Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart. Diane Gaston
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not been much different growing up with her father. Baron Hart was always much too busy with some diplomatic crisis or another to attend to a little girl. As a result, Morgana had always formed attachments to the others around her, servants and governesses, short-lived as they were with her father’s frequent moves. It seemed natural for Morgana to consider Lucy’s problems as her own. She hoped to brighten the girl’s mood and encourage her to stay.
But Lucy tied the ribbons of her bonnet with a desultory air. Determined to be cheerful, Morgana led the girl to the pavement. As they neared the corner of the street, a gentleman approached.
He tipped his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hart.’
It was Mr Sloane’s secretary. ‘How do you do, Mr Elliot. How nice to see you again.’
Mr Elliot’s eyes wandered to Lucy, and she, in turn, regarded him shyly from beneath her long lashes. Morgana did so like this young man. His expression towards the maid held nothing but kindness.
‘My maid and I are going for a walk in the park.’
He touched the brim of his hat again. ‘I will not detain you.’
Lucy lagged behind Morgana as they crossed the street and turned towards one of the park entrances. As Morgana had anticipated, there were plenty of people enjoying the fine day. Governesses letting their charges run about while they passed time flirting with young men. Shopgirls and workmen eyeing each other with interest. There was even the occasional curricle and cavalryman exercising his horse.
They walked in silence for a very long time. As they reached the Serpentine and stood gazing at the water, Lucy spoke. ‘I think I’ll be leaving your house, miss.’
Morgana turned to her. ‘Oh, no, Lucy!’
The girl kept her gaze on the water. ‘I cannot stay. I’ve been thinking about it all the time. I must go.’
‘You cannot.’ She felt like grabbing Lucy and shaking sense into her. ‘The life you seek is no life for any girl.’
Lucy lifted a hand to her brow. ‘Lots of girls is in it, miss. I heard of a madam who treats her girls fair well.’
A madam. Morgana cringed at the thought of Lucy in such an establishment, where men came to pay for favours. Neither love nor the creation of children would enter into the transaction. Why, Lucy might catch a disease, one that could kill her.
Morgana had learned about such things when she kept her father’s house in Spain. She’d overheard plenty from the men who called upon her father and from servants’ talk. And, of course, the memory of the Portuguese girl always hovered in the recesses of her mind.
She wanted to spare Lucy such a life, but what did she have to offer her in exchange? A life of hard work, no matter how kind she was as an employer?
‘Lucy, what if I could procure some other sort of work for you?’
‘Like what, miss?’ Lucy asked, with little interest.
Morgana thought for a moment. It would be difficult to convince anyone to hire a maid to do another sort of job, but she could at least try. ‘In a shop, perhaps.’
‘And stand on my feet all day? I could not do it.’ Lucy shook her head.
Morgana racked her brain to think of other jobs. For every one, Lucy gave an excuse.
A nurse? Lucy hated sick people.
A governess? Worse than a maid, Lucy vowed. Besides she was not good at learning.
A seamstress? It would ruin her eyes.
‘What if I set you up in a business, like a shop of some sort?’ Morgana was grasping at straws, but she could probably get her father to release enough money for a little shop.
‘I cannot do sums, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said. ‘Besides, m’mind’s made up on the matter. I’m going to go to the bawdy house.’
Morgana took Lucy’s hands in hers and made the girl face her. ‘I believe you are making a very bad mistake, Lucy.’ She spoke in a calm but firm voice. ‘It is not too late to live a virtuous life. I am happy to employ you and keep you as part of my household. I will not make you work too hard. In time you will meet a young man who will want to marry you—’
‘No!’ Lucy wrenched out of her grasp. ‘There is no marriage for a girl like me. I want to go to the madam. She pays her girls well, I heard. That is what I want, Miss Hart. I want money and pretty dresses.’
It was no use. Morgana stared at Lucy for a long time, but could think of nothing else to say. Finally, she turned back in the direction they had come. ‘Let us make our way home.’
They returned to the path. Walking silently a few steps in front of Lucy, Morgana waited while a carriage rumbled past.
Through the carriage window she spied the auburn-haired woman she’d seen at the opera. Harriette Wilson. The woman laughed gaily and happened to turn towards Morgana, giving her a smile of recognition and of something else—something rather smug and defiant, Morgana thought.
Next to Miss Wilson, Morgana spied a gentleman, but she could not see who it was. The carriage, however, was an expensive one, and the horses, matched bays, were very fine indeed.
After the carriage passed, Morgana could not make herself move. She was frozen by a thought flying through her head.
‘Miss Hart?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.
Morgana swung around and grabbed the girl by the upper arms. ‘Lucy, I have an idea. A much better idea than you running off to that bawdy house!’
Lucy tried to pull away. ‘I’m not staying, miss. My mind is made up.’
‘Oh, yes! You will stay! For a while at least.’ Morgana knew this idea was mad, but rather than consign Lucy to a life akin to slavery, she could set the girl free.
‘You do not have to be beholden to a madam or a procurer or any of those sordid persons. You can be like that woman who just drove by!’
Lucy gaped at her as if she were indeed bound for Bedlam. ‘I cannot be like her, miss! She was a lady.’
Morgana laughed. ‘No, Lucy, that’s the thing! She was not a lady. She was a courtesan!’
Lucy regarded her with a blank expression.
Morgana explained what a courtesan was. For the rest of the walk home, she talked about how handsomely gentlemen paid for the favours of such women. How courtesans could own property and fine clothes and jewels. She explained that a courtesan did not have to obey the dictates of a brothel madam. She did not have to take just any man into her bed. A courtesan could choose her gentlemen, and no one could tell her what to do. A courtesan could look gay and carefree like Harriette Wilson, not empty and hopeless like the Portuguese girl.
‘But I do not know how to be a courtesan!’ Lucy protested.
‘I shall teach you,’ Morgana said, her excitement building.
‘You, miss?’ Lucy cried in horrified tones.
‘Well, I cannot teach you all of it,’ Morgana admitted. ‘But I know how to teach you to walk and talk and dress. We shall find tutors for the rest.’ This was the right course, Morgana knew. How to precisely bring it all about was less certain, but she was determined to save Lucy from the bleak existence of a common whore. If she could not convince the girl to live a virtuous life, at least she could train her to be as gay and free and flush with funds as Harriette Wilson.
They had reached the house and Morgana stopped before the front door. ‘What say you, Lucy?’
Lucy stared down at the pavement. As Cripps opened the door for them, she looked up at Morgana. ‘I will do it, Miss Hart.’
Morgana grasped her hand and squeezed it, then she led the maid into the house past the butler, who, Morgana suspected, did not approve of her friendly manner towards a lower servant.