Edward Marston - The Painted Lady

‘A plague on it!’ cried Henry Redmayne, smacking the arm of the sofa with a petulant hand. ‘This is the worst news I ever heard in my entire life. It’s left me prostrate with grief.’

‘I feel betrayed,’ said Elkannah Prout, morosely.

‘We’ve all been betrayed, Elkannah. Every red-blooded man in London has been betrayed. Not to put too fine a point on it, our whole sex has been betrayed. And the sorriest victims of this betrayal are here in this room — you, me and poor Jocelyn.’

Henry indicated Jocelyn Kidbrooke, a portly man in his thirties who sat in a complete daze, still trying to absorb the grim intelligence. Kidbrooke’s podgy face was a study in dejection. Had his own wife been violently snatched from him, he could not have looked more melancholy. Prout, by contrast, thin, angular and still passably handsome, was seething with rage, barely able to contain himself as he perched on the edge of his chair. He kept bunching his fists pugnaciously and swearing under his breath.

Drawn together by disaster, the three of them were in the drawing room of Henry’s house in Bedford Street. Though they passed themselves off as gentlemen, they were confirmed rakes, pursuing lives of ceaseless pleasure in the capital city of dissipation. Prout was the oldest of them, a well-dressed bird of prey on the verge of forty. Henry Redmayne was younger but his wayward existence had robbed him of his good looks and given him in return a pale, drawn, pinched countenance that was deeply etched by years of corruption. All three friends were fashionably dressed but it was Henry who wore the most ostentatious apparel and had the most flamboyant periwig.

‘I would never have believed it of her,’ he declared.

‘Nor I,’ said Prout. ‘It’s shameful.’

‘It’s nothing short of indecent, Elkannah. When a woman guards her maidenhood like the Crown Jewels, then she should, in all honesty, only yield it up to someone who truly deserves it. In short,’ said Henry, slapping his knee before rising to his feet, ‘to one of us. Damn it all — we’ve earned it.’

‘We spent time and money on the jilting baggage.’

‘I offered her my undying love.’

‘So did I, Henry — and so did Jocelyn.’

He gestured towards Kidbrooke but the latter was too absorbed in his thoughts to hear a single word that was being said. The others might talk of a shared feeling of betrayal. All that concerned Jocelyn Kidbrooke was his own misery. He did not hear the distant ring of the doorbell and he did not even look up when a servant showed a visitor into the room. Beaming happily, Sir Willard Grail made straight for Henry and shook his hand warmly.

‘Henry, my darling-sin, how is’t with you?’

‘Very ill,’ replied the other.

‘Such sadness among friends?’ He looked at the other two men. ‘What ails you? Why these long faces? Why this dreadful whiff of despair in my nostrils? Have I come to a house or a hospital?’

‘I can see that you have not yet heard, Sir Willard,’ said Prout.

‘Heard what?’

‘The hideous truth about Araminta Jewell.’

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Sir Willard, bringing both hands up to his throat. ‘Do not tell me that the dear creature is dead.’

‘It’s worse than that.’

‘ Worse ?’

‘The little traitor is married,’ said Henry.

Sir Willard Grail was dumbfounded. He was an affable man in his late twenties with an almost permanent smile on his lips. Tall, fair, lean and immaculately dressed, he cut an imposing figure. He did not look so imposing now. Reeling from the impact of the news, he seemed to shrink in size and lose all vitality. The characteristic smile was replaced by a grimace.

‘Araminta is married ?’ he croaked.

‘In secret,’ said Henry. ‘Behind our backs.’

‘Married to whom? What sorcerer has bewitched her and stolen her away from us? Name the villain.’

‘My tongue will turn black when I do so.’

‘Why — who is the fellow?’

‘Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Culthorpe?’ Sir Willard spat out the name like a foul poison that he had inadvertently tasted. ‘That angel of delight has sacrificed her virginity to Sir Martin Culthorpe? It’s unspeakable.’

‘But nevertheless true,’ admitted Prout. ‘It’s an insult to all of us. Culthorpe is a sanctimonious nonentity.’

‘Araminta does not think so,’ said Henry, ruefully.

‘What conceivable attraction can Culthorpe have for her?’

‘Extreme wealth and a title.’

‘I, too, have money,’ said Prout, thrusting out his chest.

‘But no title.’

‘I have a title,’ argued Sir Willard.

‘Yet you lack the affluence to go with it,’ noted Henry. ‘And without wishing to be overly pedantic, I have to point out that you, Sir Willard — like Jocelyn here — are already married. Elkannah and I were the only bachelors in the hunt.’

‘Apart from Culthorpe, that is.’

‘A vile thief who stole the richest jewel in Christendom.’ Henry flopped into a chair and stared vacantly at a painting of rampant satyrs in pursuit of a trio of naked nymphs. ‘It’s an ignominy that must not be borne, gentlemen. We are victims of a heinous crime.’

With a nod of agreement, Sir Willard lowered himself on to a chair. All four of them brooded in silence. Araminta Jewell was, by common consent, the most beautiful young woman in London and the fact that she kept her many suitors at arm’s length only added to her allure. She was everything that the four men sought in a mistress and they had been so beguiled by her charms that they formed a Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood. The person fortunate enough to win his way into her bed was also destined to collect the large reward to which they had all generously contributed.

A disturbing thought made Henry sit up with a start.

‘Hell and damnation!’ he howled. ‘Does this mean that we have to forfeit the contents of our fund to Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

‘Never!’ said Prout, defiantly.

‘He achieved what four of us signally failed to do.’

‘All that I lacked was time, Henry. Give me another month and she would have wilted under the pressure of my blandishments.’

‘I looked to have seduced her within a fortnight,’ said Henry.

‘Away with these fond imaginings!’ said Sir Willard, testily.

‘You do but cry over spilt milk and that’s ever a foolish exercise. As for Culthorpe, he’ll not get a penny from us because he was not party to the wager, and I’ll not pay any man to bed his wife.’

‘Had I wed Araminta,’ said Henry, ‘you’d have had to pay me.’

‘There was no mention of marriage in the articles we drew up.’

‘Nor was it excluded, Sir Willard. I was always impelled more by love than by lust. For her sake,’ he went on, dramatically, ‘I’d have endured all the restrictions of holy matrimony.”

Sir Willard smiled urbanely. ‘Choose the right wife and there are no restrictions,’ he observed.

‘The matter is settled, then,’ said Prout. ‘Culthorpe gets no reward from us and the Society is hereby disbanded. My vote is for raiding the purse and spending it in a night of uninhibited abandon.’

‘A capital notion, Elkannah.’

‘But one too hastily conceived.’ Henry was thoughtful. ‘Why disband our Society when it can simply be re-christened? Why squander the money when it can be won afresh?’

‘How?’ asked Sir Willard.

‘How else but by seeking our revenge? The milk may be spilt but it’s still sweet enough for us to lick. Since we cannot secure the lady’s maidenhood, we can at least cuckold the rogue who did.’