Lucy Ashford - The Captain's Courtesan

Then Alec had come home. Only he had no home, of course. His father had married in the summer while Alec was away fighting, and Alec’s new stepmother’s relatives had delightedly appropriated the smart house that he had once occupied.

So Alec had made the decision to move into the home for old soldiers in Spitalfields himself. It had once been a grand mansion, built by a rich Huguenot silk weaver called Ducroix, but the house, like the district, Spitalfields, had fallen on hard times; the name the locals had given to Ducroix’s pretentious home—Two Crows Castle—seemed more than ever like an ironic jest.

Before their estrangement, it had been his father’s idea to buy it and refurbish it. ‘I cannot enjoy my wealth when I see injured and destitute soldiers begging at every street corner,’ he’d explained to Alec.

The Earl had bought the lease, but the refurbishments had never started. And now it was up to Alec to try to keep the crumbling mansion habitable by using the money from his army pension, together with a small inheritance from his mother and the income he earned from fencing lessons. Quite simply, he felt he owed it to these men. They had given their all for their country and were left with nothing, often not even their health.

Alec had not heard from his father since that day of their terrible argument and refused all invitations from the ton . He had built a new life for himself and in a way he was content.

Or would have been, had he not got his damned brother to deal with.

Garrett’s return broke abruptly into his abstracted thoughts.

‘That’s them sorted up there, Captain,’ Garrett said with satisfaction. ‘Makes six lads in the attic now, bit of a squash, but they was all in Spain, so they’ll have plenty to talk about.’ He eyed Alec warily. ‘And I’ve some more news for you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Apparently,’ Garrett went on in a rush, ‘that brother of yours was seen in the Park this afternoon, large as life in his fancy curricle. And he had a lady with him.’ Garrett hesitated again. ‘A prime ‘un, Captain. Dark hair, blue eyes …’

Alec felt an ominous pulse throbbing in his temple. Steady, now . ‘Do you know,’ he said softly, ‘I feel a sudden urge to speak with my brother, Garrett.’

‘So I thought, Captain. That’s why I asked around about his lordship’s intentions for the rest of the day. And he’s decided, all of a sudden it seems, to visit some place in St James’s tonight. The Temple of—the Temple of …’

Alec went very still. ‘Not the Temple of Beauty?’

‘Aye, that was it. The Temple of Beauty, in Ryder Street. Now, I know he’s got that grand house of his barricaded against you like a fortress, but he’s likely to be heading to this Temple place alone …’

And he would not be expecting to meet his younger brother . Alec did not hesitate. ‘I’m going out, Garrett. Expect me when you see me.’ He was already pulling on his greatcoat.

‘Sure you don’t want company, Captain?’

‘Quite sure.’ Alec was flinging open the door when he came to an abrupt halt, for outside in the passageway a large, golden-haired dog was watching him expectantly.

Alec swung round, eyes ominously narrowed. ‘Garrett, do you know what this creature’s doing here?’

‘He’s been hangin’ about outside for days, Captain. No food, no ‘ome. Thought we might manage to fit him in.’

Alec raked his hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you realise how much dogs this size eat?’

Garrett remained imperturbable. ‘He’s nowhere else to go, Captain. His name’s Ajax.’

‘Ajax. Then, Garrett, you’ll oblige me greatly by finding Ajax somewhere else to go!’

‘Very well. Gently now with that door, Captain!’

Too late. As the door slammed shut after Alec’s rapidly departing figure, flakes of ancient plaster pattered down from the ceiling. Garrett, with a sigh, fetched a broom to sweep them up, then ruffled the dog’s head. ‘Blasted place is fallin’ to bits … Don’t worry, lad. Our Captain’s all heart. Most of the time.’

Ajax gazed up at his new friend and wagged his tail happily.

The Temple of Beauty, Ryder Street, St James’s Later that evening

The first-floor dressing room was crowded and smelled of cheap perfume. Rosalie Rowland edged her way towards the nearest door and opened it a few inches, hoping for a breath of cooler, fresher air.

Oh, fiddlesticks . She shut it again quickly.

Men. Dozens of them, queuing from the ground floor all the way up the staircase. Men, tall and short, rich and poor, plump and thin, all filling the air with the smells of tobacco and strong drink. Men, queuing to see—amongst others— her . On stage tonight, in the upstairs hall of the notorious Temple of Beauty.

Rosalie fought down a renewed wave of panic. If she didn’t catch her death of cold in this— costume that was as flimsy as a bride’s veil, she’d catch something horrible from the dirt. Not that such a minor detail bothered the proud proprietor, Dr Perceval Barnard, or his wife. Or the other girls, who chattered and giggled as they clustered to paint their faces in front of the looking-glasses hung askew on the walls.

‘On stage in ten minutes, Greek goddesses!’ squawked Mrs Patty Barnard. ‘Make sure you’re all looking ravishing, now!’

‘Think she means—ready to be ravished,’ drily put in dark-haired Sal close by. Within minutes of Rosalie’s arrival here earlier today, kind Sal had promptly taken her under her wing. And people to watch out for, Sal told her, most definitely included Patty Barnard, a shrill, domineering forty-year-old, whose dyed red hair dazzled the eye.

Mrs Barnard didn’t hear Sal’s comment, but her sharp eyes shot to Rosalie. ‘You. New girl. Pull your gown lower. Our gents haven’t paid to see a bunch of Vestal Virgins!’

Rosalie kept her expression demure. ‘Certainly it’s the last place on earth they’d expect to find any, ma’am.’

The rest of the girls sniggered. Mrs Barnard looked at her, frowning, uncertain, then swung round to the others. ‘Girls, stop squabbling over those Grecian arm-bracelets. There should be sufficient for you all … Charlotte, my dear, what a truly exquisite Aphrodite you make!’

And the normal hubbub of chatter and preparation resumed.

The Temple of Beauty was, Dr Barnard liked to declare, a gentlemen’s club. But there were no rules for membership, merely an initial payment for the evening’s entry, after which the clients could indulge in the usual pursuits of dining, drinking and gaming. Many other clubs in London offered the same. But here, at the stroke of ten, all the patrons moved as one to join the queue for the upstairs hall, because the Temple of Beauty was known throughout London for its classical tableaux featuring scantily-clad girls in costumes who posed in what Dr Barnard called ‘attitudes’ for around ten minutes while the gentlemen in the audience, already mellow with food and wine, feasted their eyes.

‘I have an exclusive clientele, my dear, most of them highly educated in the Greek and Roman myths,’ Dr Barnard had earnestly assured Rosalie yesterday morning when she’d called about a post. ‘And I pride myself,’ he went on, ‘on my own knowledge of those ancient times of glory!’ He’d waved an expansive hand towards his crowded bookshelves, though his lecherous appraisal of her face and figure had rather spoiled the effect of his lofty words.