Child Of The Theatre

Part Three

“Foolish, foolish boy!” Mrs Jordan stormed as she paced around the dressing room. “How could you have been so indiscreet? Need I remind you that not so many years ago, what you have done would have you swinging at Tyburn? And that there are many today who would call you Abomination and cry down the vengeance of God on your head?”

Sim sat in abject misery in a shadowed corner of the room. “I am aware of it, ma’am,” he muttered.

“Your stupidity is beyond belief. You shall bring disgrace and ruin on us all. I am most seriously displeased.”

Tears streamed down Sim’s stony face.

He said, “I beg you ma’am, do not agitate yourself. You have a performance in twenty minutes.”

She stopped her frantic pacing and stared at him. She sat down suddenly at her dressing table, breathing heavily.

When she had gained a little control, she said in a more restrained tone, “You are right. I must prepare. But the subject is not closed. We shall discuss this after the play. Is that clear?”

Sim said quietly, “Yes ma’am.” She looked at him in the mirror and her anger faded in the face of his wretchedness. In a more gentle tone she said, “Bring me my wig please.”

Sim mechanically fitted her in the wig standing behind her as she adjusted it. Silence yawned between them. The wetness on his cheeks glinted in the candlelight and, in spite of the remnants of her rage, Mrs Jordan felt her heart aching for him. She turned in her chair and placed a comforting hand on his arm.

“My dear,” she said kindly, “take no heed of my wretched tongue, I beg you. I know you well enough to recognize your innocence in this matter. But we cannot ignore what has happened. We must discuss it. You agree?”

Sim was mollified. “Yes ma’am,” he murmured.

She smiled and said, “Good. Now we must concentrate on more immediate things.”

And while finishing off her makeup, she began her vocal exercises: “Sharp point, sharp point, sharp point. Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather,” while Sim assembled the costume pieces that had to be taken into the wings for the imminent performance.

******

Mrs Jordan swirled the ruby wine absently in the crystal glass. She was dressed in her favorite apricot wrapper and Sim sat opposite her combing out her wig.

She asked suddenly, “What I cannot understand is how he knew if you said nothing. The Lieutenant, think you?”

Sim gnawed his lower lip. “I cannot believe it, ma’am.”

“Why not? He is a man, and men boast.”

Sim was shocked by her opinion of the Lieutenant.

“He would not, ma’am. Not about this. I know it. What we had was so .. personal.”

She gave a cynical snort.

“To you perhaps. Was it so to him?”

Sim was cast down as he reflected. “I would have thought so. I would have sworn so.”

Mrs Jordan said irritably, “If only it were not that man…”

Sim said, “I thought you liked him, ma’am.”

“Not the Lieutenant—the Captain: Saltash’s heir. If only it were not he…”

Sim asked, puzzled, “Does it make a difference, ma’am?”

She looked at him levelly. “I know that bloodline of old. You might as well know, Sim. At one time, Saltash and I…” and she clamped her lips shut.

Sim did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Never say so, ma’am! You and the Viscount…”

She gave an ironic twist to her mouth. “He was not a Viscount then and neither was he old, Sim, and it was before I met His Grace. Ah me! Twenty-five years ago. But the man was ever vindictive. A viper of the first water. I confess, I was glad to break with him when the Duke offered me his protection. And they say his grandson is as bad as he.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “How did he find out? How did he know you?”

Sim said cautiously, “Well, Belle could have told him my name and where I worked…”

“Belle? Who is Belle?”

“She has a room near mine. She conducts her… business from her room. I saw him there. He must have recognized me when I passed her room. Belle and I often talk. She knows where I work. She often comes to the theatre to… um… drum up trade.”

Mrs Jordan considered the possibility. “So you think this doxy, this Belle, could have told him who you are and where he could find you?”

“I think she would have, had he asked her. Belle is very pretty and empty-headed—and very… um … obliging. And he did stare very long at me when I passed her room.”

“But how did he connect you with the Lieutenant? If, as you believe, the Lieutenant would not speak of you…”

“He would not, ma’am,” said Sim firmly.

They sat in silence. Mrs Jordan said suddenly, “The Daffy Club. He must have seen you with the Lieutenant at the Daffy club. Either there or…” And she raised a cynical eyebrow as she looked at Sim who flushed, shook his head and said, “It must have been the Daffy club.”

He frowned as he turned over the possibility in his mind.

“But there were so many people there, ma’am. Why should he notice me at all among such a crowd?”

“Oh, my dear,” she laughed indulgently, “I still find it unbelievable that you should look like you do and have not an ounce of vanity in you. 'Tis one of your greatest attractions. The moment you walked into the room, I trow every eye was on you. Believe me, my dear, you would have been universally noticed and universally admired.”

She looked at him in a calculating manner. “When you met the Lieutenant in the Daffy Club, what was his attitude to you?”

“He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him.” He grinned at the remembrance. “In fact, I was vastly pleased to see him.” He caught her cynical eye and flushed.

“Demonstrably so?” she asked archly.

He smiled and blushed and dropped his eyes. She sighed deeply.

“Dear God,” she murmured, “in your innocence, you betrayed yourself, even then.”

She lapsed into thought and then added, half to herself, “Yes, that must be it. The Captain saw you with the Lieutenant—there, together. He marked your blatant enjoyment of each other’s company and 'twould be in his character to burn with envy and spite. And when he saw you later, he recognized you.

But what did he mean by confronting you? Did he mean to make you flee? Or is it something closer to home… his cousin, the Lieutenant, perhaps? Did he, perhaps, expect you to run to…?”

She began pacing the room restlessly, then stopped and looked at him.

“Have you heard from the Lieutenant?” She asked suddenly.

“Only a small note, ma’am. A few lines, of no consequence.”

Mrs Jordan resumed her pacing. “I tell you frankly, Sim, I do not like this. There is something going on here that is beyond my understanding. Were it mere moral outrage on the part of Saltash and his heir, then I believe that the army Captain would have taken more decisive action—warned you off, threatened you, tried to buy you off, something. But what did he do? Insult you and disappear. No. I fear me that it is the ruin of the Lieutenant that is planned and you… and I… shall be swept up in the scandal.”

“We must warn him,” cried Sim, suddenly alarmed.

“Of what? What could you tell him? That his cousin said a few insulting words to you? No. I am of the firm belief that the greatest service you can do your lover,” and Sim looked at her sharply, “is to do nothing.”

She drew herself up and said sternly, “Let there be no misunderstanding, Sim. You will do nothing. No contact with the Lieutenant. Nothing. You must not be harried into hasty action.” She looked at him indulgently. “Besides,” she said, “if I am any judge of the quality of the Lieutenant, he is well able to look after himself.”

Sim smiled at this implied admiration of his lover.

The season of “She Stoops to Conquer” was drawing to a close, when Mr Sheridan announced the revival of “The School for Scandal” which all had expected, gossip being what it was in the confined society of the theatre. Sim was pleased to hear that Mrs Jordan was invited to recreate the role of Lady Teazle, a part she had already made famous and in which London audiences had very fond memories of her.

Although she accepted the role with alacrity (and a large increase in salary to go with it), Mrs Jordan complained to Sim, “I am really far too old for the part, alas! At least Kate Hardcastle was a young woman of some little maturity. Lady Teazle is but a child bride.”

“Would you rather be playing Mrs Candour?” Sim asked slyly. She made a moue of disgust by way of reply. They were seated in the drawing room of Mrs Jordan’s charming little house, having lately risen from the luncheon table. Sim had ostensibly been invited so that he could coach her in the role, but, since she already had the role by heart, he knew it was really so she could enjoy his company. Three of her youngest children were galloping through the house, laughing shrilly and avoiding their harassed governess, and he knew she craved adult company.

They were enjoying a quiet coze over the tea tray, when the butler entered bearing a silver salver. He murmured, “The afternoon post, ma’am.”

She smiled her thanks to him and began idly flicking through the bundle of letters. One letter caught her eye, and she paused and extracted it. She examined the handwriting of the direction, before reaching for an ivory letter knife to open it. She unfolded the stiff parchment and read it impassively. Sim watched her closely, knowing that her very lack of expression meant the mind behind it was seething.

“What is it, ma’am?” he asked, “Not bad news, I hope?”

She lowered the letter and gazed at him with unseeing eyes. She took a breath and said quietly, “So it begins.”

Sim felt a faint stirring of alarm. “Ma’am?”

She smiled suddenly at him. “Lady Massingham has invited us to a rout at her house in Belgrave Square.”

Sim’s eyes sparkled, “Us, ma’am?”

She picked up the letter and read to him. “I have heard, dear Dorothea, from every quarter, of the charm and beauty of your ward, Mr Tregear… and your name is underlined… and I would be prostrated with grief were I not to meet him. He is universally declared to be altogether delightful.”

She looked at Sim cynically. “Are you altogether delightful, Sim?”

He grinned. “A little exaggerated, ma’am. I would not say altogether.”

She continued reading. “May I presume upon our long friendship, my dear Dorothea, to beg you to allow him to accompany you to my intimate soiree? The company will be select, so you can be assured that the young man will meet none but the cream of the ton.” She grunted. “I daresay.”

“Dear Dorothea… long friendship?” Sim quoted. “I do not recall your having ever mentioned her.”

She folded the letter carefully. “Isobel Massingham was never a friend to me.” She looked at him and then added, “She is Saltash’s sister.”

All light-heartedness drained from Sim.

“It’s a trap,” he muttered.

“Yes, indeed, I believe it is. But what to do about it?” She mused.

“We need not go,” Sim said breathlessly, “You could discover a prior engagement.”

”Much as I am tempted to do that, I fear it would only be postponing the inevitable. No, we shall go, if only to save your Lieutenant from destruction. The danger must be faced and overcome.”

Sim felt a strange glow of excitement. “He will be there.” He found himself smiling and breathing heavily.

“Come out of the clouds!” she said sharply. “His survival will depend on your self control. They mean to throw you two together—I am sure of it - and, at the appropriate moment, discover the both of you in flagrante. They will have made sure suitably august personages are present to witness the Lieutenant’s disgrace.”

“I protest, ma’am. Gervase is part of their family. I cannot believe they could plot his ruin in such a way. They would all partake of his disgrace.”

She looked at him. “Saltash himself, I believe, knows nothing of this. There is subtlety here beyond his measure. Besides, he is a broken man, wracked with debt and drink. No. It is his heir—Captain James Levison who is the spider in the web. And that harpy Massingham is his cat’s paw. They want your Lieutenant irreparably ruined.”

“But why?” Sim said. “It does not make sense. Captain Levison is heir to everything: Gervase to nothing. He said so himself. He is the second son of a second son.”

Mrs Jordan stood suddenly, her eyes fixed on the large bookcase that covered one wall of the room. She moved across the room and searching the books.

“Sim,” she said, pointing, ”top shelf. The Baronetage of England. Would you please get the ladder and get it down for me.”

Sim said, “Of course, ma’am. But why…?”

She smiled excitedly. “We are assuming that your Lieutenant has no right to the title. It occurred to me that were he the real heir, the actions of his cousin would be easily explained.”

As Sim adjusted the ladder in the correct position, he said, “Lost heirs? Scandal in an ancient family? I fear, Madam, we are straying into the territory of Mrs Radcliff’s gothic romances.” Even as he laughed at her idea, he mounted the polished ladder and extracted the book from its position on the shelf. Still perched on the ladder, he handed her the book.

“We shall see,” she said and sat down and flicked over the pages. Sim watched her from his perch.

After a time, she exclaimed, “Here it is.. Saltash.” She mumbled as she read , then, “Listen to this.

The title of Viscount Saltash was awarded to Sir Humphrey Levison by King Charles the First, for his gallantry in the battle of Marston Moor in 1642, when he rescued the commander of the King’s army, Rupert, Prince Palatine, from certain capture by the parliamentary forces after the defeat of the King’s army. Although Prince Rupert fell from Royal favour because of the defeat, Sir Humphrey’s star was in the ascendant.”

Sim shrugged and said, “Very interesting, but what… ?”

Mrs Jordan read on and then said, ”Wait. There’s more.

At first Sir Humphrey declined the honour. When asked for his reasons, he stated that he did not wish his son and heir, who had defected to the Parliamentary Cause, to nurture any expectation of eventual reward in light of his unpardonable treason. The King was much moved by this, and decreed that each and every incumbent of the title would have the inestimable privilege of Nomination; that is to say, he could choose who would wear the coronet after his death, from any of his legitimate male descendants.

The privilege of Nomination has been granted to only a few families in the history… Yes, well, then it goes on the name the families.”

She looked at Sim, who was dumbstruck as the he realized the implications.

“So!” she said, “It seems my lord Saltash can nominate the next viscount. Were you Saltash,” she said triumphantly, ”On whom would you bestow the title? Who is the more worthy, think you? The army, or the navy?”

“Gervase,” murmured Sim in wonder.

“And the only thing to make you change your mind would be…?”

He gulped. “A public scandal of the first magnitude.”

“And there, my dear, you have it.” And she snapped the book shut like a steel trap.

A week later, Sim and Mrs Jordan, dressed to the nines, were trundling through the darkened streets of London into Belgravia in Mrs Jordan’s antiquated carriage. Sim was very nervous, continually fiddling with his starched neck cloth. Mrs Jordan, swathed in a poppy red domino, watched him covertly, as they passed street lamps that momentarily illuminated him.

“There is no need to be so nervous, my dear. You will carry all before you.”

He smiled tensely. “Why are we going, ma’am? I believe nothing good can come from our presence in the lion’s den. You should have cried off.”

She sighed. “You may be right, my dear, but I believe it necessary. We are in a fog of conjecture and dark misgivings. Tonight will crystallize all our suspicions. Besides,” she added wickedly, “do you not long to see the Lieutenant once more.”

“More than I can say,” Sim said quietly. He turned and looked at her, although he could not see her clearly, and then said simply, “I love him, ma’am.”

She sighed. “I know, my dear. I know.”

She looked at Sim for a long time. Then she said very quietly, “I have never told you this, Sim, but of all my children, of all the children I have raised, you are the one nearest my heart.”

Sim was so touched by the simplicity of this statement, he could not reply.

She continued, half reminiscing, half confessing, “At first I loved you for your dear mother’s sake. Then 'twas for your own dear self. You have never disappointed me nor caused me a moment’s grief. Fanny, my eldest has proved her vulgarity by marrying that wastrel; George, my son is wrapped up in his relationship to the royal house and is forever scheming how to exploit the connexion, the others are just as bad, but you—you are all a mother could wish in a child, a child I shall move Heaven and earth to protect.”

She looked away, and Sim gently took her hand and kissed it.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said simply.

They traveled in silence for a while. Then Mrs Jordan said suddenly. “That puts me in mind of something.” She fiddled in the reticule on her lap, extracting a small soft leather bag. She handed it to Sim. “Here,” she said, “this is for you.”

Sim took the bag and felt it jingle. He was puzzled. “Money, ma’am? Are you paying me for my company?”

She laughed. “Certainly not. I am a lady, Mr Tregear, as you might recall. No. It is for you. There will be gaming tables at Lady Massingham’s.”

Sim said in wonder. “Are we descending into a gaming hell, ma’am?”

“That’s exactly where we are going, Sim.”

“Surely you jest?”

“It is no jest, Sim. Isobel Massingham’s 'intimate soiree’ will be nothing more that an occasion for gaming. She makes a very good living as a Gambling Hostess. Within her walls you will find illegal gambling, cheating, card sharping, loaded dice and rigged E.O tables. The games that are played are Faro, Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Bassette, Vingt-et-un, loo, quadrille and whist. It is said, that not only does Lady Massingham bribe the authorities, but that she has made pacts with the local footpads to waylay the gamesters who quit her house with money in their pockets. We are indeed entering a hell.”

Sim said, “I have no taste for gaming, ma’am. You had best take the money back.”

“Keep it and use it,” she said. “It would present a very odd appearance if you were to enter her house and not play. But remember. There are but ten guineas there. There will be no more. If you lose it, you shall cease playing and you shall not sign anything. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sim said meekly.

The carriage creaked to a halt outside Lady Massingham’s house in Belgrave Square. The street was brightly lit by several flambeaux and there were many carriages stopping or moving away so that the street was rather congested.. Thomas the groom opened the door, unfolded the steps and assisted Mrs Jordan to alight.

“Mind where you step, ma’am,” he said, “the horses have been here.”

Mrs Jordan gathered up the voluminous skirts around her, and nimbly stepped down. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said smilingly, ”we shall be, I think, but a few hours here. Please be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice and meet us at the front door when we are leaving.” And with Sim following she delicately picked her way to the front door.

Thomas smiled cheerfully showing his crooked teeth and gave a salute before scrambling back up to the coachman’s perch.

Sim said, “You want Thomas to wait for us at the front door?”

Mrs Jordan nodded slyly. “You remarked, did you not, that we were entering a lion’s den? In such a situation, it seems wise to have on hand a lion tamer.”

Sim grinned. Thomas was a solid stocky man who at one time had been a pugilist. He was unswervingly loyal to Mrs Jordan.

“Let us hope then, madam,” Sim said, “that the lions prove to be mere kittens.” And he held out his arm and she linked hers through it and they mounted the stone steps to the entrance portico as the doors were flung open to receive them.

The entrance hall was a blaze of lights—so bright, in fact, that Sim blinked with the unexpected dazzle. Servants quickly and efficiently removed their coats. Mrs Jordan, in a poppy red silk gown, was revealed to be wearing a magnificent necklace of rubies and diamonds with matching earrings, brooch and bracelets—the very parure that her lover, the royal Duke of Clarence had demanded she return to him. Having been appraised of the reputation of the house they were entering, Sim doubted the wisdom of flaunting such wealth, but he kept his counsel, trusting to the astuteness of his patroness.

He could see, adjacent to the central vestibule of the house, several crowded rooms where gaming was in progress, but Mrs Jordan steered him to the grand staircase and together they ascended to the reception rooms above.

Standing at the top of the stairs, ready to receive her guests was their hostess, Lady Massingham attired in black silk and bejeweled with jet and aquamarines, rich enough but vastly outshone by Mrs Jordan. Sim then realized why Mrs Jordan had bedecked herself: a way of trumping her hostess. He was instantly repelled by Lady Massingham, whose raddled face, dead white with lead and with carmine scrubbed into her cheeks, put him forcefully in mind of an animated corpse. By her side, in full dress uniform was Captain Levison. Both of them, with matching eyes like predatory birds, watched their progress up the stairs.

Lady Massingham greeted them with the effusive welcome usually reserved for old, old friends.

“Dearest Dorothea,” she gushed, “It has been too long, far too long.” And both ladies kissed each other cheeks. Sim noticed with some amusement, that there was no actual physical contact.

“Isobel,” Mrs Jordan murmured, “Your kind invitation was most welcome, and so unexpected.”

Lady Massingham indicated the man by her side. “You are not acquainted, I think, with my nephew, Captain Levison. My dear James, my old friend, Dorothy Jordan. You must have seen her treading the boards at Drury Lane. She has been London’s sweetheart for many, many years.”

Mrs Jordan raised an eyebrow at that statement.

The Captain said, “A man would be a fool indeed, who did not know Mrs Jordan. Ma’am, your servant.” And he executed a smart military bow.

Mrs Jordan smiled graciously, and nodded her head to him. “Sir, I am honoured.”

No curtsey for him from one who was a Duchess in all but name.

Mrs Jordan turned to Sim and said, “My dear Isobel, may I present my ward, Simkin Tregear.”

Sim executed a creditable bow and said, “Your servant, ma’am.” And he looked into her face. She was smiling, if the rictus she gave him could be called a smile.

“Well,” she said as she appraised his figure, “For once, Dame Rumour has not lied. How do you do, Mr Tregear?”

Her mouth moved but her eyes remained flint hard. He shifted his gaze to the Captain.

“And my nephew I believe you already know.”

Sim almost gasped at the effrontery of that statement, and the Captain said instantly, “Indeed yes, ma’am.” And he nodded his head to Sim and merely said, “Tregear.”

Sim would not bow to the man. He merely acknowledged the greeting with a silent nod of his head.

Lady Massingham watched the exchange between the two of them with gimlet eyes that darted back and forth, one to the other. She waved her fan archly to her nephew and said, “James dear, you have my permission to relinquish your position beside me here, and to show our guests the amusements that my house offers.”

He bowed to her. “Of course, Aunt Massingham.” He offered his arm to Mrs Jordan, who with every appearance of delight, took it, and together, with Sim walking the obligatory three steps behind them, they entered the main salon. Sim stole a look back at Lady Massingham, who, with her beak-like nose and black nodding plumes looked like a bird of ill omen.

“Harpy” Mrs Jordan had named her, and he shuddered because the description fitted perfectly.

The room they entered, though very grand, was crowded, and yet the atmosphere was hushed. There were no merry bursts of laughter, no loud conversation and an air of great concentration. Well dressed people, both men and women circulated around the room, little groups breaking up and other groups reforming. Mrs Jordan kept up a flow of inconsequential chatter, while Captain Levison, seemingly engrossed in what she was saying, led them inexorably to a faro table that had a crowd of people around it. Mrs Jordan gave a coo of delight when he invited her to join the game, but Sim held back, casting an eye surreptitiously around the crowded room. Mrs Jordan took her seat at the table amid a flurry of excitement as she was recognized. She sparkled and laughed as she was greeted by those who claimed acquaintance with her and when she finally settled, the game began again.

The Captain said to Sim in a pointed voice, ”Looking for someone, Tregear?”

Indeed Sim was, but it was the last thing he wanted to admit to the soldier—a man whom he was rapidly beginning to dislike. “No sir, I am not.” He said. “I have never before been in an establishment like this. I am much impressed with what I see.”

“You did not come to play, sir?” The Captain seemed determined to have him lay his money out.

“I am very much a novice, sir. I have played faro but once before.”

“Then, sir, you will have grasped the rules. There is nothing stopping you from enjoying yourself. Come, sir. I insist.” And he indicated a space at the table where he placed a spare chair. Sim had the feeling he was being backed into a corner, and as he could see no graceful way of extricating himself, he took the seat and indicated to the banker to sell him some counters. He chose the counters of lowest value— five shillings each—and he spent but five guineas. He reasoned that if he was careful with his wagering, these counters should last him several hours. In any case, he had no intention of sitting here engrossed in a game he secretly thought dull.

When the banker called for bets to be placed, Sim carefully placed one counter on the two. He looked at Mrs Jordan. She was chatting vivaciously to a middle aged man beside her and, in a seemingly off-handed way tossed a few counters on various denominations. Guinea counters, Sim noted with slight disapproval. He knew now why he disliked gambling. He was very conscious of the value of the counters on the table and what they represented to one like himself—hours and hours of labor.

The dealer drew his two cards. Sim sighed. His card was not a losing card but then again, it was not a winner. He let the money ride. Mrs Jordan gave a squeal of delight as one of her bets won though she lost another.

The game continued on. Sim’s little counter sat on the table, neither winning nor losing, until the fourth draw, when it was returned to him having won another counter of the same value.

He began to feel bored. He looked at Mrs Jordan. He had no idea of the state of her winnings or losses, but she seemed to be enjoying herself, laughing and chatting to the group of admirers around her. Only once she flicked a glance towards him, a glance that was cold and calculating. Sim realized that the sparkle and gaiety was an act. She was drawing attention to herself, hoping to deflect it from him. He stole a look at the Captain. He was steadily watching Sim through narrowed eyes.

What did he expect me to do, thought Sim. Lose myself and my money in this tedious game?

The dealer called for bets to be placed. Sim sighed and looked at the table and the case keeper, trying to remember the cards remaining. He sighed, realizing that he just was not interested enough to calculate the odds. What did it matter? He was about to lay a random bet when he felt a hand clasp his shoulder and a low voice in his ear that said, “I’ve always found six to be a lucky number.”

Without looking round, he felt a warm surge of happiness wash over him. He said, “If I lose this, sir, then be it on your head.” And he placed the counter on the six card. The banker drew his cards, and Sim laughed as his counter was returned to him with its little reward. He turned in his chair and looked up mischievously into the Lieutenant’s face. The man was smiling intimately and his eyes caressed Sim.

“Well, sir,” said Sim, “You seem to have brought good luck with you. Perhaps you could advise me on my next bet.”

The Lieutenant laughed and leant forward till his face was close to Sim’s ear, and said wickedly, “Perhaps three? I seem to remember three was the number of times we…”

Sim flushed and said quickly, “Three it is, sir. Let us hope, sir,” he added a little breathlessly, “that it is lucky for us……a second time.” He cocked an eyebrow archly at the Lieutenant, who laughed and raised his fingers in a fencer’s signal of a touch.

Sim placed the counter and, as the dealer drew his cards, the Lieutenant squeezed his shoulder again. He shot a glance at the Captain standing opposite. He had a strange expression on his face as he regarded them. Was it triumph…mixed with something else? What? Surely not compunction?

Victory again! Another counter joined his winnings. The Lieutenant gave a little crow of satisfaction when suddenly Mrs Jordan cried, in a voice honed by years of projection from the stage, “Dear Lieutenant Levison. I did not see you, sir. You are a sly one. Creeping up on me like that.”

All the players at the table turned and looked at the Lieutenant and, with considerable aplomb, he grinned and gave her a low bow. “I am your servant, ma’am. It is good to renew our acquaintance.”

She gave him her famous throaty laugh. “Come sir. Stand by me. I insist you give me the benefit of your expertise in this cruel game.”

She fumbled in her reticule, and then called across the table to Sim.

“Simkin, my dear. I seemed to have mislaid my vinaigrette. I believe it is with my cloak. Would you…?”

Sim stood immediately. “Of course, ma’am. I shall fetch it for you.”

Her actions were obvious to him. She intended to separate him and the Lieutenant. He was a little annoyed by her high-handedness but, as he gathered up his counters, he decided he was glad for a reasonable excuse to quit the table. He brushed past the Lieutenant as he turned to retrace his footsteps to the entrance, furtively touching the Lieutenant’s fingers as he did so. He looked back at his lover and the Lieutenant was smiling at him.

As he picked his way back across the room, Sim felt like he was walking on air. His pleasure at meeting the Lieutenant once again and the realization that the man still felt as warmly for him as before, gave him such a glow of pleasure that many in the room were struck by his beauty. More the one quizzing glass was raised to ogle him as he passed, and approving looks followed him.

As he began to descend the staircase, Sim noticed that Lady Massingham had quit her post at the top of the stairs. Where she was, he could not tell but he was rather glad to have avoided her. Even the thought of her cast a shadow on his joy at meeting the Lieutenant again.

He was some time obtaining Mrs Jordan’s vinaigrette. The servant in charge of the coats and cloaks seemed unable to comprehend that he merely wanted to retrieve the article from the pockets of Mrs Jordan’s domino, and then was reluctant to hand it over to Sim as it obviously did not belong to him. However, without losing his temper, Sim was able to recover the item having convinced the man of the honesty of his intentions.

He climbed the stairs once again and was surprised and pleased to see the Lieutenant awaiting him at the top.

“How did you escape?” Sim asked him.

The Lieutenant smiled his glinting smile. “I merely smiled and bowed and retreated. It was simplicity itself.”

When Sim reached him, the Lieutenant coolly looked around, and seeing that they were out of sight of everyone, he pulled Sim to him and soundly kissed him on the lips.

Sim laughed breathlessly, and pushing his ardent lover away from him said, “For God’s sake, Gervase, are you mad?”

The man laughed an intimate laugh. “Do you know, I think I am?” And he tried once more to draw Sim to him. Sim nimbly evaded the embrace.

“Enough, sir, I pray you. What would your aunt say, were she to see us in such a compromising situation in her own hall?”

“Never fear,” the Lieutenant replied in a mock theatrical voice, “she is immersed in her favorite pastime—making money.” And he smiled at Sim.

Sim was suddenly serious. “And your cousin?”

The Lieutenant stopped, puzzled. “James? What, pray, has he to do with the matter?”

Sim moved close and began unconsciously to straighten the throat ruffle of his lover’s linen.

“Gervase,” he said reluctantly, “he is not… not your friend.”

He looked the Lieutenant in the eyes and the man’s smile faltered.

“What are you talking about?” he asked quietly.

Sim bit his lip and said very softly, “He named me bumboy whore and accused me of bringing ruin to your family.”

The Lieutenant stared at him, his expression hardening.

“He dared……!” he said with repressed anger.

Sim felt a great necessity to tell his lover everything.

“No. Listen to me. Listen. I believe,” he said, picking his words carefully, “I truly believe… that he and your aunt… together… are plotting to disgrace you.”

He watched the Lieutenant’s face, and was greatly discomposed when suddenly he burst out laughing.

“Is this some bizarre jest? James—priggish Jamie—and… and…”

“Your aunt, yes—Lady Massingham.”

The Lieutenant suddenly said, loudly, “Aunt Massingham.”

Sim realized with a jolt that the Lieutenant suddenly was not addressing him. He turned around and beheld Lady Massingham standing behind him. Although she still smiled, her eyes were like lances stabbing at him and the Lieutenant.

“Gervase, my dear. Ah, I see you have met Mrs Jordan’s charming ward.” She spoke in a jocular manner, but Sim could detect a ruthless undertone.

“Yes, Aunt,” said the Lieutenant affably, “I had the pleasure of meeting Mr Tregear at Drury Lane recently, when I was discharging some undertaking for the duke.”

Lady Massingham raised a painted eyebrow. “A royal undertaking… at Drury Lane?” She smirked and laughed disdainfully, “Ah, of course. You do not care for faro, Mr Tregear?”

“Alas no, Lady Massingham. I am loath to remain anchored to one table for the whole night when there is so much of interest in your establishment.”

She fixed her steely gaze on him.

“Indeed. There are several pieces in my house that, I think, will engage the interest of someone like you.”

Sim felt his ears going red at this observation.

She turned to the Lieutenant. “Gervase, my dear, perhaps you would be good enough to show Mr Tregear what is on offer here.” And she indicated, with a graceful wave of her fan, that they should return to the salon.

Sim realized he was still holding Mrs Jordan’s elegant vinaigrette. Lady Massingham sailed ahead of them and Sim whispered to the Lieutenant. “I must return this to Mrs Jordan. And I’ll cash in my counters while I have the chance.”

The Lieutenant gave him a look.

Sim retorted, half humorously and with a little indignation, “Well, I’ll be dammed if I’ll contribute to the coffers.”

The Lieutenant laughed as Sim made his way to the table’s banker. The man sneered slightly as he exchanged the tokens, but Sim ignored him. He had made fifteen shillings after all—more than a week’s wages.

Mrs Jordan took the proffered vinaigrette with a murmur of thanks and seeing that he did not intend to return to the table, asked, “You do not play?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “I have won enough for the evening.” He looked her in the eyes steadily, challenging her, “Lady Massingham has kindly persuaded Lieutenant Levison to conduct me through the rest of this place so that I might appreciate what the house has to offer.”

With a smiling mouth but troubled eyes, she said, “As you see fit, my dear. But I would pray you to be prepared to leave when I ask. I would desire you to accompany me when I wish to depart.”

“I am yours to command, ma’am,” he said, and he turned to the Lieutenant with an untroubled heart.

It was with a glow of happiness that Sim moved to the Lieutenant’s side. He basked his company and he was dazzled by the ambiance of the salon. As the Lieutenant led him through the maze of rooms that made up Lady Massingham’s establishment, they spoke with the ease of long companionship and Sim felt more and more of the rightness of his place by the man’s side. He marveled that the Lieutenant knew most of the people who were present, and was pleased and flattered when he was presented to many of then: a touch here, and nod and a pause there, and all the time they moved gently towards… who knew what.

They paused for a few minutes at the buffet table where Sim was served some shaved ham and a light salad. He had to admit that the food was excellent. Lady Massingham did not stint when providing for her guests. Sim reflected that her earnings must be considerable to afford such largesse. The Lieutenant chatted on inconsequential subjects, and then said in an off-hand way, “When you are finished here, I would like to show you upstairs.”

Sim said in surprise, “Upstairs? I thought… I mean, surely there are only the private apartments?”

The Lieutenant smiled slyly, “I’m sure I could find something of interest to show you.”

Sim was suddenly troubled. The food turned to ashes in his mouth. The dire warnings that Mrs Jordan had pronounced came flooding back. He put down the plate and said in a hesitant whisper, “Gervase, I .. I don’t think that is a good idea.” He looked fearfully into the Lieutenant’s face. He was painfully aware of the footman behind the buffet, alarmingly within earshot.

That ghastly phrase sprang to his mind: “Pas devant les domestiques” but he could not bring himself to say it. As he gazed at the Lieutenant and he felt his resolve melting away. His lover’s eyes caressed him, and he knew he would follow anywhere this man led.

The Lieutenant smiled knowingly, and gently touching Sim on the elbow, indicated the secondary staircase in the corner of the room. Together they moved towards it, Sim casting quick looks over his shoulder around the room. No one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention, so he breathed more easily. They were out of sight of the faro table and Lady Massingham was nowhere to be seen.

The Lieutenant led him purposefully, not hurrying for which Sim was thankful. To hurry, he felt, would be to draw attention to themselves. With his heart pounding, Sim followed the Lieutenant into the rooms above.

The staircase finished in a small room that looked like a morning reception room. One candle was burning there and from it the Lieutenant lit other candles giving enough light to show that the room acted as a kind of vestibule for the private chambers. All doors were shut. The reception room had a pretty bay window that had the drapes closed. There were several pieces of elegant furniture arranged in the space, and in the bay, there was a chaise longue to which the Lieutenant invited Sim.

Sim was very nervous. He perched beside the Lieutenant on the edge of the chaise, his gaze fixed on the staircase.

“Why are you so nervous?” the Lieutenant asked with a smile. He raised a hand to play with Sim’s hair.

“Someone will see us,” Sim muttered.

The Lieutenant laughed gently. “No one will come up here for hours. They are all too engrossed in the turn of a card.” He put his arm around Sim and drew him close. He whispered in Sim’s ear. “I have thought of you night and day, and I have ached for you.”

With a sigh Sim sank into his lover’s arms. “You are ever in my thoughts also. I cannot tell you how much I have longed for this.” He turned his face to the Lieutenant and they slowly kissed—a kiss that grew in passion and intensity.

Sim writhed and murmured breathlessly, “Oh God, Gervase.” The Lieutenant started kissing him with a myriad of short passionate kisses all over his face and then, with his teeth, pulled undone Sim’s intricately arranged neck cloth.

Sim started giggling. “You have just made a nonsense of a half an hour of my time before the mirror this evening.”

The Lieutenant chuckled. “Let us see what else I can disorder.” And he began pressing kisses to Sim’s throat, moving down to his chest as he pushed the neck cloth out of the way and opened his shirt. Sim bent forward and pressed his lips to the top of his lover’s head as the Lieutenant burrowed and ferreted around with his mouth, uncovering Sim’s torso and revealing his pale skin. Sim gasped and gurgled loudly through his mouth as the Lieutenant slid to the floor between his legs and kissed and mouthed his way down over Sim’s flat stomach and began laying assault to the waistband of his breeches. Sim spread his legs and linked them round the Lieutenant as he bent over him.

“Mr Levison!!” Mrs Jordan’s voice was like the crack of a whip.

The two men sprang apart, the Lieutenant to his feet, fumbling, trying to straighten the disorder of his clothes. “M—m—madam!” he stuttered.

Sim said, “Oh God!” and vainly tried to cover his chest and stomach.

Mrs Jordan swept forward from the top of the stairs, her eyes flashing magnificently.

“You may be careless of your own honor and reputation, sir, but I will not stand idly by as you drag my ward into the abyss with you.”

Sim cried, “Madam, it is…”

“Be silent!” she commanded, and then, angrily, to the Lieutenant, “You may count yourself fortunate, sir, that it is I, and not your aunt and cousin who stand here. Lady Massingham was insistent that Sir Waldo Filey, the chief magistrate, accompany her, but he was reluctant to leave his game of whist. They are, I believe, only seconds behind me. Begone, sir, if you value your character.”

She turned to Sim. “And as for you sir, did nothing I say to you mean anything to you? Can you really be so thoughtless and lascivious that you would endanger your very life and the life of the man you profess to love?”

The Lieutenant said angrily, “Madam, I protest…” but she did not let him finish.

“What? Are you still here, sir? This is no time for debate. Go! Now!”

The Lieutenant gave Sim a haunted look and dashed for the nearest door, but found it locked. He looked wildly around, and darted to the bay window and was lost behind the drapes.

“This is turning into a farce,” Mrs Jordan muttered. She fumbled in her reticule and withdrew the vinaigrette. She pushed Sim back on the chaise and sat beside him.

She hissed at him. “You are feeling faint. If you value your lover, act as you have never acted before!” And her expression was instantly smoothed, showing only motherly concern as she waved the vinaigrette under Sim’s nose.

As Sim gasped under the acrid ammonia of the sal volatile, Lady Massingham’s voice cut through the sudden silence.

“Dorothea! You!” she cried in a voice vibrating with chagrin.

Mrs Jordan looked up, unconcerned, seeing Lady Massingham and Captain Levison.

“Ah Isobel.” She said in surprise, and then her eyes fell on Sir Waldo who was bringing up the rear, a little breathless from climbing the stairs.

“Why, Sir Waldo. How kind of you to concern yourself. There really was no need. Sim will be perfectly stout in a few minutes.”

Sir Waldo came forward, puzzled and concerned. “What ails the lad?”

“Merely an affliction from childhood, Sir Waldo. He has never been strong. The legacy of rheumatic fever. 'Twas the closeness of the salon, I fear.”

Sim decided to close his eyes dramatically, and from his half-closed lids he saw the Captain stroll over to the curtains.

Lady Massingham snarled at Mrs Jordan, “Where is my nephew, madam?”

Mrs Jordan looked around puzzled, “Why, over by the window, dear Isobel. Yes, Captain, a very good notion. A little air will do him the world of good.”

Captain Levison swept back the drapes.

“I see the window is already open,” he said levelly, and he looked at her with an ironic gaze that boded no good for his cousin.

She smiled brilliantly at him. “No matter,” she said, “your intention was exceedingly kind.” She placed the vinaigrette in her reticule, and said to Sim in a concerned voice, “Are you feeling better, my love?”

Sim smiled wanly, “A little, I thank you madam.”

Mrs Jordan said bracingly, “Good!”

Sir Waldo turned to Lady Massingham, “I don’t know why you were so wild to have me accompany you, Isobel. Mrs Jordan seems to have everything in hand.” He chuckled suddenly. “I don’t know what use you thought I could be.”

Lady Massingham was a mass of gibbering incoherence.

Mrs Jordan stood. “Now, Isobel, I really must take my leave. Sim needs to get home to his own bed. I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed my evening here, and I must thank you for all your efforts on Sim’s behalf.”

Lady Massingham swelled with indignation but before she could say anything, Sir Waldo said, with old-fashioned gallantry, “I am yours to command, madam. Perhaps I could help the boy to find his feet.”

Mrs Jordan curtseyed slightly to him. “You are graciousness itself, Sir Waldo.”

They gently got Sim to his feet, and with him supporting himself on Sir Waldo’s arm, they made the long journey to the front door. All the while, Sir Waldo was telling Mrs Jordan how much he had enjoyed her performance in “She Stoops to Conquer”, and she, seemingly blithe of heart, charmed him with some intimate anecdotes.

As they received their cloaks in the hall, they bade a grateful farewell to Sir Waldo. Sim glanced up to see Lady Massingham and the Captain standing at the top of the stairs, rigid with fury and disappointment. Thomas was waiting for then at the front door, and Sim was suddenly glad of his protection. He remembered Mrs Jordan’s comment on the pact that Lady Massingham had with the local gangs and at that moment Thomas took on the aspect of a rock of safety.

On the journey back to Drury Lane, Mrs Jordan was silent. Sim felt very uncomfortable and, to break the silence, reached into his pocket and withdrew the bag of coins.

“Your money ma’am. It is all there. In fact, I won fifteen shillings.”

“You may keep the fifteen shillings,” she said, adding waspishly, “though you did little to deserve it.”

Sim gritted his teeth. “Ma’am. I apologize. I do not know… I mean.. I could not…”

“Let us have no recriminations, Sim.” She said. “The incident is closed.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

They traveled in silence for a few minutes.

Mrs Jordan said suddenly, “He must be very athletic to have jumped from the window. We heard nothing.”

Sim nodded in mute agreement, his mind in a turmoil. Suddenly Mrs Jordan began to laugh. “I don’t think I have ever seen a woman more thoroughly thwarted than Isobel Massingham. I cannot tell you how much it pleased me.”

Sim smiled weakly. “At least,” he said quietly, “he has been warned. He did not believe me. Now, he must.”

“And all our conjecture has been substantiated. Yes.” She agreed. “At least there has been something of good to come out of this fiasco.”

Sim said hesitatingly, “I fear me, ma’am, that they will try again.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs Jordan agreed readily, “and again… and again… and again… until…” She sighed.

Sim felt close to tears. “What can I do, ma’am?”

She patted him sympathetically on the knee. “My dear,” she said gently, “There is nothing that you can do. But be comforted. He has been warned. He will not be duped a second time.” She sank back into the cushions of the carriage and said, half to herself, “I think his fate is now out of your hands.”

For the next week, Sim was in a fever of anxiety, trying to imagine what would happen to his lover and dreading to hear confirmation of his ruin. When the blow fell, his knowledge of it came from an unexpected quarter.

When he walked into Mrs Jordan’s drawing room, she was dressed in sober colors, and he was instantly apprehensive.

She was sipping tea but did not invite him to sit.

He bowed. “Ma’am?”

Without looking him in the eye, she said chillingly, “There is a letter for you.” And she indicated a letter on a salver on a small occasional table.

He snatched it up. He recognized the Lieutenant’s handwriting, and with trembling hands, he ripped it open. The blood slowly drained from his face as he read the message.

He lowered the letter and looked at her. For the first time, she looked at him.

“The Duke of Clarence,” she said quietly, “has graciously released Mr Levison from his service, and, in his capacity as Admiral of the Fleet, has promoted him to the rank of Captain. He has been given command of a ship, HMS Venture.”

Sim gasped, not knowing whether to rejoice or be afraid.

“At your importuning, ma’am?”

She did not reply but gazed at him steadily.

“The Venture sailed on this morning’s tide from Falmouth.” She set down her teacup carefully. “Captain Levison is under orders to sail to the Spanish coast and attempt to break the French blockade of the port of Cadiz.”

Sim was paralyzed with shock. “Dear God. That means he… he…”

“He shall be safe.” She concluded calmly.

The dam broke. “Safe? Safe! You send him into a hopeless battle and you calmly say he will be safe? Do you know what you have done? YOU HAVE SENT HIM TO HIS DEATH!!!”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare raise your voice to me in my own house! He will do his duty.”

Sim ground out. “A pox on his duty! What care I for his duty? He is all I care about. And a pox on you, madam! You have killed him as surely as if you plunged a dagger into his heart!”

She was shocked and said faintly, “Sim…”

“May God forgive you, madam, for what you have done, for I know I never shall.” And he stormed from the room.

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