Rules for Being a Mistress Read online

  Benedict slammed the door, startling everyone. He had seen enough of this tedious, farcical melodrama. What troubled him the most was that Miss Vaughn seemed quite used to dealing with impertinent tradesmen. “You!” he said, pointing at the most egregious offender.

  “Me?” cried Nora, trembling.

  “You,” he affirmed. “Get down from there. This is not a circus, I trust.”

  Nora obediently hopped down.

  “Thank you, sir,” the collier said gratefully, rubbing his head.

  Benedict smiled at him thinly. “Did you say this young lady owes you twenty pounds?”

  The collier realized at once that he was dealing with a gentleman of means. He eyed Benedict warily. “That’s right, sir. She’s been taking advantage of my generous nature. Of course, if you’d care to pay the debt yourself, sir, I’ve no objection.”

  “You have not yet established to my satisfaction that there is a debt,” Benedict pointed out. “Thus far we have only established that you are a bully.”

  The collier looked astonished. “A bully? Me?”

  “You.”

  “Well, I never—! Who the devil are you, sir?” the tradesman demanded angrily.

  “Who am I?” Benedict repeated, getting into the dramatic spirit. “I am Wrath, collier. Wrath. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

  The collier shook his head.

  “That’s because I had neither father nor mother,” Benedict explained. “I leapt out of a lion’s mouth when I was scarce an hour old; and ever since have run up and down the world with a case of rapiers, wounding myself when I could get none to fight withal. That’s how I lost my arm, as a matter of fact. I was born in Hell, collier! Does that clear it all up for you?”

  “Oh God!” said Nora, her eyes starting from her head.

  “I thought you said he was our cousin,” Allie whispered to Cosy.

  “Well, Mr. Wrath,” puffed the collier, blinking at Benedict in confusion, “be that as it may! I have business with this young lady—”

  “Not half as much business as you have with me,” said Benedict very quietly.

  The collier began to stammer. “Sir! I don’t know what this Irish hussy has told you, but she owes money all over town. Did she tell you that?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Benedict said.

  “Well, it’s none of your business!” said Cosima.

  “None whatsoever,” he agreed. “Collier! You say she owes you twenty pounds?”

  “She ordered a great deal of coal, Mr. Wrath.”

  Benedict raised a brow. “Did she? Where is it?”

  “She must have used it,” the other man replied stubbornly.

  Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty pounds’ worth? She’s only been here two months. Tell me, collier. Do you cheat all your female customers, or just the pretty ones?”

  “I told you everything was exorbitant!” Cosima triumphantly declared.

  “Forgive me,” said Benedict. “I thought you were exaggerating. May I see the bill?”

  “It would seem I accidentally brought the wrong bill with me,” said the collier, stuffing papers into his coat.

  “Indeed,” said Benedict. “I suggest you go home and find the correct bill! When you have found it, kindly present it to me at Number Six, Lower Camden Place, and I will be happy to take a look at it. My name is Sir Benedict Wayborn. I will tell my man to expect you tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  “I thought you said you was Mr. Wrath!” the collier protested.

  “That was a little joke,” Benedict explained.

  The collier laughed weakly. “Very funny, sir.”

  “You may go, collier,” said Benedict. “You may exit stage left while I continue the scene with these young ladies. And thank you for laughing at my joke. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor.”

  “What was all that?” Cosima demanded, closing the door on the collier. “Mr. Wrath!”

  “That was a speech from a play we did in school,” he said modestly. “Doctor Faustus. Do you know it? No? The title character sells his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge, power, and, of course, Helen of Troy for a paramour.”

  “Gracious!” said Nora.

  “What’s a paramour?” Allie demanded.

  “I don’t know,” said Benedict.

  “So you’re not Wrath at all?” Allie said disappointed. “You’re only Cousin Ben?”

  “To you, I am Cousin Ben. To your enemies, Miss Allegra, I am Mr. Wrath.”

  “What about the butcher?” Allie asked excitedly. “And the greengrocer? We owe them lots of money, too!”

  Exasperated, Benedict glanced at the elder girl. “Perhaps Miss Vaughn would be so kind as to provide me with a list of her creditors,” he said.

  “I will,” Cosima said, herding Allie up the stairs. “Tomorrow! Right now, I have to check on my mother, and get this girl into bed. Nora will let you out.”

  “Until tomorrow then,” he said quietly. “Good night.”

  As he watched the two sisters go upstairs, he wondered how many men had tried to take advantage of Miss Vaughn in this shabby way. As he went out, he glanced at the stooped woman holding the door for him. “Good night, Nora.”

  “How do you know my name?” she cried in terror.

  “I’m clairvoyant,” he said dryly. He bit his lip, remembering that he needed to stay in Nora’s good graces. Otherwise she might raise “holy hell,” and prevent her young lady from leaving the house. Perhaps sarcasm was not the best way to endear himself to the Irishwoman.

  Nora plucked up her courage. “She’s a good lass, and you’re a bad man!”

  Benedict saw that they would never be friends. In any case, it was better to be feared than loved. He smiled at her coldly. “If you ever try to keep her from me, I will show you, Nora, what a bad man I can be.”

  “Oh God!” Nora breathed, closing the door on him as quickly as she could.

  Benedict used his key to enter the park. He waited for her there, lingering just inside the gate for what seemed like hours, looking out through the iron bars like a prisoner. Twice he saw the constable of the Watch pass. The man was unpleasantly conscientious.

  Finally, the lights in the Vaughns’ house began to go out, one by one. The Watchman passed by once more, whistling. A few minutes later, Benedict’s heart jumped as a figure in a dark cloak came out of the house and ran toward the park. She was in her stockinged feet. Her feet made no sound on the cold cobbles.

  She gasped in surprise when he opened the gate for her.

  “Hurry,” he whispered, pulling her inside the park. “The Watchman has been unusually diligent this evening.”

  “Anyone would think we were committing a crime the way we have to sneak around,” she said, locking the gate. She turned to look at him. He always looked perfect, she thought enviously. She always looked thrown together. She had been in such a hurry to go to him that she had done little more than tuck her own hair under her mother’s wig and throw a cloak over her petticoats. She ran with him across the park in her bare feet, her teeth chattering.

  As they reached the gate on the other side, she caught his arm.

  “The constable,” she said softly.

  It was so perfectly quiet that he was moved to quote Macbeth. “‘Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtained sleep.’ All the good people of Bath are in their beds, sleeping.”

  She reached for his face. “It’s just you, and me, and the bloody constable makes three,” she whispered, pressing her mouth to his. Her mouth and hands were cold.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s get you warm.”

  He unlocked the gate, and together they went up the steps to his door. She slipped inside the warm house first. Benedict was in the act of following her, when a voice startled him.

  “You, there!”

  He turned. The busy constable was running up the street with his lantern. Cosima stood just inside the door, holding her breath.
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br />   “Yes, Watchman?” Benedict said pleasantly.

  The constable stopped to catch his breath. “I beg your pardon, sir!” he panted. “I thought I saw a woman, sir!”

  “Do I look like a woman to you?” Benedict asked sternly.

  “No, sir!” stammered the watchman. “I think she went into the park.”

  “Only residents of Camden Place are given keys to the park,” Benedict said sternly. “You must have been hallucinating.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the constable, unwilling to openly disagree with one of his betters. “But we’ve had reports, sir, of a woman thief. Only last week a gentleman was stripped, robbed, and left tied to a tree in that park. You’ll want to be careful, sir.”

  “He had it coming,” said Benedict.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing. Thank you, Constable.”

  He entered the house and closed the door. “I’m a very bad man,” he said sadly. “Lying to a constable of the Watch.”

  “I think you’re nice,” she said, opening the door to the study.

  “I can’t let you do this anymore,” Benedict told her sternly when they were safely in his study. “It’s too dangerous. I shudder to think what might have happened if that brute managed to get his hands on you.”

  She sat down on the ottoman in front of the fire and peeled off her wet stockings, stuffing them into the pocket of her cloak. She put her cold feet up on the fender. The warmth of the fire felt lovely. She unclasped her cloak and let it fall, stretching out her bare arms toward the fire. She fully expected him to try to ravish her, and she was not quite sure she wanted to continue resisting. It was a moot point, however. The gentleman made no attempt to ravish her.

  Instead, Benedict poured her a brandy, and insisted that she accept it. She took a cautious sip. He poured one for himself and looked at her: “Miss Cherry” in her white “dress” with her red “hair” spilling down her back was a beautiful sight.

  “If I were a man, he wouldn’t bother me,” she said resentfully.

  “If you were a gentleman, he wouldn’t bother you,” he corrected her.

  She looked at him shyly. “It was nice of you to walk me through the park, though.”

  He finished his drink all in one. “Come,” he said, going out of the room through the side door. She followed him, but stopped on the threshold of his fire-lit bedroom. The big bed of carved oak dominated the space. With its dark, half-closed curtains it looked like a small stage. The threshold was cold marble. She gulped down the rest of her brandy and took one small step onto the plush rug. She was in a man’s bedroom. A gentleman’s bedroom, she corrected herself.

  “I don’t know, Ben,” she called to him nervously. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  He appeared in a doorway on the other side of the room. “Get in here, you fool,” he said impatiently. He disappeared again.

  She walked slowly past the bed, as if fearing that someone might jump out and attack her. His black robe and white nightshirt had been neatly laid out on the coverlet—by his valet, no doubt. The master’s slippers were on the floor waiting for him.

  In the next chamber, he was lighting the candles in the sconces on either side of a huge, floor-length mirror. The other walls were shrouded in black crepe. Cosima shivered. “What are you doing, Ben?” she asked fearfully. “What is this place?”

  He looked at her, candlelight dancing in his eyes. “This? This is my dressing room,” he said, tugging at her hand.

  She resisted him. “What’s behind the black curtains?” she asked fearfully.

  “What? Mirrors, I’m sorry to say. For a gouty old man, Skeldings certainly was vain.”

  Superstitious dread took hold of her. “Mirrors! Why did you cover them up?” she cried. “Are you practicing black magic or something?”

  “Black magic?” he scoffed. “Don’t be silly. Unlike Skeldings, I am essentially a modest man. I don’t need to see myself from every angle. In fact, I prefer not to. Now, get in here.”

  He dragged her inside, and closed the door. Turning around, she saw that even the back of the door was shrouded in black crepe. She gasped as his hand touched her shoulder and whirled around to face him. “Why have you brought me in here?” she asked, trembling.

  “Clothes make the man,” he said enigmatically, pressing against the frame of the only mirror that had been left uncovered. To her astonishment, a door opened.

  “How did you do that?” she whispered in awe of his supernatural powers.

  “There’s a spring mechanism,” he replied, making her feel foolish. “This is my closet. I thought I might lend you some of my clothes. From a distance, you would look like a gentleman, and the constable would leave you alone. Trousers or breeches?”

  She gaped at him.

  “Trousers or breeches, girl?”

  “I like what you’re wearing now,” she finally volunteered. “You always look so nice.”

  “I see. You want the clothes from my back,” he said. “Very well.”

  He pushed her behind the mirrored door. The cool, dark closet smelled strongly of cedar.

  “You can change in there,” he explained, overriding her protests.

  It took her but a few seconds to slip out of her petticoats. He handed her his clothing piece by piece, but instead of putting them on, she stood numb and mute as she watched him undress. She had seen him nude before, but she had not thought him attractive. Now the sight of him fascinated her.

  His manhood was not in retreat now as it had been in her cold kitchen. Almost scarlet, it stood up proudly. Looking at it, she could not help but think of how he had used the women in the brothels. Had they liked it?

  “Everything all right in there?” he called.

  “Aye!” She picked up his clothes, still warm from his body, and began to put them on. They smelled of him. He had even unpinned the sleeve of his coat for her. She found this simple act of thoughtfulness ridiculously touching.

  When she stepped out of the closet in her new clothes, he was just returning from the bedroom. The nightshirt and robe that had been waiting on the bed had found their way onto the master’s body. The slippers that had been waiting for him were on his feet. If he knew she had been spying on him, he gave no sign.

  He studied her critically. The coat was big in the shoulders. The trousers were a little too long, and too big in the waist, but her womanly hips held them up. Who knew I had womanly hips? she thought, looking at herself in the mirror. She even had a bottom, apparently.

  She assured him that, although she was no seamstress, she would be able to take the breeches in at the waist. Instead of stockings and shoes, he gave her a pair of boots. There was a padded bench in the dressing room. She sat down and pulled the boots on. They were too big. She would have to stuff the toes with newspaper.

  Benedict guided her through the process of tying a neckcloth. The result was lopsided. “It will do, I suppose,” he said finally. “It’s just for show. Like Nora’s three shillings.”

  Nora was, in fact, laying in wait for her young lady when she came home. Her dark eyes started when she saw Cosima’s male attire. He had even given her his best silk hat, beneath which she had tucked as much hair as she could.

  “What’s the bad man done to you now, Miss Cosy?” she cried.

  “Nothing!” replied the young lady, promptly bursting into sobs.

  Chapter 11

  Serena cared about as much for Merovingian art as she did for Italian love songs, but she enjoyed any social gathering that Lady Matlock did not attend. When the countess was not underfoot, Serena was the highest ranking lady in Bath, a privilege she greatly enjoyed.

  As Serena’s escort, Benedict was fortunate enough to be allowed to fetch her ladyship’s lemonade, fan, and shawl. Long ago, he had accepted the yoke of social obligation, but never before had he been forced to take the cold metal bit of it into his mouth. He didn’t like the taste.

  “How is little Miss Vaughn?” Serena asked him, bu
t, fortunately, she could not be bothered to wait for a reply. “Lady Dalrymple has been telling me such interesting stories about Miss Vaughn and no less a personage than the Duke of Kellynch.”

  Serena intoned the name of this notorious philanderer in a keen whisper.

  “Apparently, His Grace visited Miss Vaughn several times when the Dalrymples were staying at this place of hers in Ireland, this so-called castle. But, curiously, none of the Kellynch ladies ever did. It would seem our wild Irish girl is not as pure as she would have us believe.”

  “What utter nonsense,” Benedict snapped. “The Duke of Kellynch is the patron of her father’s regiment. It is only natural that His Grace should take an interest in the welfare of the colonel’s wife and children.”

  Serena laughed gaily, drawing looks from the lecturer, a small, dry man, who evidently took his Merovingian art very seriously. “His Grace has but one interest in my sex. You and I both know the name Kellynch is a byword for debauchery. Same as his father before him.” She glanced at him archly. “Oh, I am sorry. I had forgotten that the lady is a distant cousin of yours. But, perhaps, the relationship is closer than we had thought?”

  Benedict silently cursed himself. His attempt to defend Miss Vaughn was only making Serena suspicious. “I would hate to see any lady’s reputation diminished by vicious gossip,” he said. “That is all.”

  “A lady must live a life above reproach to deserve being called so.”

  “If Kellynch did have designs on the girl, it would appear she has eluded him in coming to Bath. That must be to her credit.”

  “Perhaps he has grown tired of her,” Serena suggested.

  Something almost like a snort escaped the gentleman.

  Serena read him like a book. “You do not think it possible that any man could grow tired of the beautiful Miss Vaughn, I collect. Indeed, sir, you are discomposed! I seem to have stumbled upon a secret. Now that I think of it, Miss Vaughn does look at you a great deal.”

  “Nonsense.”

  She laughed. “I am not accusing you of anything. I am well aware that you have no intention of marrying her. You need someone to preside at your table, a consummate hostess. Someone who can further your political ambitions. That is decidedly not Miss Vaughn.”