Grave New World Page 4

  The woman laughed in a patronizing way. “She cannot compete on a stage where there is but one actor, sir.”

  “Fielding, I bid you a restless evening,” I said as I waved to my bewildered friend. I opened the carriage door and seated myself inside the extravagant vehicle. When I faced the lovely woman sitting in front of me, I noticed her body was just as appealing as her face. Her lush, round breasts were practically spilling out of her silk gown. “Your name, madam?”

  “The Dowager Countess of Loamshire,” she answered with confidence. “But you may call me Lady Meg.”

  “Lady Meg,” I repeated, reaching for her gloved hand and bringing it to my lips. “It is my fondest pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bram

  1726 London

  I found it perplexing, to say the least, that the Countess of Loamshire should approach me, a stranger, with an invitation to spend the evening with her. While she was certainly coy with regard to her intentions, I thought it quite apparent that she wished to indulge my baser and more carnal desires.

  “I must admit,” I began as soon as the carriage started its bumpy journey over the cobbled road. “I am quite surprised by the change in this evening’s course of events.”

  “I daresay this evening will alter the course of your life’s events for good,” she said with a languid smile. Her smile intrigued me because I could not read it. And that surprised me. Ordinarily, I found most women to be trifling, predictable, petty, and silly creatures whose sole existence remained exclusively to soothe and nurture my … let us say, ignoble needs. I had never found myself enraptured with one in particular, which is not to insinuate that the Lady Meg was any exception; however ...

  “What business should a high-born dowager have in the mean streets of London at this hour, madam?” I continued as I eyed her narrowly. “It is fortunate that your path crossed mine and not the path of some scallywag who might wish to do you harm.”

  At hearing this, she threw her head back and laughed heartily, revealing a full set of teeth that were pearly white. As to the lady’s age, I must admit, I was uncertain. The sheen of her hair, the sparkle in her eyes and the rosy hue of her cheeks would all combine to suggest she was not quite twenty years of age, and yet, the air in which she carried herself made me wonder if she were far older.

  “I believe it is you who are the lucky one,” she remarked as her cat eyes rested on mine and she smiled mischievously. “Otherwise, you could have spent your evening lying with a woman whom I imagine was probably infested with lice.”

  I chuckled heartily. “Lice would be the least of my concerns.”

  Although it was a sensitive topic of discussion and not one I was accustomed to discoursing with a lady, there was something about the dowager that struck me as ultimately masculine. As a dowager, she was also a widow, a title I imagined ultimately responsible for her maturity in understanding and situation. I also believed it must have been the reason for why she was now combing the streets of London in the wee hours, when most of the elite were tucked safely away in their beds, dreaming of the finer things in life. Having most probably lost her husband to disease, she could no longer afford the lavish lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. Thus, she had no choice but to earn a shilling by selling her body.

  As the creaky carriage began slowing, I glanced outside only to find we were now arrived in front of a palatial estate. I was surprised at the hastiness of our trip and would have guessed it could not have been any longer than thirty minutes. Regardless, the front of the monstrous edifice boasted eighteen windows, evenly distributed among the three stories. In the low light provided by the burning lamps that hugged the entryway, I perceived the verdant, lush grounds, which were meticulously manicured. The dowager’s home certainly did not look in disrepair, although I daresay such was not the case with her pocketbook.

  “I will have Ernest draw you a bath,” she said before the carriage door opened. The driver assisted her to the ground below.

  “Whatever for?” I asked, feeling as dumbfounded as I must have sounded.

  “To wash the day’s dirt and grime from your body,” she responded coolly. She started walking toward the entrance of her grand estate, an elegant sway to her hips. Naturally, I followed as I pictured the carnal activities in which I would soon find myself.

  “I prefer not to partake in bathing as a rule,” I started as soon as I caught up to her. I watched her doorman open the colossal, dark wooden door before she entered with a solemn nod in his direction. I followed her, jumping only slightly when I heard the sound of the heavy door closing behind me. “There are rumors that bathing is very harmful to one’s body.”

  She turned around to face me and frowned. “Yes, so I am aware. I imagine such rumors were started by those same imbeciles who are so gravely afraid of fresh air, they insist that it causes consumption, and thus, they seal all of their windows tightly shut.”

  “I see … Then you do not believe that bathing is harmful to one’s health?” I asked, feeling rather confounded. She led me to the base of an extremely wide and long staircase. Grasping the banister with her tiny, pale hand, she turned around and laughed at me.

  “Of course I do not believe it! I am a civilized and cultured person!” The laugh faded as she studied me. “As are you, my dear guest, and yet you choose to frolic with people so far beneath you.” She started up the stairs, and I followed directly behind her. I was more than surprised by her acerbic candor.

  “Fielding?” I asked rhetorically. As we reached the top of the stairs, she instructed another of her servants, whom I supposed was Ernest, to draw a bath. I found his mode of attire quite unusual—he was dressed as an Ottoman Turk, in a long, flowing tunic that appeared to be constructed from some kind of exotic Eastern silk. On his head, he wore a turban, even though I was fairly certain he was by birth an Englishman.

  I was not allowed more time to further ponder Ernest’s bizarre attire when the lady started to traverse the long, narrow hallway until she reached a door. Turning the key in the lock, she opened it and entered before holding the door wider for me. I studied her, but felt unexpectedly taken off guard. She had mesmerizing eyes that seemed to look right through me.

  “Yes, Fielding is a good example,” she answered with a brief nod. Bringing her index finger to her lips, she examined me with undeniable intrigue. “You are a gentleman and yet you do not associate with those of your own ilk, never mind your own class. Why is that, pray tell?”

  Ernest entered the dark room with a very large pitcher of water, which he summarily poured into a copper bathtub that was lined with linen and sitting right in the center of the room. He was followed by a second manservant carrying another large jug of water. Like Ernest, this servant was dressed in the same outmoded costume. I had no notion what possessed the men to wear such fashions, so I could only hypothesize that their peculiar apparel was owing to the lady’s eccentric inclinations.

  I watched the second man empty his jug into the bathtub, which was so immense, I believe it could have easily accommodated two grown men. Lady Meg strolled the entire perimeter of the room, lighting the torches that hung from the wall. The yellow flickering of the firelight imbued the room with a jaundiced warmth. As I glanced around the capacious chamber, I noticed the only other objects were an oversized bed, generously adorned with numerous pillows and exotic silks of many colors, and a small table at the side of the bed.

  The lady cleared her throat. Caught daydreaming, I instantly realized I had not answered her question as to why I preferred the company of Fielding to that of the men in my own class. “There is not a single day that goes by when I do not find myself confronted with some form of trouble whilst I am cavorting with Fielding,” I answered. “Sadly, I have found the companionship of my peers sorely lacking in that department.”

  “You fancy yourself a mischief-maker then?” she asked with renewed interest. Ernest and the second manservant left the room, onl
y to return a few minutes later with two more large jugs of water which they promptly emptied into the copper bathtub.

  “I enjoy many amusements and diversions, certainly,” I answered with a quick nod.

  “Speaking of diversions, I presume you attended the entertainment earlier this afternoon at Tyburn Tree?” she asked. Her left eyebrow rose and the expression on her face resembled what a mother might show to her naughty child.

  “I must admit I have grown very tired of hangings,” I answered. Shaking my head, I silently wondered when we could turn our conversation to something more … pleasurable and gratifying.

  “Is not the public punishment of criminals everyone’s favorite distraction?” she inquired. “Whippings, floggings, the pillory,” she listed on her fingers with a long sigh, and an undeniable expression of ennui. “Is there nothing better than witnessing the last words of a doomed man? Whether they be a dramatic declaration of innocence, a request for a reprieve, or even a courageous farewell? Do they not bring a tear to the eye of even those with the coldest of hearts?” she replied with a slight laugh.

  “I do not care for such events. I find the distractions of the flesh and other carnal delights much more intriguing,” I answered before dropping my gaze onto her ample breasts.

  “All in good time, monsieur,” she said with a seductive smile. “I find myself growing more curious about you …”

  “And I fear I only grow bored when the subject of discussion is myself,” I replied succinctly. When her servants vacated the room again, I approached her. She remained standing beside the bathtub, so I hesitantly dipped my fingers into the water and was pleasantly surprised by the comfortably warm temperature.

  “What subjects in particular do you find most interesting,” she started to say, but I interrupted her.

  “I realize I have not properly introduced myself,” I interjected before she instantly took a step forward while bringing her index finger to my lips, thus silencing me.

  “I do not care to know your name,” she explained. “Names are useless labels. They do nothing to portray the character or personality of anyone, and hence, are impersonal and, in my mind, obsolete.”

  I chuckled at her peculiar view of the world. She was quite amusing, to say the least, but also intoxicating. “Very well, my anonymity is assured and you will have no inkling of my identity. Besides, I would rather learn more about you anyway.”

  “What would you like to know about me?” she asked with an enchanting smile. The second manservant reentered the room and poured another pitcher of water into the hot bath. When he started to leave, she stopped him.

  “Antoine,” she began while motioning to her gown, “assist me with my garment, please.”

  The Frenchman, which I naturally assumed from his name, nodded briefly but said nothing in reply. Carefully setting his empty jug on the floor beside her, he silently walked behind her and slowly began untying the bodice of her gown. She watched me like a spider observes a fly and smiled at my unmasked astonishment.

  “Does it surprise you to see my manservant undressing me?” she asked with a cruel smile that conveyed her enjoyment in perplexing me.

  I shrugged. “Yes, I believe most ladies employ a maidservant to do such tasks.”

  She shook her head. “As a rule, I do not employ female servants,” she tersely replied. Antoine gently removed the bodice of her gown, revealing a linen and whale-bone corset, which she wore beneath. He methodically started untying the taut ribbons of the corset as I cleared my throat, clearly becoming uncomfortable. “May I inquire if Antoine makes you ill at ease?” she asked with a strange smile that I could only describe as coquettish.

  “I must confess that it does. I cannot deny it.”

  She shook her head as if it were an inevitable pity. “I am so sorry to hear that. I was hoping he could join us?”

  “Certainly not!” I snapped, affronted by the very thought.

  She held her hand up ostensibly to silence me and calm my unveiled anger. “I jest,” she said with a snicker. Antoine removed the corset and freed her voluptuous breasts, which dropped into a most comely teardrop shape. Her rosy nipples stood out proudly beneath her white chemise.

  “I fear we have not yet discussed your compensation,” I suddenly remembered. Clearing my throat, I glared at Antoine, hoping to convey unambiguously that I did not appreciate his presence in the room any longer. “Shall I assume your fee exceeds that of Kitty Fischer?”

  “The bedroom is no place to negotiate financial intricacies,” she responded in a clipped tone. I worried that I might have annoyed her with such materialistic concerns.

  “I understand, madam, but I do not wish for our engagement to become a source of ill will if I am too poor to afford your fee,” I started with a slow smile, for my pockets were deep.

  “I am not interested in your money,” she replied tersely. Her eyes settled on the crotch of my trousers, and I felt myself stiffening involuntarily. “Tell me this, do you consider a woman who lies with a man merely for sport a prostitute?”

  My eyes widened with wonder. “No,” I answered as soon as I considered it.

  “Then, must a prostitute, by definition, always accept a fee for her services?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I believe that is so.”

  “And do you imagine that a prostitute could also be a proper lady?” she inquired as Antoine continued his task of undressing her. He was busily untying the pannier from around her waist, and pulled the wretched device, which I can only compare to a cage, down her legs before she gracefully stepped out of the apparatus. She was now wearing nothing more than her gossamer chemise, which fell to her waist, and a pair of pantalets that ended at her shins. My eyes nearly popped out of my skull when I realized the pantalets she wore were absent a crotch, and the dark strands of her lady hair were fully displayed.

  “She most certainly cannot,” I answered defiantly. My jaw was growing tighter as I forced my gaze back to her eyes.

  “It is such a fascinating subject, do you not agree? Prostitutes have stimulated the economical well-being of the cities in which they work, and many have become leaders of London fashion,” she announced authoritatively. Meanwhile, Antoine bent down in front of her and began to unlace the ties of her shoes. I could not argue with her statement, although I had never considered the subject before.

  “I contend that a prostitute is the closest a woman can come to adopting the habits, urges and nature of a man. Would you agree with that?” she persisted.

  “That sounds utterly absurd,” I replied, my breathing coming in spurts. I was very much distracted and little of my attention was still focused on the conversation. Instead, I found I could not tear my gaze from the shiny darkness of the hair between her legs.

  She allowed Antoine to remove one shoe and then the other before she replied, “A prostitute must assume the very masculine position of self-ownership in order to market herself, am I not correct?” She daintily approached the table beside the bed and made me very much aware that the back of her pantalets were also absent, revealing two milky, round buttocks.

  I nodded before shaking my head, and finding it well beyond difficult to unfasten my eyes from the glorious vision of her backside. “No woman can be forced into selling her body. There are plenty of other ways for a female to sustain herself. She could, perhaps, find a lucrative career in sewing, for example.”

  “Sewing?” she repeated incredulously. She turned to face me and laughed indelicately as she shook her head in disagreement.

  “I fail to understand the reason why we are discussing prostitutes when you have quite clearly proven you are not one,” I replied impatiently. She was beginning to leave me with a frustrated sensation, because the conversation she chose was less than enthralling.

  She reached for a decanter that was placed on a tray upon the side table along with two crystal glasses. Lifting one of them, she filled the glass with a rosy liquid and turned around, handing the libation to me.


  “What is it?”

  “Vermouth,” she replied, and I wondered if there was anything about her that would not astound me.

  “I know not of it,” I remarked as I swirled the unfamiliar beverage around the sides of the glass before bringing it to my nostrils and sniffing it. It certainly smelled of alcohol, though sweet.

  “The Italians produce it,” she informed me as she motioned for me to sample it. “I do not believe it has yet found much popularity in Great Britain.”

  Lifting the strange drink to my lips, I opened them only slightly before tipping the glass upward, lest my senses determine the fluid to be offensive. While mildly bitter, the Italian concoction was also remarkably sweet, and I quite liked it.

  “Well?” she asked, barely concealing an expectant smile.

  “It is rather appealing; and I approve without compromise,” I answered quickly. Swallowing the remainder of the lovely libation, I remembered that Antoine still remained in the room. “However, I must object and do not approve of manservants eavesdropping,” I added icily, while frowning in the general direction of Antoine. It certainly did not help things that he was also French …

  The lady tittered, although it was not a feminine sound at all, but a sultry plea for my undivided attention. She turned to face her manservant and nodded dismissively. “Please leave us now, Antoine; your services are no longer required or desired this evening.”

  The Frenchman said nothing, although he nodded rather sullenly as he walked to the door. His padded feet made no sound whatsoever. He opened and closed the door behind him, as silent as a spook.

  “We find ourselves alone at last,” I said as I approached her. My only intention now should have been quite obvious to her; I was veritably itching to bury myself deeply inside her.

  “Yes,” she said as a mischievous smile contorted her mouth. “Now begins our game of cat and mouse.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bram