Free Taming Maria by Rhea Silva Page B

comes without warning, Damien was there,
swinging Charles round to face him. 'What the devil are you doing
here, Bradley? And get your dirty hands off my ward!'
    'You invited
me, sir.' Charles could not have been more composed. Maria's skirt
slithered into place and it was as if he had never touched her.
    'I did? When
was this?' Damien looked as if he wanted to strike him.
    'At White's
Club last week. Don't you remember, or were you too cup-shorten?'
It was plain to see that these gentlemen loathed one another.
    'Are you
suggesting I can't hold my liquor?' Damien's face was hard, his
eyes flinty.
    'Nothing of
the sort, sir. But I tell you plain, you did invite me.'
    'Are you
calling me a liar?'
    'I wouldn't
dream of it, but my horse has better manners than you, even if he
does piss in the street.' Charles's sarcasm coiled round the
conservatory. He turned to bow to Maria. 'It has been a pleasure
meeting you. Now I'll take my leave.'
    'You're not
welcome here at any time.' Damien stepped to her side, glaring at
Charles.
    'That is
patently obvious. I bid you farewell.' With that he walked away,
head high.
    Damien rounded
on Maria. His hand shot out, gripping her arm painfully. 'As for
you, hussy!' he stormed. 'How dare you linger about with him?'
    'Lady Arabella
introduced us,' she protested, tugging herself free.
    'Then I shall
take her to task. And as for you, it is high time I taught you a
few more lessons.'
     

Chapter 5
     
    Charles left
Strafford Hall without a backward glance. He clapped on his
low-crowned topper and shrugged his shoulders into a triple-capped
overcoat, then addressed his manservant, 'Bates, fetch the
horses.'
    Riding from
Hampstead across the heath to his own lodgings, he brooded on
everything that had happened that night, dwelling particularly on
Maria. That such a desirable beauty should be in the care of
Viscount Damien stuck in his craw.
    Reaching his
house he dismounted and entered, Bates taking the horses to the
stables at the rear. Charles lived alone, creature comforts
provided by his housekeeper, Mrs Pritchard, and his sexual
requirements met by a number of whores from Madame Flora's brothel
and, more recently, by his new mistress, Sally Wyatt. He had an
estate in the country, though visited it rarely, leaving the
management in the capable hands of his agent. He had come to the
capital to study art, frustrated because students could no longer
attend the academies in Paris.
    Having been an
officer in the army, he now served his country in a less
conspicuous manner, working underground in order to apprehend spies
working for the French Government. On the surface he appeared to be
a dabbler in painting who caroused with other young bucks, living a
carefree existence. In reality he met informers and double agents,
using taverns and bawdy houses in order to carry out his
investigations. One of his principal suspects was Damien. In his
role as a dandy whose only apparent interest was in gambling,
drinking and rogering the artists' models who posed nude for him,
he had attempted to socialise with him, but the antipathy between
them made this impossible. As yet there was not a shred of
evidence, but Charles was certain the viscount was up to
something.
    He lit a
candle and made his way to the main bedroom. Mrs Pritchard occupied
a more humble apartment in the attic. Bates slept across the
corridor to his master, doubling as valet and sidekick. Cleaners
came in daily and soiled linen was farmed out to washerwomen. Food
was delivered from the pie shops, bakers and dairies. London
abounded in eating houses, all within a stone's throw of dwellings.
Only the wealthy kept well-maintained kitchens and employed cooks
when residing in town.
    'Ah, there you
are, Charlie. I thought you'd be later than this.' Sally Wyatt
spoke from the depths of the tester-bed. 'Old Mother Pritchard let
me in. You'll have to give me a key, you know. Can't keep knocking
her up, though I think she had a fellow with her. Dirty