Virginia Henley (28 page)

Hart grinned. “Male members indeed; you have a delightful way with words, Alex.”

Well, I shall certainly write about this debauchery!
As the hour advanced, the gentlemen of the
ton
began to remove their coats, waistcoats, and cravats as they lounged on the couches with whores either straddling their laps or kneeling between their legs.
This is an eye-opener about the men in High Society that I shall never forget!
“Are these brutes actually entertained by plying girls with gin until they fall to the floor dead drunk?”

“Entertained and infinitely amused.”

A crowd of men had formed around a few females who lay nearly unconscious in the middle of the floor. One male bent down and fed one of the whores a bright yellow concoction. “Whatever is he making her drink?” Alex asked with alarm.

“A mixture of mustard and vinegar, I believe. The result produces great hilarity among these swine, who have more money than brains.”

Suddenly the young prostitute began to spasm in a convulsion, and as her half-clad body writhed and contorted, a great cheer went up. Alexandra ran from the room and once outside promptly vomited. “Please take me home,” she said to a white-faced Hart.

As the carriage rumbled back to Mayfair, Nick Hatton’s words came back to her.
London has an underbelly I never want you exposed to. Wickedness and evil sometimes run rampant among the beau monde
. Alex sat huddled in a corner of the carriage; she didn’t much like Hart Cavendish at the moment. Nor did she like herself and her own prurient curiosity.

 

Alexandra stayed close to home the next couple of days. She worked laboriously over an article for the newspaper, condemning the squalid slum conditions and devastating poverty that spawned prostitution in girls as young as twelve. Then she ripped the aristocracy up one side and down the other, not for turning a blind eye but for condoning and exploiting the situation. Then she invited the public to go and see for themselves the debauchery that went on in the city’s gin palaces.

Alexandra had to steel her emotions before she could sketch a scene to accompany her article, but when she was done, she was satisfied that it would tug at the heartstrings of even the most hardened politician.

Alex looked through her bedroom window; watching the first snowflakes of the year fall made her feel melancholy. She decided to take afternoon tea with Dottie since she hadn’t spent much time with her grandmother lately. Actually, the place seemed too quiet since Rupert had moved to his own town house, and Alex admitted that she missed him.

Dottie stood at the hall table sorting through the mail that had just arrived. “Grieves and Hawks, Goggin Brothers, Huntsman and Sons, all Savile Row tailors, and all, thank heaven above and all the cherubim and seraphim, are bills for which Rupert is now responsible! God rot the boy; you’d think he’d call round for his mail, if nothing else.”

“I’ve missed him too.”

“Missed him? Then I advise you use a bigger shovel to hit him with next time.”

Alex laughed. She felt better already. “I’d be happy to take his mail around to Clarges Street. Being a new husband keeps him busy, I suspect.”

Dottie opened an invitation and threw the other letters on the hall table. “Busy spending money, by the look of things. Well, speak of the devil—or the devil’s mother-in-law—here’s an invitation to dine with the Hardings. I’m afraid that Annabelle is too much to stomach, even with my cast-iron gut.”

“Cast-iron gut? How graphic.”

“The secret of my longevity: a cast-iron gut and a callous heart.”

“Dottie, you do not have a callous heart!”

“Of course not, darling. I disparage myself for the sheer pleasure of hearing others beg to differ. You needn’t bother reassuring me.” Dottie scrawled their regrets across the bottom of the invitation. “The dinner will be to apprise us of the news that Olivia is with child, which we will be expected to greet with wide-eyed surprise and two-faced congratulations. The men will all be smoking Harding’s cigars, and you know how I loathe a man with a cigar . . . makes him look like he’s sucking on a dog turd! You may take your brother’s letters and drop this off at the same time.”

Dottie and she were jumping to the conclusion that Olivia was with child. Perhaps it wasn’t true; they should give her the benefit of the doubt. If it were true, it was conceivable that Rupert was the father and doing the honorable thing.

Alex decided to walk in the snow. She would go to Clarges Street and be back in time for dinner, so did not take Sara. She put on a warm velvet cloak and scooped up the letters from the hall table. The lamps along Curzon Street were being lit, and Alex lifted her face and laughed with delight when snowflakes fell onto her eyelashes. She knocked on Olivia and Rupert’s door in Clarges Street, and it was opened by a maid she had never seen before.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Lady Longford is not at home. She is visiting Lord and Lady Harding, but she will be back for dinner.”

“Oh, actually it is Rupert I am here to see; I’m his sister.”

“His lordship is engaged, ma’am. Would you care to wait?”

“Yes, thank you.” Alex wiped her feet upon the mat, removed her cloak, shook the snow from it, and hung it on the hall stand. The maid bobbed a curtsy and disappeared. As Alex stood waiting with the letters in her hand, wondering with whom Rupert was engaged, she heard male voices coming from the drawing room.

“I thought we would go to Champagne Charlie’s tonight. We haven’t been for months; she’ll think we dropped off the face of the earth.”

Why, that’s Christopher’s voice.
The Hatton twins had such deep voices they could never be mistaken, except for each other’s, of course. She moved closer to the door. Then Alex heard her brother groan. “Not Charlie’s. Can’t we go to White’s or Watier’s?”

“I’ve dropped so much money at White’s lately that I’ve become an easy mark. At Charlie’s my luck might change; let’s give it a try.”

“Well, so long as we’re just going to gamble, and not for the other sport—”

“Speak for yourself, old man. What the hell’s the matter with you? You used to enjoy heaving dumplings and writhing rumps. Don’t tell me your bride has you on a short leash?”

“Actually, Kit, no. She doesn’t give a tinker’s damn where I go or what I do, so long as I satisfy her before I leave—and after I return.”

“And you’re complaining?” Kit asked.

“Nightly command performances can be fatiguing. Why don’t I meet you at Charlie’s?”

“Why can’t I just wait for you?”

“I never know how long it will take; she’s an indefatigable bedfellow.”

Kit’s laughter rang out. “Christ! She who must be serviced!”

Alexandra wanted to sink through the foyer floor as the two men came out of the drawing room and nearly hit her with the door.

“Alex, how lovely to see you. How are you, Imp?” Kit asked with familiar affection.

“I . . . I’m cold. I just walked in the snow.” Her burning cheeks belied her words. She avoided her brother’s eyes and tried to make a joke. “I brought your mail, Rupert. You must inform the people who are dunning you that you have a new address.”

No one laughed. “Well, I was just about to leave. Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at the opening night of the new opera at Covent Garden next week?” Kit enquired.

“Perhaps,” she said tentatively.

Christopher took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. “Elusive females are irresistible. Good night, Alexandra.”

When she was alone with her brother, she quickly filled the silence with a gentle jab. “We haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

Rupert, shuffling through his mail, said dryly, “You’ll be receiving a formal invitation to dinner shortly.”

“Yes”—Alex held up the envelope—“I am about to drop off our regrets at the Hardings.”

Rupert ripped open a letter, then frowned. “This isn’t for me, it’s for Dottie.”

Alex took it back, stuffed it into her reticule, then turned as Olivia arrived home.

“Oh, hello, Alexandra. Were you just leaving?”

“Yes, actually,” she replied lamely.

“Sorry we can’t invite you to stay and dine with us tonight, but Rupert and I are otherwise engaged.” Olivia gave Rupert a hot, sideways glance.

Alex noticed that the look her brother returned was decidedly cool. “I quite understand,” she murmured.
I don’t really understand. I thought Rupert loved you exactly as you are. . . . Why else did he marry you?

Before returning to Berkeley Square, Alex left her and Dottie’s regrets with the Hardings’ butler. As she turned the corner from Clarges Street onto Curzon, she pondered the conversation between Rupert and Kit Hatton. Apparently, they were going to a place called Charlie’s to gamble. She had never heard of it, but from their conversation she gathered that there were more games than faro going on there. Despite her disgust with what she’d seen at the despicable gin house, her curiosity remained strong, and she made an immediately decision to go and see for herself. First, however, she would have to find out where Champagne Charlie’s was.

As soon as she got back to Berkeley Square she sought out Sara. “Have you ever heard of a place called Champagne Charlie’s?”

Sara pressed her lips together.

“I promise I won’t make you go there.”

“It’s called King’s Place Vaulting Academy; it’s in Pall Mall.”

“You are a mine of information, Sara; I intend to ask Dottie to raise your salary.”

Sara grinned. “Her ladyship said to tell you that she is dining in bed tonight. She found a new book about Lord Nelson’s notorious affair with Lady Hamilton and intends to devour it along with her sherry trifle.”

The next morning Alex rewrote her article, emphasizing the deplorable moral decay of England and the reforms that were needed. After lunch she donned her male attire and delivered her story and sketches to the
Political Register
office. She received seven shillings for her efforts and knew that was top price.

“The bleedin’ Regent has suppressed all lampoons about himself, primarily by payin’ off caricaturists like Cruickshank. People are hungry for stuff about Prinny. A drawin’ that ridiculed His Royal High-an’-Mightiness would sell papers. See what you can do.”

Knowing it would be easy money, Alex promised the editor, William Cobett, a lampoon. Now that she had money in her pocket, she decided to go to Champagne Charlie’s and gamble. It wasn’t the gaming that drew her, of course, but what else might be going on there. Pall Mall was a fashionable district and she felt sure that she would find nothing that was lurid.

Alex tried to affect a nonchalance she was far from feeling as she walked into Champagne Charlie’s in the late afternoon. The first thing that struck her was the luxury of her surroundings. The second thing was that the females she encountered did not look like the prostitutes she had seen on the streets of London or at that horrible gin house. Not only were they beautiful and well-groomed, most were laughing and looked genuinely happy.

Two females, who were conversing and apparently enjoying a jest, looked over the young man who had just arrived. By mutual consent, the younger of the pair approached Alex and gave her a radiant smile. “Hello, luv. You’re not a regular patron, but I hope that will change. My name is Reggie; welcome to Charlie’s.”

“A boy’s name,” Alex blurted, disconcerted.

“Well, if Charlotte can be Charlie, Regina can be Reggie.”

“Ah, yes, my name is Alex—” She just caught herself from adding
Sheffield
.

“A mutual friend recommended us, no doubt?”

“Yes, yes,” Alex admitted nervously. “Kit Hatton.”

Another smile wreathed Reggie’s face. “You know the twins, the Double-Dick Brothers? Well, any friend of Harm and Hazard is certainly a friend of mine!”

The Double-Dick Brothers?
Alex was rendered speechless. When Reggie reached for her hand, she slipped it behind her back; Alexandra’s hands were slender and feminine. Undaunted, the pretty blonde took her arm. “I came for the gaming,” Alex said quickly. Realizing her double
entendre,
she added, “Cards, but perhaps I’ll see you later.”

“I hope so, luv, but be warned: When evening descends, Charlie’s gets pretty busy, and I may not be available.”

“I can only imagine,” Alex murmured.

The gaming room was just as luxuriously furnished as the spacious reception room, minus the mirrors. And there were many paintings of nymphs in enticing poses to distract the players.
Gives an edge to the house, no doubt,
Alex thought cynically as she took a seat at the
vingt-et-un
table. The dealer of the permanent bank was female and attractive, but she was not young. Somehow Alex felt pleased about this; at least the establishment didn’t discriminate against age.

She handed the dealer five of her hard-earned shillings, and when she received only one chip, she tried not to flush. It was fortunate that Alex enjoyed an immediate run of luck; it increased her number of chips tenfold. She played on, and whenever one of the six men at the table demanded a reshuffle, she took time to observe the rest of the room. Technically, it was still afternoon, yet already the room was more than half filled with gentlemen who seemed to have money to burn. Most played negligently and indulged in the free-flowing liquor, so by focusing on the game and keeping her wits about her, Alex’s losses were minimal and her pile of chips increased steadily.