The Pleasure Merchant (29 page)

“I was out tonight!”

“Yes, and I was very glad of it—that’s why even though the Cranleys wanted so much for you to be a part of our gathering I told them you couldn’t make it. You hadn’t taken a night off in a month, you know.”

“And I took one. So what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem… I just mean that your friends, it’s not as if you’ve ever told me any of them were particularly…
interesting
… to you.”

“Interesting?” I suddenly realized what he was about. “You think I need a romance?” I heard how the word sounded in my mouth, like something dirty. I would give myself away if I wasn’t more careful.

“
Need
is such a funny word. Let’s say… I think it would be good for you to have a bit of fun in your life.”

“I do have fun!”

“Enjoying your work is a different matter entirely. I’m ever so glad you do—don’t get me wrong. You’ve been an ideal apprentice. Much better than I ever was, trust me. But I think your diligence and enthusiasm has allowed me to exploit you a little, my dear girl. You are so eager to learn, so hungry for knowledge and experience… but your most excellent work ethic makes it too easy for me to forget that you are still young. Young people should enjoy their youth.”

“It’s not as if my youth did me any good,” I said lightly, but the shadow that passed over my master’s brow gave me pause. I did not want to upset or worry him. “I am listening, Mr. Blythe. Really, I am.”

“If you don’t like this Tom Dawne, then to the Devil with him,” said Mr. Blythe. “But the next young man who falls into your lap… don’t make that face. You’re not used to young men; so few of them can afford us. But, even so, young men can be fun… in their own very particular way. Perhaps they haven’t as much knowledge or experience or refinement as the gentlemen to whom you are accustomed, but they have their charms. Look at Reed—you liked him well enough, for a time.”

“I still do!” My affections for Reed had not waned as my interest in our mutual master waxed. I had awoken in his bed, his familiar arms around me, not three mornings back—and it was not the coldness of the winter nights that had induced me to join him.

I did not mention this to Mr. Blythe, however… which in itself was telling.

Feeling suddenly exhausted, I smiled weakly as I set aside my plate and made to rise. “I fear, however, I should retire, before it gets much later. For all your talk of youth’s virtues, you seem to have more stamina than I could ever hope for.”

“I’ll be dropping like a stone the moment you depart, trust me.” In spite of his remark, he leaped out of his chair with the vigor of a man half his age. “Good night, my dear apprentice. Sleep well.”

“And dream of young men?”

I let him help me to my feet, and as I stood, I saw something in his eyes that startled me. For all his earlier joviality, he was quite serious now. It took my breath away, being so close to him, as he looked so earnestly into my eyes. For a moment I dared hope he was on the verge of confessing something to me, something that would negate his earlier words about me finding some young man with which to entertain myself.

“Miss Rasa,” he said, “I admit I adopted you out of the selfish desire of finding someone to carry on my legacy—of training a young person in the arts I myself was trained in from a young age. To that end I have educated your mind as best I could, given my own imperfect education; trained your body; taught you to appreciate discipline; and made you a virtuoso in the arts of pleasure, entertainment, and deception. What I mean to say is, I have shaped your soul, and technically I legally possess your most attractive physical person. Even so,” he kissed my knuckles, “I would
never
seek to control you—not your actions, and certainly not your dreams.”

He led me to the door, and I walked through it best I could on buckling legs.

“Good night, Miss Rasa.”

“Good night, Mr. Blythe,” I whispered, but he had already shut the door behind me.

The days leading up to Tom’s Thursday engagement with Miss Rasa were some of the most exciting of his young life.

Though it wounded his pride to follow Mr. Wallace’s advice, Tom had deigned to open an account at the slightly seedy but satisfactorily discreet bank of Merchant and Mills. They treated him quite respectfully indeed, when he announced the sum he planned to deposit, even going so far as to assign him a private banker.

On Mr. Courtenay’s advice, Tom elected to take out a modest loan against his principal. His account would pay quarterly interest amounting to what an up-jumped wigmaker’s apprentice considered a more than satisfactory sum for him to spend per annum on accommodations, food, clothing, entertainments, and whatever else he might want… but at the same time, Mr. Courtenay suggested it might be nice for Tom to have a little extra, just to get himself set up in the world. Seeing the wisdom of this advice, Tom signed where he was told, electing not to mention that his account would be reduced by more than half in just a few days. The interest on the loan would be more than payable out of his own income, once he got on his feet. He would just have to be… frugal.

After pouring over that morning’s broadsheets, Tom took a few tours of what lodgings were available, purse heavy in his hand, and settled on a modest suite of furnished rooms in an inexpensive but sufficiently fashionable neighborhood in Covent Garden, and took his landlady’s advice on the hiring of the staff he required. Mrs. Miggins assured him both the cook and scullery maid were respectable, not given to idleness, stealing—nor, in the maid’s case, flirting with any gallant visitors that a young man such as himself might entertain. As for a male servant, Tom longed to hire one but knew he could not afford the expense; anyways, Mrs. Miggins employed a ragged youth to run such errands as her tenants needed. Satisfied, Tom paid her a year’s rent, sent the boy in a hired cart to retrieve his things from 12 Bloomsbury Square, and got acquainted with his new staff while he waited.

He slept well that first night, exhausted from moving and the strain of the previous evening’s exertions, but none of the next few evenings were as restful. It proved too tempting to have so much money at his disposal, and
everything
in London to spend it on, especially at Christmastime.

It made sense to eat at home, for his cook produced better and cheaper meals than he might get out. This, he considered “economizing,” as he knew very soon he must live on the interest of only
₤
2500. But while Tom knew that wine was also cheaper drunk at home,
that
he would not do.

Being at his leisure was a brave new world for Tom. Though he had enjoyed quite a bit of freedom to pursue his interests while working for Mr. Bewit, he had never been allowed to fully indulge his own tastes. Given over completely to his own discretion Tom quickly found it challenging to not stay out all night drinking champagne and claret, or to see every show at every theatre.

Women, however, he needed no willpower to resist. Tom remained too proud, as well as too suspicious of disease, to indulge his desires with prostitutes. And anyways, always at the back of his mind was Miss Rasa—or Miss Alula Bewit, whatever she ended up preferring he call her, once he revealed he knew her secret. He was incapable of comparing her to every girl he met, preferring the sway of her hips to every whore’s stride and the appearance of her natural features to every debutante’s powdered countenance.

But it was no longer with pure excitement that Tom looked forward to their meeting. In truth, he resented that the meeting he had so ardently desired would now include a necessary reduction in his style of living. As he bought such necessaries as new shoes, a fur-lined cape, and a few new hats, stockings, gloves, and—of course—
wigs,
he wondered how it was possible for any gentleman to keep within his income. As he was fitted for the new coat he wished to wear when he next met Miss Rasa it occurred to him that he had spent more of his loan in four days than he had planned to spend in a month. He would need to do better—
much
better.

Unless…

Tom pushed the unworthy thought away. He would not rob Miss Rasa of a single farthing; why, he was so kind that he had already resolved to take the
₤
500 charged him by Mr. Wallace out of his own share. Mr. Bewit’s dying wish was for his long lost daughter to use the money to escape her tyrannical master, and Tom would not ruin her chances of freedom. Mr. Blythe sounded like a very dodgy sort—mild Mr. Bewit would never have lightly called any man a devil. Likely poor Miss Rasa needed every shilling. Slaves had to pay for their freedom—so might she. How much of what was hers would she need to give up before she could step out of his house a free woman?

And yet, the notion stayed with Tom, was present in his mind as he dressed himself that fateful Thursday; nagged at him as he called a cab to take him to the tavern. In reality, Miss Rasa had no idea what was due her; she had seen no will, nor received any word from her father before his passing. And really, six thousand pounds—five thousand, even, or four—would enable most women to live quite comfortably, especially if they expected to marry.

Still contemplating this, Tom paid the driver and strode into the Turk’s Head at ten o’clock sharp, confident he looked as natty as any gentleman in London. Eagerly he scanned the room… and felt his mood slip a bit. Miss Rasa was not there.

Well, it was just the hour. It was possible she’d had difficulty securing a cab. Tom decided on an empty table in the most atmospheric corner and settled in, ordering two glasses of claret when the serving girl came over.

He’d drunk both and was feeling surly when Miss Rasa finally appeared in the doorway, looking flustered but still lovely under the cowl of her cloak.

“I’m ever so sorry,” she said, sitting across from him. “I was afraid you’d have—what?”

Pulling off the cowl of her cloak she had revealed that her high color was not just from rapid walking, but—scandalously—the application of quite a lot of rouge over a thick layer of very white powder. Not only that, she had some sort of crown of leaves dressed into her hair.

“You…” he giggled, his dudgeon forgotten. “Were you at a party?”

“What’s that? Oh, damn,” she swore, as her fingers encountered the foliage upon her brow. A few tugs on some pins and a quick shake, and the chestnut mass came tumbling down, recalling autumn as the leaves drifted down to the table. “I forgot all about it, I just threw on a dress and ran out the door. I’m awfully sorry to be running so late.”

“I hadn’t even noticed,” he said gallantly. “Here, let me get you some wine, and then you can tell me all about why it is you had a forest in your locks. Was it a Christmas pageant?”

“Nothing as exciting as that,” she said, lying, if the mischievous sparkle in her eyes was any indication. “Fancy dress party, is all.”

“So…” said Tom, trying his best to sound nonchalant, “Mangum Blythe puts on fancy dress parties… along with everything else he does?”

She went perfectly still as the serving girl set down two more glasses of claret. “I beg your pardon?” she said tonelessly.

“Mangum Blythe. Surely you must know him; he’s your employer.” Tom was enjoying this. In reality he didn’t know much about Mangum Blythe beyond the man’s name, the fact that he procured things for people, and that he was ‘a devil,’ but he liked the feeling of having a bit of power over Miss Rasa after their last meeting. Now
he
was the mysterious and intriguing one. Calmly he sipped his wine, indicating she should do the same. She did not touch the glass.

“Go on, drink,” he urged. “Relax, enjoy yourself. No reason not to just because I know who you are, and what you do. By Jove, Miss Bewit—impersonating your own brother! Was that your idea, or Mister—”

“Would you please explain yourself?” Her sharpness surprised him, but he soldiered on.

“Explain how I know who you are, Miss Alula Bewit? Well, I…” He trailed off. What a queer look she had on her face! “Miss Bewit?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Upon my word! Calm yourself!”

She had recovered slightly, and with a shaky hand, reached for her wine, and drained it in one go.

“Why do you think I am… this person?” she asked, after setting down the glass, her tone studiously neutral.

All his earlier bravado had left him—something strange was happening, something unexpected. “It was your watch,” he confessed, now completely sincere. “I saw it in her portrait. Your mother’s portrait, I mean—well, it’s your portrait too, though you’re only a baby in it.” He leaned in close. “Rather rum, not telling your father you were working for him—don’t you think? Or are you so angry at him for abandoning you that you—”

“Tom Dawne,” she interrupted him, “I know this will come as a surprise to you, but I have no idea what on earth you’re talking about. As far as I know, I have neither brother, nor father, nor mother… at least, not living ones.”

Tom felt a pang. He was right—she was still angry, and no wonder. Her family had abandoned her. Likely her callousness was in part that she did not yet know of her father’s death; he would have to tell her of it. How very awkward! Well, he would just have to do his best. “I understand your feelings, but Miss… Miss Rasa, let me assure you, your father loved you.” It was a beginning…