Chapter Six

 

A footman admitted Lord Ogilvie to the house in Regent Street. The respectable house in a street of fashionable shops in the daytime became a gaming establishment where dice and cards were played during the evening. With a familiar kick of excitement in his gut, Ogilvie followed the servant into a long room lit by huge glass chandeliers.

The airless room was dense with smoke, cologne, perfume, and excited sweat. Leather armchairs faced the fireplace at one end, and a beguiling young woman attended a bar at the other. Ogilvie went straight to the baccarat table and joined the other twenty men and women in evening dress, standing around watching the play. The intermittent rattle of dice came from smaller tables set up around the room.

A pretty, dark-haired young woman sidled up to him. She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Champagne, milord?”

“Not now.” Ogilvie shook off her hand, his eyes riveted on the game. A man could arrange for sex in one of the rooms above if he so wished, but he wasn’t interested in these available women. They weren’t needy enough to do what he wanted.

He approached the table, his veins pulsing with a rush of blood. Tonight would make or break him. This game might take all that he had with the flip of a card, but he cast the thought away as the blissful expectation and thrill of it pounded through him.

***

At the Folly Theater in William IV Street, Gina moved through the noisy rabble of acrobats, dancers, and singers, searching for her friend, Mabel Collins. Mabel had struggled when she first came to London. She modeled for an artist friend of Milo’s, but the work paid too little and to pay her rent she had to resort to dining with rich gentlemen. But now, she was on the up and up. She’d landed a place among the ballet dancers.

Gina found Mabel in a dusty corner adjusting the feathers on her costume. “I came to wish you luck,” she said.

“Then tell me to break a leg.”

Gina’s eye widened. “Oh, surely not.”

“It’s an expression we theater people tell each other,” Mabel said, sounding as though she’d been in the theater all her life. “It means good luck.”

Gina grinned. “Break a leg, then.”

Mabel grinned back, lifted her skirts, and twirled a shapely leg. “Thanks, ducks.”

The theater manager appeared, wiping sweat from his bald pate with a big red handkerchief. “Go and join the rest of the dancers, Mabel. Who’s this?”

“Just a friend, Dave. Come to wish me luck.”

“You shouldn’t be back here.” His gaze roved over Gina’s body in her apple-green dress, making her feel as if he could see through her clothes. She flushed. “Not looking for a job, are you? Can you sing or dance?”

She shook her head.

“All Italians can sing,” Mabel said giving her an encouraging nod. Then she threw Gina a kiss and twirled away to join the dancers fiddling with their shoes as they waited to go on stage.

“Not this one,” Gina said, waving back.

“You wouldn’t have to. We could use a new girl for the statue number. It’s easy money.”

“What would I have to do?”

He frowned. “Haven’t you seen the show?”

She shook her head. She’d never had the sixpence admittance price until now. “I’m just about to buy a ticket.”

“Let me know later if you’re interested.” Dave turned away as another noisy group of ballet dancers descended the staircase.

Gina bought her ticket and found her seat, heart beating like a wild thing. She sat so far up the back of the theater she had to peer around heads to see the stage, but it didn’t lessen her excitement.

The orchestra conductor tapped his baton and the musicians struck up a tune. When Gina saw Mabel dance onto the stage, she shouted along with the rest. She didn’t have a very big part.

After a series of high kicks that showed her frilly knickers, spins, and the splits, she disappeared into the wings. Then a comedian came on stage. He took a fair amount of heckling from the audience and seemed glad to run off. A group of acrobats appeared, dark-haired men like peas in a pod with their muscled chests and striped jerseys. A juggler dropped one of his flaming torches and the fear of fire sent a louder gasp through the crowd than when he’d juggled eight balls in the air.

After a brief interval, three men with handlebar mustaches sang My love is like the red, red rose, in perfect harmony. Mabel appeared again, this time dancing in clogs. Gina clapped hard.

After the sword swallower stunned the audience, the musicians struck up with a flourish for the finale. The curtain closed, and minutes later swept open to reveal women dressed as Ancient Greek goddesses. Looking mysterious and beautiful, they stood like statues among columns of an ancient temple, their figures boldly displayed in flimsy drapery. Moments later, the curtain closed again to tumultuous applause.

Gina made her way out of the theater into William IV Street. Dusk had fallen, and lamplighters did their rounds with their ladders, turning on the stopcocks at each lamppost. Patrons wrapped their warm cloaks around themselves and rushed home, as the savage night air bit into any exposed skin. Carriage wheels rattled over the cobbles and took the last of the patrons away.

Gina set out to walk home. A prostitute crossed the road, swaying coquettishly, her kiss-me-quick ringlets peeping from under her hat. A tall man passed her without a glance. He came up to Gina and swept off his hat. “The girl in the painting,” the Scot said. “Aphrodite, wasn’t it?”

When Gina hesitated, he reached into his pocket and drew out a calling card, handing it to her. “Charles Ogilvie, Earl of Douglass.”

Gina gazed at the elaborate gold lettering.

“I missed out on buying that painting; it went for an extravagant sum,” he said. “I’d very much like to view the rest of the artist’s work. May I escort you home?”

He was a sallow-faced man with curly, fair hair, his eyes a cold, dull green. When he drew a gold watch from his pocket, an ornate ring flashed on his hand.

Gina looked at the card again. “You may come with me now if you wish,” she said. Milo might sell another painting. “It’s not far.”

“Excellent.” He took her arm and led her across the street. She didn’t like him touching her, but before she could draw away, a black carriage pulled up with a crest on the door drawn by four snorting black horses. “Shall we travel in comfort?” He urged her toward it.

When they settled in the carriage, the earl’s demeanor changed. He moved closer to Gina on the crimson velvet squabs and studied her as if she were a horse he intended to buy. “Do you agree to unusual requests?”

Gina swallowed, as fear flooded through her. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “No need to pretend with me. I tell my girls straight up what I want. And I pay well.”

“You mistake me. I’m an artist’s model, sir.” Her heart banged against her ribs, and she edged back into the corner. The carriage sped through the darkening streets.

He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t play the actress with me. It bores me.”

She clasped her hands in her lap and swallowed, her throat dry. “Do you mean you wish me to pose for a specific painting?” She hoped he would seize on this as a way out of an embarrassing mistake.

He watched her. “Pose? Not exactly.” She felt like a butterfly he’d caught in his net. “You really don’t know what I refer to? Now I’m interested.”

“Please stop this carriage. I wish to walk.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not a prostitute?”

“I am not. Not that it’s any of your business.” Gina reached for the door. “Stop this carriage immediately. I want to get out.”

He grabbed her, like a cobra striking, his fingers biting into the tender skin of her forearm. “I’d pay extremely well for a virgin.”

As she struggled, he pulled her toward him and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do....”

The filth that came from his lips made her gag. Her skin crawled and her heart sickened. Gasping, she placed her hand on his chest and shoved away from him. “Never speak to me again. You probably have a horrible disease.”

When the traffic slowed to a crawl, Gina reefed the carriage door open and jumped. She fell straight into the putrid, gushing waters in the gutter, while the reek of hot horse dung stung her nostrils.

When she struggled to her feet, the earl called down, “Perhaps you have to sink to the gutter before you can appreciate what I offer you. Think about it, as I said, I pay well. You have my card.” He slammed the door shut and tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane

“Not if I was a penniless orphan,” she yelled and ran down the street, aware that the carriage took off behind her. Looking like the devil’s own vehicle, the carriage disappeared around a corner. Gina stopped and bent over, breathless with revulsion, fear, and rage.

She took her bearings. He had taken her out of her way. She was a mile from Shoreditch. A sob blocked her throat. She lifted her reeking skirts away from her skin, aware that in her soiled clothes, she looked like a streetwalker. As it was, an unaccompanied woman always drew glances.

A crowd gathered outside the gin shop. Gina pulled her cloak tight and gritted her teeth, pushing her way through the rogues and thieves, trying not to inhale the rancid smell of unwashed bodies. A pregnant woman was shoved to the pavement as she tried to sell apples. Gina stooped to help her to her feet.

She slapped down the groping hands of a man who leered at her with a mouth of blackened teeth and hurried along giving a street singer a wide berth. Her knees were bruised and a graze on her leg stung almost as much as her wounded pride, as she hurried home. She had grown so tired of this life. She didn’t belong here, any more than her mother had.

This morning, Milo said he couldn’t consider moving yet. He had too much work to do. She still hoped that he would change his mind, but knew it would do little good to daydream. She no longer hoped for that knight on a white charger to whisk her off and marry her. To survive, she must become smarter, tougher. It was foolish to have trusted that earl. Just because he had been born into the nobility, didn’t mean he was a gentleman at heart. She would never make the same mistake again.