The Pleasure Merchant (24 page)

Miss Rasa nodded, and drained her glass.

“All right,” she said, withdrawing her pocket watch to check the time. “How long do you need to decide, do you think?”

Tom didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at her silver timepiece, as the red and green rose-shaped inlay on the face winked in the firelight. Seeing it made him feel... strange, for some reason he could not quite explain. He felt sure he’d seen that very watch before. He had seen it during their first encounter… yes… but he was also certain he’d seen it again sometime between that morning and this moment. Could Hallux’s watch be the same? No, Tom was fairly certain it had been gold. And yet, he had seen much of Hallux’s watch; had seen him hold it up and…

She noticed him staring, and tucked it away quickly.

“That watch,” he blurted, as she withdrew her hand from her jacket.

“What of it?”

“I’m sure I’ve seen it before!”

“Are you?” she seemed amused. “That doesn’t seem likely. It was my mother’s… but that’s all I know. She died when I was small.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what that’s like. Both my parents died when I was young. That’s how I ended up Mr. Dray’s apprentice. If he hadn’t taken me in, I’d have spent my youth in the Foundling Hospital.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, the first genuine and personal interest she’d shown all night.

Tom was delighted. “Oh yes,” he said eagerly. “As it was, I only spent a night there.”

“Then we have something in common, Tom. I spent a month there myself, before my master adopted me.”

Her smile was perceptively warmer, if a little sad. Tom congratulated himself—it was a small fissure in her shell, but a fissure nonetheless. All he had to do was keep applying pressure to the right places, and she’d crack like a nut.

“Your master adopted you? You mean, you are his legal daughter now?”

“I should be off,” she said evasively, not meeting his curious gaze. “When shall we next meet?”

Tom decided not to press the issue—they would, after all, meet again. “Thursday next?” he proposed, for that was to be his next night off, and good timing too, for it would be a few days after Christmas. “Here? At ten o’clock?”

“As you like,” she agreed, and stood.

“My lady,” he said, and moved to stand, but she shook her head, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“I’m no lady,” she said. “Finish your ale.” Over his protests she fished in her pocketbook and produced five guineas. After jingling them in her palm, she pressed them into his. Her touch electrified him, pleasure shooting through his hand into and up his arm, down his chest, and straight down to the tip of his shivering cock. “I hope you don’t mind if it’s less the cost of my glass of claret.”

“Eh?”

“What I owe you,” she explained, slowly, as if he were simple-minded. “For the hairpieces. See you Thursday,
Tom
.”

And she left him with no other companion but his desire.

Tom retraced their steps, carefully, so Thursday next he would not be caught scrambling to recall where they’d gone. As soon as he was certain he would remember the name of the pub and the cross street he hailed a cab; the fare back to Mr. Bewit’s was nothing to the unexpected addition of five guineas to his pocket-book.

Miss Rasa occupied Tom’s thoughts as he sat well back in the hackney-coach, out of the biting wind. Her eyes—her wrists—her waist—the flash of silk-stockinged ankle he’d caught during their walk when the wind gusted. He had so many questions for her—questions like… who was she really? What profession required young ladies to dress as lads to trick unsuspecting wig-makers for indeterminate reasons? Where did she live? And who was her mysterious master?

He would find out. He had already teased out part of her history. That sad smile of hers, when she recalled the Foundling Hospital—for a brief moment he had glimpsed what lay beneath her perfect mask of self-control and confidence. He’d liked what he’d seen, and wanted more. Much more.

The coach slowed, then stopped. Tom glanced out, certain the cabdriver had made a mistake, for the house was alive with lights behind the drawn curtains, and people trotting to and fro in silhouette before the casements. Odd; 12 Bloomsbury Square had been dark when he’d left.

“Party here tonight, m’lord?” said the driver, as he opened the door for Tom.

“No,” said Tom. “I’m as surprised as you are. Here,” he paid him for the fare and tipped him rather generously.

“And a happy Christmas to you, sir,” said the driver, tipping his hat before jumping back on the riding board.

Conscious of his dignity, Tom waited until the man was out of sight and then darted down and around, to the servant’s entrance. While it pained him to recall how before Callow’s return he would have let himself in the front, he was happy with his situation, for he learned almost at once what in the world had everyone dashing about so frantically.

“It’s Master Callow,” said the scullery maid, who was boiling a cauldron of water. “He’s… taken ill.”

“Is it serious?” asked Tom, trying not to sound hopeful.

“Nah.” She lifted the lid, and her face turned red in the steam. “He was making rather merry, and…”

“Not ill, then. Just drunk and sloppy.” The girl nodded at Tom’s diagnosis, too shy to say such things herself.

“Oh, Tom, you’re back,” said Mrs. Jervis, bustling into the room with a bucket full of soiled cloths that were eye-wateringly noisome. She set them aside with distaste. “Mister Bewit would see you.
Immediately
. He was rather sorry you’d gone out. I… made excuses for you, given the manner of your leave-taking.” It was as close to an apology as Tom could expect to receive, these dark days. “Go on up to him, he’s wanting you.”

“Is Master Callow with him?”

“No,” she said, disapproval positively oozing from the word. “He was just now taken short on the landing.” That explained the odor of those rags. Tom shuddered and tried to banish the mental image her descriptions produced. “His plans are to retire to bed after soaking in a hip-bath.”

“Did Mr. Bewit say he wanted anything?”

“Just you.”

Tom took the servants’ stair to the second floor without any of his earlier resentment, as likely the front staircase would be a bit pungent, and let himself in to Mr. Bewit’s study. The man was scribbling away at something so furiously that he barely paused when he looked over his shoulder to nod at Tom before going back to it.

Tom was very used to rushing to his master’s side only to be told to wait. He entertained himself by wandering the study. But tonight, the bookshelves, which usually kept him occupied, merely reminded him of the unfortunate incident that had precipitated his going out—so, thinking of Miss Rasa and her impersonation, he turned to the portraits.

Her face was still fresh in his mind he stared at the image of Callow Bewit. The painter’s decision to idealize the lad’s features recalled his impostor’s more than the reality; it seemed to Tom that Miss Rasa looked out at him, rather than Mr. Bewit’s son. Funny, that—but in Callow’s case, any impostor would be an improvement on the original.

Next, he wandered over to Mrs. Bewit’s portrait—and would have gasped, had he not been so well trained to keep such exclamations to himself in the presence of his betters. How could he have forgotten? Or rather, how had he failed to see? There, dangling from Mrs. Bewit’s sash, was Miss Rasa’s pocket watch! It had to be the same one. The design was so distinctive; the details, identical.

A thousand thoughts vied for his attention. Could it be the same watch? What would that mean? The simplest explanation was that Mr. Bewit had simply sold the piece, but it was just so odd, especially given how much Miss Rasa resembled—

“Tom?”

“Yes!” It came out as almost a shout, startling them both. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bewit. My thoughts were… elsewhere.”

“I see.” Mr. Bewit pushed back from his desk. How tired he looked! Where once country sunshine and wind-chap had brightened his cheek, there were now only hollows filled with shadow, and the bags under his eyes did not bespeak restful evenings. “Unfortunately, my mind has been rather bound to the here-and-now.” He rubbed his temples and stood. “Those letters I just finished… see to them first thing. They are apologies that must not be delayed in their delivery.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I shall do with Callow. He is… his
character
is… worse than I thought. His faults can no longer be excused as a boy’s naiveté and idle oat-sowing. The man has grown debauched.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it, sir.”

Tom was usually happy to tolerate Mr. Bewit’s depressed musings. Tonight, however, he was on fire with desire and curiosity, and it made him fidgety.

Mr. Bewit noticed. “Ah, I know,” he said. “You have heard all this before. It is not a topic any young man wants to spend his nights chewing over, time and again.”

“That’s not it at all, sir,” said Tom hastily. “My apologies. Just… something on my mind.”

“Oh?” Mr. Bewit smiled at Tom, his usual warm, lopsided smile that made his eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips press together. Tom watched him keenly, for it reminded him of another smile he’d seen that night. “If you would trouble me about it, I’m always happy to listen, Tom. I hope you don’t think… well, I know we have not been spending as much time together as we became accustomed to, but I thought it best… given…”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I have very much regretted the loss of your company, but I know my place.”

“Your place…” Mr. Bewit glanced to the two armchairs by the fire. “To hell with
place
for the night. Come and sit, Tom, as we used to do, and tell me what is bothering you.”

Tom’s heart was beating—racing. He could not sit down; instead, glanced to the painting. “Mr. Bewit, that pocket watch in your wife’s sash…”

“Eh?”

“In this portrait of her.” Tom pointed. “I noticed she has a pocket watch, a silver one, inlaid with a rose. I’ve never seen another like it.”

Mr. Bewit was staring at him curiously, but said nothing. Tom plunged ahead.

“Well… forgive me, but… what happened to it? Do you know?”

“Josian’s watch?” Mr. Bewit had gone pale. “Why—why do you ask?”

Tom knew agitation was bad for Mr. Bewit’s nerves; it had been a mistake to ask about it, especially after such a trying night. “Nothing, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry to have—”

“Why do you ask me, Tom? Why this watch? Why tonight?”

Tom heard the urgency in his master’s voice, but did not understand it. “Mr. Bewit, the boy who came into Mr. Dray’s, all those months ago—the one who pretended to be your son—he had a watch like that.
Exactly
like it.”

“What? Tom… what is this?”

“Forgive me, sir…. I only saw it the one time, and for only a moment, which is why I didn’t recognize it. But tonight… I saw it again. I met the false Callow.”

“You met…”

“The one who pretended to be your son, yes. In a coffee house. The impostor and your son are very alike—uncannily so, I’d say. And the other strange thing… is that the boy… wasn’t a boy.”

Mr. Bewit was staring at him as if Tom had just stripped off all his clothes and done a Cornish scoot on the rug. “What are you saying?”

“She had been dressed in boy’s clothes, for the deception. But tonight, when I saw her, she was dressed…
naturally
. As a young woman, I mean. I still recognized her—and confronted her.”

“How did you confront her?”

“Well, I asked her what she was about, imitating your son and coming into shops.”

Mr. Bewit’s face had darkened from white to red. He did not look at all well. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he looked unsteady on his feet.

“May I… get you a brandy, sir?”

“No,” said Mr. Bewit, daubing at his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Tell me, Tom, how could you be sure it was… she?”

Tom elected not to relate the whole story. “I thought for a moment she might have been your son—silly, I know, but it was crowded and smoky, and I only saw her profile, but she had the same nose, and the same hair.”

Mr. Bewit dabbed again at his forehead. “And when you confronted her? What did she say?”

“That she had indeed impersonated Callow.” Mr. Bewit blanched again, and he trembled. “But she would not say by whom, or for what purpose,” continued Tom. “I enquired, of course—pressed her, even, but she would not yield. I would not have been so forthright, but you said when we discussed the matter that you suspected someone had arranged the entire affair with an aim of injuring both Mr. Mauntell and yourself… I say, Mr. Bewit, are you certain you’re quite all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” he stammered while making his way unsteadily to his chair, where he very nearly collapsed into it. “And you say… you say…”

“What’s that? Sir, here.” Tom was at Mr. Bewit’s sideboard in an instant, where he poured him a glass of port. “Take this, sir. I did not mean to upset you, I—”

“This girl… how old was she?”

“Not twenty.”

“And she was very like Callow, you say?”

“Shockingly so.”