In the Flesh. Portia Da Costa
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man, the blond one. Did he say who sent him? Does he look as if he’s in service with a gentleman?”
Polly’s eyes narrowed and her full mouth took on a sultry expression. Beatrice didn’t need telling that the mysterious message carrier and his associate had made an impression, and stirred up her maid’s frisky side.
“Well, he’s a smart sort of chap. He doesn’t look like a toff, but he’s well set up. Very well set up.” Polly cocked her head on one side, and licked her lips. “They both are, Miss Bea. If I was in the position to get a letter, I wouldn’t mind getting one from either of them, I must admit.” Did Polly wink? Beatrice could swear she had done. She gave the girl an old-fashioned look, and Polly, used to being absurdly indulged, replied with a shrug.
“Did he say who sent him, this spokesman of the pair, who the letter is from?”
“It’s from a gentleman of your recent acquaintance, he said. Said you’d be expecting it too.” Polly nodded at the envelope, where it lay on the bedcover like an incendiary device clad in heavy cream bond. “Aren’t you going to open it now, miss?”
“All in good time, all in good time.” She didn’t look up. Clever Polly had instincts like a razor. Especially when she scented something juicy going on. “You can go back down and inform this man in charge of yours that I’ll reply when I’m good and ready. He and his friend can wait if they so desire, but they might be here all day, and I’m sure whoever sent them has other duties for them.”
“Yes, miss. I’ll tell him that exactly.” Polly’s eyes twinkled when Beatrice finally lifted her gaze, and she adjusted her cap and straightened her apron. “But I don’t really think he’s my man in charge at all, miss. In fact I think his mate is much more my fancy. A bit rough and ready and I like them that way.”
“Polly!”
Beatrice was well aware of what the other woman liked, and it wasn’t always as rough and ready as she’d just claimed.
“Would you like some tea, miss? For while you read your letter?”
Beatrice quelled a smile. Incorrigible as she was, Polly’s heart was kind. The two of them had been together a long time, and circumstances had forged a bond between them far beyond a conventional mistress and servant status. Beatrice was tempted to confide. But she really had to read the letter on her own first, and absorb its import without even Polly to distract her.
“Yes, thank you, Polly. And you might as well give your men some tea too.”
Polly bobbed a curtsy and retrieved the silver tray. “Shall I wake Mr. Charles then?” She paused, her eyes shrewd. “Or will you deal with it, miss?”
To involve Charlie now would only cause a disturbance. He’d want to play his “man of the house” role, as any brother guardian quite naturally would. But it would be easier to present this to him as a fait accompli, with all the financial advantage it entailed already in place. He’d been strangely distracted last night in the carriage, and had barely spoken, his face relaxed and dreamy. It was probably much kinder to leave him in the dark for the moment and let him enjoy whatever it’d been that had put him in such a gentle good humor. He’d only get cross if he knew a certain person had come calling, and be both outraged and enraged—with perfect justification—on learning exactly what that person had come calling about.
“No, let him sleep, Polly. And don’t mention our visitors until I’ve seen him.” Polly’s nod spoke volumes about her understanding of her employers, and Beatrice nodded back with a resigned little shrug.
But as her maid reached the door, Beatrice called out. “This man … the one who seems to be in charge. Does his fair hair have a bit of curl about it?” Her hands shook as she studied her own name, written in strong, energetic script on the heavy, expensive-looking envelope.
“Why yes, Miss Beatrice, how did you guess? That’s him to a tee.”
Beatrice picked at the seal on the back of the envelope with the edge of her nail. “And his eyes, did you by any chance catch a glimpse of them? They wouldn’t happen to be blue, would they?”
Polly’s smile was sly, even more speculative than before. “Yes indeed. Dark as night they are, almost black, a bit like India ink, Miss.”
Beatrice ripped open the envelope, tearing the single sheet inside in the process, and when the faint but distinctive scent of a most particular cologne rose up from the paper, her body quivered as if its wearer was reading over her shoulder.
THE OFFER WAS utterly ridiculous.
You’re buying my body for a month, Mr. Ritchie, not my immortal soul in perpetuity!
Not that Ritchie’s largesse wasn’t tempting. Although she tried not to be a greedy and acquisitive woman, Beatrice was honest enough to admit she enjoyed life’s comforts: books and journals; a pleasantly appointed home and tasty food; the occasional new gown or pair of shoes, and outings or at-homes at which to wear them. Yes, she liked all those very much. But the blinding, almost obscene luxury of the high aristocracy wasn’t her particular aspiration. She just wanted to live a middling life without any debts, and the fear of bailiffs and moneylenders’ toughs she would gladly say goodbye to.
But this many thousands? On top of their outstanding debt paid and an annuity apiece for life for her and Charlie? That was absurd. A woman would have to be a combination of Cleopatra, Delilah, Madame de Pompadour and the famous Mrs. Langtry in order to merit such bounty, and Beatrice hadn’t got time to learn but a thousandth of their tricks. She’d need access to all the under-the-counter books in Holywell Street and more for an education to match Ritchie’s extravagance.
I wonder if Sofia can provide me with a few tips?
It would be rather embarrassing quizzing her friend on such intimate topics, and even more so, revealing why she needed the knowledge, but after seeing Sofia’s performance last night in the conservatory, it was clear that the older woman was well versed in the sexual arts.
And then there was always Polly, who seemed to know everything about everything.
Despite these potential wells of wisdom, it was still going to be hard providing Ritchie with value for money. Especially when she was still technically a virgin—despite what had happened with Eustace—and her cavortings with Ritchie last night were the furthest extent of her amatory experience.
No, she’d have to insist on a lesser sum. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was a lecherous manipulative rogue, but she still couldn’t bring herself to cheat him. She’d take only enough to pay off the debts that she and Charlie had incurred, and a modest sum to cover their needs while her brother found some kind of sensible paying employment that didn’t offend his gentlemanly sensibilities and where he couldn’t effect any further financial chaos. After that, a little extra to set herself up in a typewriting and secretarial concern for persons of quality.
Good. That’s a decision smartly made. How cool-headed I am in a crisis.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. There was no doubt who the taller man was, but why on earth would he choose to resort to such subterfuge? Was he trying to discover secrets about her from the servants? Some further skeleton in her closet with which to exert additional leverage over her? That seemed very much his modus operandi.
But even if there was a skeleton, Polly wouldn’t reveal it. And neither would Cook nor Enid, she hoped, at least not deliberately. Unlike some ladies of her acquaintance, Beatrice always endeavored to treat the servants as well as she would like to have been treated herself in their situation. She even helped out with domestic chores as best she could now that the household was much reduced, and she hoped that her efforts to lighten the load offset Charlie’s occasional airs and graces.
So, Mr. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, you’ll be disappointed if you’re hoping to find any scandalous morsels about me around the kitchen hearth. I’ve done nothing more wicked than I did with you last night! All my scandalous morsels