Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO part 1

“Fetch her down here!”  

Lord Rispian’s voice boomed like a cannon-shot across the hushed room, for all those alert and sober enough, and with the money ready to part with, had stood reclined, or merely reposed in signatory candidature, whilst the vermilion vision had been conducted to a podium prior to the bargaining for her favours. “This is how you repay me, eh, Madame? Rightly named Madame!” He all but spat the words out. “I trust you with the safe-keeping of this young girl and this is how you repay my faith in you! I will be master yet to you, Madame d’Esprit. Oh no, give me not reproachful looks nor remonstrations! I know of certain things which would have you hanged in more scrupulous quarters!” 

The last sentence he had whispered, hard and low, into her ear, for he had located the Mistress of Ceremonies and had her hoisted securely beneath his solid grasp. Many eyes stared at the English lord, foreigner – and some might say interloper -- that he appeared to be, for he was not without that charismatic quality. Presence.  

Charity, brought from off her pedestal, by Hinches (another of Lord Rispian’s men), stumbled as she was conducted through the mass, a pathway having been made for her rambling constitutional. 

A few of the more laconically minded aristocrats present were smiling cynically at one another, awaiting the outcome of this timely - or untimely, depending on one's desires - distraction. Lord Rispian eyed the sagging girl, who, even as he did so, began to giggle hysterically, embarrassed by the arena she had been dragged through. There was more than an edge of idiocy to that blabbering laughter. Rispian looked at Madame, who had blanched whiter than the Alps under the layer of rouge she had incantated upon her high and savage cheekbones. Her eyes were glittering like frozen, wintertime pools, devoid of any colour. 

She was breathing hard and fast, trying to control her anger and her fear. She had been found out and to preserve, not least, her professional repute, she had best do some fast calculating.  

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, MADAME? More of your damned sorceries? You know, you amused me once with your tricks, your chants, your rituals, your potions, your lotions and your brews... but ... now!”

Lord Rispian’s face was turning a livid lobster red, the muscles in his bull-like neck were clenched into minute fighting fists. “However, just to assure ourselves that we are discussing the same party, let us remove her mask.” 

Seeing her movements and indicating that the man loosen his hold, he awaited her spoken defence. He, for his part had loosened his own grip on the girl, and with her head lolling towards her heaving chest, she swayed before him. He gripped Madame by the wrist - very firmly. She, it seemed, was – for once in her life, struck dumb and could offer no words to defend against the accusations.

Lord Rispian cleared his throat, and indicating that his henchmen support Charity, spoke yet again: “See, Madame, what goods you had on offer and to the highest bidder; see the true state of that merchandise. Come! We shall retire to your apartments!” 

Like a patrician of old, Lord Rispian glowered in righteous indignation and anger. He surveyed the scene about him, and, with curt words, indicated that Madame break up the party. 

“Send them all away dear Natalie, all away, do you hear me? There will be no bidder bidding high enough this dawn for Charity’s body!”  

Madame turned quickly and guiding her voice into commanding, beseeching, slightly apologetic tones, she bade ‘Good morrow’ to all her guests and indicated that the party was at an end.

The assembled loiterers cleared a path for his lordship, as he propelled both Madame and the still lowly-giggling Charity to the staircase. Afore and behind the threesome walked Jarvis and Hinches. A few gentlemen sniggered as the party disappeared from sight. One bent to retrieve the mask which had eventually fallen away from Charity’s bosom. 

“I do not think I like the manners of our friend, the English Milord!” 

The nobleman slurred slightly, picking at the patch which was upon his cheek. He had the seasoned look of hungry vacuity about the eyes, the habitual debauchée’s craving for fresh stimuli: his hopes had been forfeited now by the intrusive English nobleman’s unannounced (and unexpected) arrival!

His friend looked wistfully after the retreating party. “I had me eyes on that little scarlet birdie, Secoure,” the ageing aristocrat murmured, “And the livres to pay for the pleasure: unforgettable, as I imagine it would have been! I’m damned with frustration,” his voice took on a sterner and more menacing timbre, “If one man and his two hired bullies are going to keep the Comte de Sainte Verlaine away from his pleasures!” His companion, a pinched-looking individual of middle height, middle-build and middle-age, tweaked at his beaky nose. “What are you going to do?” “Do? Do? What d’you think I am going to do? I am going to take that little fledgling from the nest and train it to fly for me!” "Ah!" 

The nobleman twitched away an imaginary spot beneath his right eye: “’Twill not be easy of course, but there are surely a few friends left still who should likewise be curious as to what tunes the little scarlet bird may sing - and, - what antics she may perform!” 

He smacked his bow-shaped lips together with anticipatory relish. “You could be right,” Secoure replied. “Guy...Philippe...” The Comte had spotted a duet of loitering artistocrats who looked to know not whether they were coming or going. “Here! A moment! I need a word with you!”  

The essence of what the French noblemen was planning had not gone unobserved, for John Fibbins, now accompanied by Molly, had heard the greater part of what they had discussed. Although Molly’s deafness prevented her from understanding clearly, she saw, from the expression on her reclaimed brother’s face, that the conversing boded ill to their goals. They drew back from the now ascending party of aristocrats and busied themselves amidst the camouflage of the departing guests. It seemed to Molly, keen-eyed still and alert, that some of the courtesans of the house also looked to be leaving. 

She pondered momentarily on this and shrugged inwardly: ’Maybe the girls would do their work and get paid for it just the same, in different surroundings’. She was hardly familiar, after all, with the mechanics fleshly and the machinations cerebral with which Madame d’Esprit oiled her business. 

After a few moments, John motioned his sister to stay close behind him. They were in search and in earnest now, to recover his missing Lordship, Lord Seyton Clover. When Molly had discovered her brother downstairs, he had questioned her rapidly and in the privacy of a closet what she had been doing and observing. She had explained speedily what she had witnessed, assuring her brother that she had seen Charity Cottrell, who was obviously in some drugged, acquiescent state and wrapped closer than a garter about Madame d’Esprit. But had she seen sign of His Lordship, Seyton Clover? Alas, no! This gnawed with fervent anxiety in John Fibbins’ mind. 

He had last sighted His Lordship departing up the staircase and with Madame swinging from his arm. He and Molly had reentered the house in time to witness the declamation which Lord Rispian had delivered, for it was their avowed intent to locate Lord Seyton Clover as quickly as possible. They had likewise seen Rispian and his party, with the captive, drugged young woman, depart up to the higher floors.