Mistress of london, p.1
Mistress of London, page 1
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Scott Book
Interior design by Melissa Vail Coffman
Mistress of London: Helen’s Story
Copyright © 2022 by Evelyn Richardson
ISBN: 978-1-94207-894-4 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-94207-895-1 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022935076
Printed in the United States of America
To Carol Mahoney, the epitome of my heroine:
inspiring boss, devoted mentor, and generous friend
whose example led me to coin the phrase
“intimidation through fashion”
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
No one could ask for a more generous and complete resource than all the dedicated authors of Regency Fiction Writers. Thank you.
Prologue
Julian was doing his best to hurry his niece and her mother through the press of people surging out of the theater towards their carriages and freedom from the mind-numbing social chatter of the two ladies. Yes, he had promised to foot the entire bill for Lady Charlotte’s come-out, but he had not signed up to be a constant escort. Hiring a slim, elegant townhouse in Hill Street for the Season was something he could handle easily; not being thoroughly irritated by his companions was something else entirely, and far more difficult. The Mountaineer, an utterly unsurprising and uninspiring play, had been saved only by Kean’s brilliant performance as Octavian which had been enough to keep him from utter boredom.
“Bracebridge . . . er, Lord Linton! How delightful to see you,” a voice chirped directly behind him. Julian turned to find Lady Alicia Shelburne at his elbow, her smile wide and her eyes sparkling. “I must congratulate you on your recent elev . . .”
“Loss of my brother?” He did not bother to hide the sarcasm, obvious enough even for someone as determinedly cheerful as Alicia Shelburne.
“Well, yes, naturally, I do sympathi . . .”
“I beg your pardon, but if you will excuse me, I see our carriage, and my brother’s wife and daughter are quite done in with the crowd.” In fact, Charlotte and her mother were, if anything, energized by the entire spectacle, but Julian hurried them away before Alicia could discover that.
Once he would have given anything to have her smile at him the way she was now, to have the eyes light up when she saw him, but now he knew better. They were not lighting up for him, Julian Bracebridge, but for his new title, Earl of Linton.
He and Alicia had been childhood friends while growing up on neighboring estates, but Julian had quickly forgotten her when he had gone to school and he had avoided coming home to the grim reality of Linton Hall on holidays in favor of visiting friends whose fathers were not abusive wastrels. It had been a shock, therefore, to discover, when he had encountered her some years later, that his former playmate had turned into a beautiful young woman who infinitely preferred dancing to pony riding, and dance he would, partnering her as often as he could until she finally told him that it was doing her reputation no good to be seen so often with a penurious younger son with no prospects. This blunt announcement, however, was delivered, with such a provocative smile that instead of flinging away in a rage, he’d resolved to prove himself more than worthy of such a treasure.
Barely pausing to say farewell to his family, Julian had shipped off to India the next month in search of fame and fortune which soon were his after he convinced a local ruler to turn his swords into ploughshares, save the expense of war, and amass a fortune in agriculture, a proposition infinitely more profitable and comfortable than fighting with his neighbors. For his cleverness, Julian had been richly rewarded with both land and jewels that he immediately sent home to purchase a commodious house in Brighton where his mother could live out the rest of her days in comfort, free of her husband’s excesses.
Julian had been planning to advance himself further in the ruler’s service when word of his father’s death had forced him to return home only to discover that his mother had passed away soon after her husband. It was then that he discovered that the name he had made for himself as a skilled diplomat and the fortune he had amassed were too tainted by trade ever to be attractive to a diamond like Lady Alicia Shelburne, too tainted, until his brother Richard, the new Earl of Linton, and equally as irresponsible as his father, had been killed in a hunting accident, leaving Julian with heavily mortgaged estates and a niece to launch into society, and now, apparently a willing prospect in Lady Alicia.
Julian’s stomach turned at the thought as he loaded his niece and sister-in-law into their carriage and headed off toward the Strand in search of distraction, any distraction. Such was his anger and disgust that he did not slow down, much less become aware of his surroundings until he reached Pall Mall where, pausing his furious pace, to draw a ragged breath, he recalled his brother once waxing rhapsodic over London’s most exclusive seraglio, a Mrs. Gerrard’s in nearby St. James’ Square. Julian would never have trusted Richard’s judgment on anything else except beautiful women and a good time. On those two topics, the former Earl of Linton was a connoisseur. Charming conversations, excellent suppers, and exquisite ladybirds was how he had described the august establishment, and, at this moment, charming conversations with an honest woman, ladybird or not, was just the antidote he needed—an agreed-upon price for an agreed-upon diversion, no social maneuvering, no matrimonial aspirations hidden under a coquettish exterior, just an honest, straightforward exchange to the mutual benefit of both parties involved.
Chapter 1
“Lord Linton to see you, Madam.” Fenwick barely had time to announce him before the earl strode into Helen Gerrard’s office, his dark blue eyes blazing with anger.
Warned by the tiniest lift of her venerable butler’s eyebrows, Helen had time to lay down her pen and glance up with studied coolness from the papers spread on the desk before her.
“You wished to consult with me on something, my lord?” She had recognized, when first introduced, that Julian Bracebridge, Lord Linton was very different from his brother Richard whose blond hair, flamboyant dress, ample form and ruddy features radiated bonhomie and dissipation. In fact, she had been somewhat surprised that the tall, soberly clad gentleman with a penetrating gaze and tanned angular features was patronizing her establishment in the first place. From the little she had heard about the new earl, he had seemed to be more interested in international commerce and diplomacy than the pleasures of the flesh to be found in her discreetly elegant establishment, but she had introduced him to Dora whose sunny personality and business acumen were likely to appeal to a man who was known in the City as being the one to consult on matters of trade with Indian rulers.
Something must have gone amiss in Helen’s careful calculations—a highly unusual circumstance for one who kept herself better informed than Debrett’s and the social columns of The Morning Chronicle on the comings and goings of the Upper Ten Thousand in order to ward off the very possibility of anything going amiss.
“No, I do not wish to consult you. I wish to tell you that it is unconscionable to keep the women here under your thumb as you do. Regardless of its exclusive location in St. James’ Square, your establishment is little better than a prison for them.”
Most people—men and women alike—would have been more likely to label her establishment heaven than a prison. Helen had certainly dedicated a good portion of her life to making it so. Not only did she know that, but its inhabitants did too and often thanked her for it. Her conviction of the truth of this was the only thing that kept her from throwing the gentleman out immediately. Instead, she
Julian did not think he was one of those prigs who stood on ceremony—demanding the respect due to his station in life and all that, but he could not help being thoroughly irritated by the condescension of it all, being made to sit before her like some misbehaving schoolboy and questioned in a tone that implied that he was some overdramatic bounder.
It didn’t help that the exquisitely dressed, coolly poised woman with inscrutable green eyes sitting across from him was stunningly beautiful and not at all like the greedy old crone one would expect to be running a place like this. “I offered Miss Barlow a townhouse in Marylebone, ample pin money and the management of all of it as my mistress and . . .” he paused, overcome with incredulity at the effrontery of it all, “. . . and she refused.”
“She has a perfect right to you know.” The conciliatory tone only infuriated him more.
“Only someone being held hostage by God-knows-what means would refuse such a flattering and generous offer.”
That did it! Now Helen was thoroughly annoyed. “And why would she accept the use of a house in Marylebone from some man only for as long as she pleases him when she already owns one there herself?”
“What?”
There! That had shaken the self-righteous prig out of his self-congratulatory complacency.
“Yes, her own house.”
“Then why? Then why . . .” All at sea, Julian hated himself for babbling like an idiot instead of the worldly businessman he was.
“Does she remain here? For the companionship and the remuneration. The inhabitants of my establishment earn more in one evening than most clergymen hope to earn in a year, and they are also provided with lodging.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the drawing room whose elegance far surpassed that of the house Julian had rented for his niece and her mother. “In addition to which we have set up an annuity for ourselves as well as a Beneficiary Society to provide for us in case of misfortune, not to mention the consols or canal shares in which so many of us have invested on our own. Now I suggest you look for companionship elsewhere, my lord. After all, to men of your type, one woman is so like another you will never notice the difference and we have no further wish for your company here.”
There, that should silence his high-and-mightiness. And before he could annoy her further with his idiotic questions, Helen rose and rang for Fenwick who, bless his loyal heart and finely tuned instincts, was hovering right outside the door.
“Ah Fenwick, his lordship was just leaving. Please be so good as to show him out.” With that, Helen returned to her papers, studying them intently until she heard the door close behind them.
Her eyes might have been focused on the work in front of her, but Helen’s mind was not. Instead it was wondering what sort of person, despite his boorish articulation of it, noticed or cared about the welfare of women in a bawdy house?
Oh Mrs. Gerrard’s was exclusive, its clients carefully scrutinized as much for their position in the ton as their ability to pay its exorbitant prices, but it still provided essentially the same services as any seraglio to be found in the stews around Covent Garden, even though its inhabitants were well-spoken, cultured, beautifully turned out, and exquisitely mannered. So why did a man availing himself of these services care so much that they were freely given, in a manner of speaking? While her customers were more likely to haunt her drawing room in search of companionship and charming conversation than those seeking the satisfaction of their baser desires in Covent Garden, they were still seeking distraction and the opportunity to forget the cares and responsibilities of the larger world; yet this man had thrown himself back into these cares by confronting her over Dora’s wellbeing. Why?
Helen nibbled her pen thoughtfully as she tried to remember what little she knew of the Bracebridge family and the Earls of Linton. A gentle rap on the door interrupted these musings, and before she could answer, Dora’s merry face peeked around it.
Dora! Just the person to cast more light on the situation. The most down-to-earth of all of Mrs. Gerrard’s ladies, the former innkeeper’s daughter had seen a larger slice of life than all of them and could be counted on to offer sage advice and penetrating remarks on anyone from any walk of life.
“I hope I am not interrupting but I thought you might have experienced a rather uncomfortable visit from Lord Linton.”
“No more challenging than I could deal with.”
Dora grinned. “I have no doubt about that, but I am sorry for having caused any unpleasantness, however unintended on my part. His lordship has been both entertaining and instructional. I had no idea that my refusal of his offer, graciously delivered though it was, would send him off in such a fit of pique. There was no time to explain myself, which I certainly would have, if he had not stalked off in high dudgeon before I could open my mouth. I cannot imagine what set him off.”
“He thinks, or he thought, for you can be sure I was quick to set him straight, that I am holding you captive here by some nefarious means.” Helen’s eyes glinted as she relived his lordship’s brutal enlightenment. “He was somewhat surprised to discover that the promise the temporary use of a house in Marylebone held no allure for someone who owns one there.”
Dora chuckled. “I imagine he was, though I am sorry he has been given his conge. I imagine you have sent him to the right about.”
“I have. No one questions Mrs. Gerrard.” The pride in Helen’s voice was hard won. Upon the death of her father, she had been forced to earn her living as a governess where she was quickly cast off after having been raped by her employer, and she had fought her way back from being an unemployable governess to mistress of a highly respected, excruciatingly exclusive and lucrative establishment, and fierce protector of similarly preyed-upon young women who, in her care, won back their own measure of self-respect thanks to her encouragement and the offer of a better education than most men could hope to receive. In addition, there was the pay and the investment opportunities. Yes she was proud.
“You are quite right to dismiss him though I did find him most interesting.”
“Interesting?” Helen’s tone might be scornful, but this was the information she had been hoping for, much as she hated to admit it. The man presented a puzzle—rudeness in the service of compassion—and Helen, something of a connoisseur of human nature after years of experience could not help being intrigued even though she hated herself for being so.
“Yes. His tales of India are fascinating, dealing with warlike Zamindars and bickering rajahs, tales not told the way you might expect. He did not brag of covering himself with glory in daring exploits but of learning their language and customs so he could get them to trust one another, encouraging agriculture instead of war—so much better for everyone. He also introduced wider education and began working to improve their legal system. Not at all the sort of person you would expect to frequent our establishment, even as enlightened as we are. Now he is struggling to improve the cultivation on his own estates which, I gather, have been going to rack and ruin for some time. Now I gather he has come to London to launch his niece in her first Season not a task to his liking I can tell. Perhaps that is what put him in such a temper.”
“It matters not what put him in a temper. We do not allow men like that here, having learned during our unfortunate incident with Basil Harcourt what trouble temper can cause.”
Dora’s sunny features clouded. “Yes, a thoroughly bad and brutal man, Basil Harcourt, despite his being Viscount Wormleigh and our dear Freddy’s future brother-in-law.” Then she brightened. “However, if it hadn’t been for that dreadful episode we would not have Freddy’s brother conducting holy services here and matching wits with you at the card table or Tom Sandys as our second footman.”
It took no special skills on Helen’s part to see that the footman, former batman to Lord Adrian, Freddy’s other brother rated very high indeed in Dora’s estimation, or to hear the fondness in her voice when she spoke of the Claverton brothers: Freddy, Marquess of Wrothingham, the Reverend Lord John Claverton of St. George’s Hanover Square, and Major Lord Adrian Claverton, late of His Majesty’s Life Guards.
