polly had been occupied sewing, for which she had a fine hand, and also unpacking, pressing and putting away her mistress’s beautiful new purchases, all the items that had been sent around from various shops and stores. It had been a pleasure to handle the lovely gowns and shoes, and also a great deal of exquisite lingerie. The latter essential, Polly supposed, when one was the mistress of as rich and notoriously randy man as Mr. Ritchie.

Polly frowned.

Don’t hurt her, you rogue, or I’ll be after you and have your guts for garters!

This was the way things had to be, she accepted that, but Polly always hoped to go with Miss Bea to a good marriage to a kind, rich man who’d love her and take care of her. A home where there might also arise some well-found coachman, or perhaps a handsome tradesman with a bob or two that she could take up with herself.

She’d never once anticipated her mistress becoming a whore.

“Stop it, Poll, no sense in brooding.” Muttering, she trudged up the back stairs to the small sewing room on the second floor, carrying an armful of Miss Bea’s less exotic underwear and several of Mr. Charlie’s mended shirts. “Make the best of the situation.”

That brought a smile to her lips. There was plenty to make the best of, in fact even
more
now. Not only was she still enjoying the occasional frisk with Mr. Charlie when he was at home, there was now the mysterious Jamie to canoodle with, too.

Pity neither of them were around at the moment, she could just fancy a little male company and a kiss or fondle or two.

Still smiling, she nudged open the door to Mr. Charlie’s room with her hip and sidled inside. When she’d put away the sewing, she’d skip off up to her room for a little while and entertain herself with her latest wicked daydream, one that had been plaguing her since Mr. Ritchie’s handsome associate had first appeared.

“Well blow me!”

The shirts and the underwear went tumbling to the carpet as Polly gaped at the scene that met her eyes. It seemed that Mr. Charlie wasn’t at his club as the staff had been led to believe, and neither had Jamie Brownlow left for Mr. Ritchie’s house.

The both of them were here. In bed together and apparently naked.

It would appear that her daydream had come true.

“Well, here’s a how-de-do indeed,” observed Jamie mildly, ruffling Charlie’s hair as he sat up and faced Polly, who stood openmouthed in the doorway. “Do you mind shutting that door, Polly? I know you’re a broad-minded girl, but some of the others might get a bit of shock if they looked in.”

“Sorry, sir…I’ll just pick these up and be on my way. Sorry to have disturbed you.” She swooped down and grabbed for the clothing, somehow managing not to take her eyes off the two entwined men, and their hips only just covered by the sheet. Jamie grinned at her, his expression unperturbed, and even though Charlie’s face was pink and wild-eyed, he didn’t entirely look displeased to see her. In fact when he turned again to Jamie he seemed quite smug.

What have you been plotting, you horny rogues?

The shirts and underwear seemed to have minds of their own, and no sooner had Polly retrieved one item than she dropped it reaching for another. “Sorry about this,” she repeated, her own face turning twice as pink as Charlie’s as the sheet rustled in the general area of his groin and Jamie’s hand.

The two men held each other’s gazes, and even though she was attempting to fold a pair of drawers at the time, Polly saw a flash of understanding pass between them.

“No need to rush away, Polly.” Charlie’s voice was gruff and excited as he glanced from Jamie, to her, and back to Jamie. “Er…if you don’t have any pressing duties, perhaps you’d…you’d like to stay awhile?”

The final item of her bundle retrieved, Polly stood there, mangling the layers of cotton and linen and undoing every bit of pressing she’d worked so hard at.

Was Charlie asking what she
hoped
he might be asking?

It seemed from Jamie’s broad smile that it was.

“Yes, Polly, why don’t you join us?” He withdrew his hand from beneath the sheet, and what she suspected he might have been fondling, and held it out to her in a gesture of invitation. “You’re a bold girl. You might enjoy our fun.”

Polly hesitated, tempted. She’d never seriously believed she’d see these two together, no matter how much the idea had teased her imagination. What were the odds of two men who liked both fish and fowl in the same household?

“Come on, Polly,” encouraged Charlie, shuffling and causing the sheet to slip and reveal a glimpse of his shiny, roused cock.

Polly took a step forward, eyes narrowed, brain ticking. This was an illegal act the men were engaged in. Would her complicity be actionable?

But on the other hand, they were offering their trust, taking a risk, a chance on her.

“If I get into bed with you, I want both your words, in writing, that I won’t get into trouble for lewd behavior.” She placed her hands on her hips and studied their faces, almost laughing at the identical looks of astonishment.

Charlie blinked. But Jamie gave a grin and nodded his head. “You’re a shrewd girl, Polly. I don’t blame you.” For a moment, he looked thoughtful, then almost cross as if a memory perplexed him. “The word of a servant is most often ignored. I know that to my cost. You’re wise to be cautious.” He turned to Charlie and gave him a very firm look.

Charlie blushed, and at the same time seemed to realize his member was on show. Tweaking the covers, he looked flushed. “I do give you my word to you, Polly, as a gentleman. You know how fond of you I am. You’ve always been nice to me just when I needed it. Cheered me up when I’ve been feeling down in the mouth.”

Polly held firm, not moving.

“There’s a notebook in my coat, Polly,” said Jamie with a grin, “and a pencil. Bring them across and we’ll make our words. And then maybe we can have our jolly time together.”

Polly retrieved the coat and fished in the pocket, inhaling a whiff of a very nice gentleman’s toilet water in the process. Jamie was an odd cove. Neither master nor servant. But his clothing was well made and as gentlemanly as Charlie’s. It was only that first day that he’d turned up dressed as a working man.

She handed him the little black back notebook she found, its pencil secured by an elastic strap, and his fingertip managed to stroke hers as he took the book from her.

Jamie wrote quickly, decisively, then passed the book to Charlie, who nodded. He still had a bit of nerves about him, but he managed a quick smile.

Polly watched the two of them and felt an odd twist in her heart, as if a bond had already been forged among the three of them. Both men attracted her, and when she tried to set a balance between them, they kept coming up even-stevens.

Jamie passed her the book, and she scanned the brief note written in it.

We, the undersigned, promise to share the pleasure of our bodies and treat each other fairly and honestly and with kindness, and never to speak of what passes between us to another living soul.

It was far from a legal document, but a lump formed in Polly’s throat. Her hand shook. The paper’s contents were of great moment, and its sincerity moved her.

“Polly? Are you unwell?” Charlie’s voice was full of concern, as were Jamie’s dark eyes.

“I’m capital, Mr. Charlie, thank you very much,” she replied briskly, resisting the urge to rub her suddenly watery eyes. “Hand me the pencil, Mr. Brownlow.”

“With pleasure. And it’s Jamie, remember? No formalities in here, beautiful Polly. We’re all happy libertines. All equals.” He turned to Charlie with an old-fashioned look as he passed the pencil across.

Not quite equals.
Polly smiled as she wrote her name neatly beneath the little declaration. Jamie was most definitely in charge of their merry little band, but she didn’t mind that, and neither, it seemed, did Charlie.

When all their signatures had been appended, Jamie passed the little book around again.

Goodness. A pact. She’d never had one of those, even with Sam.

“Satisfied now, Polly?” Jamie smirked at her as he took the book and placed it on the chest of drawers at the side of the bed, alongside a small rectangular tin box with a design of roses and lilies painted tastefully upon it. Polly had a fair idea what that might contain, and a surge of excitement in her belly almost made her gasp.

How grand. To go all the way and still be safe.

“Yes, indeed M- “ She grinned at him boldly, then flashed a wink at Charlie, beyond him. “Very satisfied, Jamie. Or at least, I soon hope to be.”

“In that case, pretty as you look in your uniform, my poppet, why not strip off and join us in bed?” In a sudden sleek movement, Jamie lunged up onto his knees, and throwing back the sheet, he turned around and knelt at the bottom of the bed, patting an inviting space in the middle.

But it wasn’t the rumpled bed linen that drew Polly’s eyes. Both her two new conspirators of love were in a state of high arousal, and their fine organs seemed to point directly toward her. Charlie’s member was relatively slender, but nice and long, while Jamie’s didn’t have quite the length, but was thick and sturdy to an eye-watering degree.

Spoiled for choice.

Making a show of smacking her lips, she reached for the pins that secured the lace-trimmed cap of her afternoon uniform. Tossing the pins onto the chest, she flung the cap in the general direction of the two men, and then giggled when it landed on Charlie’s fine erection.

The two men laughed, and Jamie reached out and caressed Charlie with the cotton cap while Polly tackled her hair.

A look of surrender and pleasure made Charlie’s face quite beautiful, and his body shook. He seemed more at ease than Polly had seen him in a long time. The fondness she felt for him welled up, and she felt happy, too. Prone to misfortune and bad judgment, Charles Weatherly still had a kind heart, and it was only anxiety, she suspected, that had sometimes made him thoughtless.

“Come on, Polly, don’t keep us waiting!” he gasped, smiling at her despite Jamie’s distracting ministrations.

Apron, shoes, dress, stockings; she shed them all in short order. It’d been in her mind to attempt a seductive little dance for her two swains, but she was too impatient. Maybe there’d be another chance sometime to show them a below-stairs Salome?

Glad she wasn’t a lady, and strictly corseted, she flung off her chemise and drawers, too, sending the voluminous piles of white linen flying in all directions. Then, only then, and naked, did she hesitate.

She’d never shed all her clothes for Charlie. Their snatched liaisons had only really begun since the move to the smaller London house, after Westerlynne had been sold, and the moments they’d spent had always been swift and stolen.

What if, being fond of men, he found her curvaceous body repellent? What if he preferred sylphlike bed partners whose slighter hips suggested the masculine form?

But Charlie’s eyes were wide, and hot, and filled with desire and eagerness.

“My God, Polly, you’re a pretty girl. A real smasher.” For a moment he looked wistful. “We should have got our clothes off before now, shouldn’t we?”

“She is indeed a beauty,” confirmed Jamie, his hand still on Charlie’s cock. “And she’s here now, and we’re all naked…so let’s get to it!” With his free hand he reached for Polly and tugged her toward them, and a place in the middle. As she moved forward, he released Charlie so she could slide in between them.

“Goodness me, I’m the meat in a sandwich, aren’t I?” Polly glanced from one man to the other, still spoiled for choice. Charlie was slender and had hair of a reddish hue that echoed his sister’s brilliant Titian curls, while Jamie was of stockier build with thick light brown hair that was straight and shiny. They made a delicious contrast and Polly couldn’t decide which one she desired the most.

“Hard to choose, eh?” purred Jamie, coming up onto his knees, and drawing Polly up with him. Grabbing her lightly by the back of her head, he pulled her mouth to his for a kiss.