Better You Than I Page 2

  I envy him; though I have the same merits of birth, I lack his martial and social skills and his courage. I will have a good life. All my needs will be met, save one. I will be able to pursue my art. It is likely I will even be able to travel.

  I will never have the one thing I feel I truly want, though.

  And what of the girls? Eliza will secretly replace her father as the house solicitor and steward. Jamie wants nothing more than marriage—or less, for that matter. Yet, our parents fear finding the correct man for her and she will never be able to manage a house of her own. There was once talk of her being married to one of the seven Striker boys, but Aunt Sarah did not want Jamie in her house, judging her too wild and exasperating. It is a shame Jamie is not attracted to women, for our house is one of the few in England where Eliza and she could surely be safe and happy. And it would be allowed in the family; because though Eliza was raised with us as a sister, she is not a daughter of the three marriages and thus forbidden to us—whether or not she is a blood relation.

  And what of Athena? Papa has trained her to be a surgeon and physician, yet she will never be allowed to ply that trade. Nor will she be able to find a husband befitting her station because of her illegitimacy. I cannot see her becoming some man’s wife. I would have to kill him. The thought of her awarding some other the knowing gazes she occasionally gives me makes my heart race and my vision cloud with red. Though, all fits of jealousy aside, she would probably kill any man she married: it would amuse her.

  At last the road becomes thick with drays and carts heading west and home as London’s honest businesses shutter for the night. I pay attention to Gigi’s path and footing as we wind our way on icy streets, heading east into the twilight among the carriages and coaches of nightly enterprises. The sun has set when we arrive at Rickensdale’s family town house. The courtyard is an anarchic melee of dismounting young noblemen and scrambling coachmen, footmen, grooms, and stable boys. I’m sure there are pickpockets. I tuck my purse deep into my belt and check my weapons before dismounting in a quiet corner and handing my reins to Art.

  “Enjoy yourself.” I tell him before following Apollo to the door.

  “MoreThanYou,” he says with a grin.

  We five bewigged youths make our way inside, hand our cloaks to Henri and one of Rickensdale’s valets, check our appearances in a great mirror in the foyer, and enter the true melee of the evening in the house’s grand ballroom. There is music, but I doubt there will be dancing—at least not of the upright and clothed variety. Tonight’s theme is apparently Ottoman, specifically someone’s wildly imaginative version of a Sultan’s seraglio; though, as I have never seen a harem’s environs, it might be completely accurate for all I know. The dance floor—unadorned, a marble-floored expanse nearly the size of a dressage arena—has been filled with a wine-spewing fountain, a veritable maze of ornate screens and curtains, and a rolling meadow of pillows and fine rugs. The ladies of the evening are nearly naked, dressed only in diaphanous silken draperies that reveal far more than they hide. Already, several boys have leapt upon one or two and descended to the pillowed floor to fumble with their breeches and hump rabidly. We have walked into a brothel. Thankfully it is free of charge. I am sure Rickensdale’s mother is happy in her grave.

  We are accosted by a bevy of tittering women, who—as I am not drunk—are not as comely at close range as they seem at a distance. Some are older than one is meant to assume, with paint pressed into pockmarked skin and scarves wrapped to support sagging bosoms. Others are skinny, with poor teeth and sallow skin. A few are truly pretty with nubile bodies and clear complexions. I suppose one is meant to look enough at those to be able to imagine the one cupping his balls looks the same.

  Two of them try to hang on me and lead me off into the woods as it were. One reaches for my jewels and the other for my purse and I swat them away. My supposed prudery makes them laugh and offer wine. That I will accept; though I have no intention of getting drunk.

  James stands stiffly nearby, expression drawn taut between fascination and horror, his goblet held in a white-knuckled grip that makes me worry for the stem. His gaze is darting about, and before I can speak to him, he sees a thing he apparently wants and lunges toward one of the comely girls and hauls her into the maze, followed by a floating trail of her delighted laughter.

  Pike and Les have already disappeared, slipping away to some quiet corner to indulge their desires—possibly with a girl as an added amusement.

  I look about and find Apollo leaning against a pillar that’s heavy enough to be more than mere decoration, despite it falling far shy of the vaulted ceiling.

  He clinks his goblet with mine when I reach him. “I thought you might follow James’s example.”

  “I see too much.”

  He nods. “I was thinking of the poor. And the cost of this.” He gestures at the room before shrugging and taking a drink. “But I mollified my disgust by thinking that at least these women are being paid, as were the laborers hired by the decorator to arrange the setting. Money flows from the wealthy through our stupidity and excess. It stays in our purses when we practice decorum.”

  I smile with sincere admiration for his thoughtfulness. He reminds me of Dada. “Are you trying to guilt me into getting drunk and spreading myself around?”

  He laughs. “In a manner of speaking, perhaps.” He studies my face. “You do tend to brood.”

  I shake my head with amusement. “Coming from you…”

  He laughs again and signals a waiting girl for more wine.

  “I was thinking about the future,” I say once our goblets are refilled and we are again relatively alone.

  He sighs and his features slide into his brooding expression, which I have often caught with charcoal and even paint.

  I change the tack slightly. “We will… manage.” I indicate our obscene setting. “But our sisters.”

  He snorts with amusement at the former and becomes glum again at the latter. “I am glad I am not a woman. At least… As long as the house remains, we… I can shelter them, and they will not be forced to marry—though that will make Jamie very sad—and they can do as they will as our mothers do. But I cannot see where it will not be frustrating to always have to hide one’s abilities—or sex.” He grins. “We know what Art thinks of events such as this—but she is one of us—a boy. But can you imagine the others here?”

  I smile. “Eliza would become a frozen statue of disdain, as if she stood in the offal of a slaughterhouse and knew not where to step.”

  “She would look at the girls, though,” Apollo says with a sly grin.

  “And do her utmost to hide it.” I chuckle. “And Jamie. She would tear off her clothes and frolic like a fawn in a meadow. Somehow the picture of innocence.”

  “Even when she grabs some lucky fool and pulls him down among the pillows.”

  “And Athena…” My mouth stalls as I see her in the middle of it all, sitting fully clothed on a throne of gold, dressed in the manner of the ancient Egyptians, like a painting of Cleopatra I once saw. She would smile her cat’s smile and her green eyes would dare you to partake—without thinking of her—while thinking of her…

  Apollo is laughing at me. I am quite red and risen.

  “She’s not your sister,” he says. “Yet, I think you a fool. I avert my eyes from Jamie because she is like a child and it seems wrong to even think it; and Art is a boy and I have no lust for him; and Eliza seems a sister, and though she is pretty, I feel no attraction. Athena is my half-sister, and yet, I see her aura of seduction. I would never imagine succumbing to it, though: I think she might have teeth down there.”

  That thought fans my internal fires even higher. I know the image will ride me when next I take myself in hand. “I am affected by the family madness,” I mutter with embarrassment and gulp my wine.

  Apollo has sobered, watching me. “Uly, Papa and Dada taught Athena and I to ride the unruly Horses of our souls so they do not gallop off into the madness Papa
suffers; because we share his blood and stand to inherit that curse. Dada has told me he also has troubles, but many of them come from his childhood. I doubt you are mad. It is more likely you yearn for the forbidden, perhaps.”

  He does not know my dark thoughts. I shake my head in silent refutation.

  He smiles kindly. “My Horse is a great beast, powerful beyond my dreams; so much so I sometimes wish to let him have his head, just to feel the glory of that strength—the lack of doubt, fear, anxiety…” He shakes the thought away. “But Athena. I don’t know, Uly. I think she…” He meets my gaze imploringly. “I don’t know whether she feels. Not as you or I do. Perhaps she is as much her Horse as Uncle Pete. But…”

  “It is not a great racing beast,” I say quietly. “It is a quiet and controlled demon that stands in the back of its stall waiting for an opportunity to sink its teeth into flesh or kick your legs out from under you and smash your skull.”

  “Yes,” he says with a resigned sigh. “I’m glad you see that.”

  “I still want her. That is why I think I might be mad.”

  He takes a breath to refute me, only to let it go in a long sigh and slumped shoulders. “Perhaps you are.” He meets my gaze anew. “Perhaps you should speak with Dada about this.”

  I shake my head. “I do not wish to be cured.”

  He smiles and raises his goblet in silent toast. “What shall we do with you?”

  I feel a great weight has been lifted by my baring this glimpse of my soul. I shrug with relief and try to again engage my senses in the feral sanity around us. “Well, I will find no entertainment here.”

  “Nor will I,” he says sadly and shakes his head at the proffered smile of a comely whore. “I want to love someone,” he says quietly when she walks away with a last enticing glance tossed over her shoulder. “I have been anticipating the balls and this year’s crop of eligible young ladies.”

  “You believe you will meet a woman you wish to marry?” I ask.

  “It is a hope I have convinced myself might flower. And how else will we maintain all that we have if I do not marry a woman with whom I share some philosophy—one who will embrace our household?”

  Oddly, I had not considered that. “I guess I assumed you would keep her ensconced elsewhere.”

  “I don’t want that kind of life,” he says with surety. “I don’t want… Any of it.” He shakes his head angrily. “I will only be able to endure it at all if I’m surrounded by love. I don’t want children with a woman with whom I must fight or lie.”

  I remember my father’s tale of Jamie’s mother. “Isn’t that how Jamie came into being?”

  Apollo nods tightly. “That has always served as sufficient warning for me—as if I would ever have been tempted to follow such a path.”

  “If we avoid our parents’ mistakes we might become saints,” I say. It is an old joke among the children and we smile.

  He says thoughtfully, “Our parents did many things correctly, too.”

  “There you are!” Rickensdale brays from near enough to startle us. “I thought I might find you about, holding up my walls as is your wont.” He is drunk, and it is difficult to tell if the two pretty whores at his side are supporting him or making him stagger by hanging on him like the excess folds of a cape. “Come, come! You must see tonight’s true entertainment.”

  Laughing at our host’s obvious glee, we follow him to the far end of the room, where a space has been cleared and servants are hastily placing a large, sturdy dining table. Once the guests have formed a ring around the table, with the boys closest to it reclining on the floor—many with whores in their laps—and the boys farthest from it standing on chairs, Rickensdale signals; and two lean men with dark weathered faces, strange baggy pants, and colorful doublets enter the circle and sit on pillows at one end of the table. They appear to be Gypsies. One of them settles a drum in his lap and the other checks his fingering on a wind instrument of some kind. Ignoring the tittering girls and guffawing boys, they begin to play an alien tune with a beat that catches the tips of even unwilling fingers and a melody that skirls around in octaves just high enough to annoy me—until the dancers appear. The two women are lifted to the table by two more men. These men are also dark-skinned and strangely dressed, and they carry long hooked blades. They make their presence and duty clear by standing formidably at either end of the table with their arms crossed. I’m sure their show of force is lost on almost everyone else present: all eyes are on the dancers.

  I, too, lose myself in their mystery. They are exotic and lovely, with long graceful limbs and smooth golden-brown skin that glows like oiled wood under the flickering light of the chandeliers. Their hair is a deep shiny black, pulled back and not up, flowing to their waists. They wear opaque silk veils, one red and the other blue, matching their costumes and showing only their large painted eyes. Their breasts are cupped and covered, displayed yet hidden, by embroidered cropped doublets fitted tightly over a sheer silk waistcoat that mingles with their voluminous diaphanous skirts below their waists. Their hips are wrapped with scarves. They have many twinkling, tinkling chains and bangles at their wrists and ankles, low about their waist, draped between their breasts, and braided into their hair.

  When they begin to move with the music we are lost; even the most jaded among us is mesmerized, and all is silent save for the strange music and the tapping of small cymbals in the dancers’ hands. I ache, not with lust, but with the need for charcoal and paper. I do not know whether my fingers could catch the wonder before me, but I know I lack the words for it.

  It is over all too soon. The dancers bow, leap nimbly from the table, and disappear into velvet cloaks held by the hulking men. They are ushered away into the crowd, and only when they are gone does the room erupt into awed and appreciative sound. Rickensdale crawls upon the table and stands with arms spread to accept the accolades of all for bestowing upon us such a wondrous sight. Then the drinking begins in earnest, because only copious amounts of wine will make the whores appear to be the dancers they are dressed to mimic.

  I must see them again. I must arrange a private showing. I push through the crowd and into the back corridor they used. Wandering about, I eventually find the kitchen and many servants and assorted supporters.

  Henri sees me before I see him and weaves his way through the crowded room with a half-full mug in hand.

  “Ready to leave so soon?” he asks quietly after we step back into the corridor.

  “Nay. Well… Nay. Did you see the girls? The dancers?” I ask.

  “The Gypsies? Aye. Didn’t get to see them dance, though. How was it?”

  “Amazing. Where are they?”

  “They left. We talked to one of the big men before they went in. Buck was asking them about the swords. We didn’t even notice the girls behind them at first: they had them so bundled. From what I hear, they needed it due to the lack of clothing.” His eyes are full of questions, mirth, and the desire for mischief.

  I smile at his enthusiasm. I wish he had seen them. “They were fully covered. It was possible to see through some of the clothing, though. The rest was fitted to their bodies. It was more how they moved than how they appeared, though. Do you know if anyone knows how to contact them? I wish to arrange another performance. I want to draw them.”

  “Ahhh,” Henri says. “Nay, but I can ask about. You should ask your host.”

  “Of course. Probably when he’s sober.” I fight the melancholy of disappointment that I will surely not get the matter resolved for days.

  James comes running down the corridor. He looks at Henri. “Get the horses and men. We need to leave. There’s trouble.”

  Henri swears and dives back into the kitchen. I follow James up the corridor.

  “What happened?”

  James swears. “What we might have expected with this many drunken fools.” He pauses at the ballroom door. “It was noticed that our brothers were fucking one another, and that your other brother is not fucking anyone—in
a room of free whores!”

  I can guess the rest. Pushing the door open, I’m momentarily delighted to find the center of the drama close at hand. Then I realize it is because Apollo, Pike, and Les are heading toward this door and things are so bad we truly should leave directly.

  “Must I remind you, you are addressing my guest and the son of lord?” Rickensdale roars at someone.

  “Whish one?” someone replies.

  Gasps of surprise and several guffaws erupt from the gathering crowd.

  I step aside to clear the door for Les and Pike to exit, with Apollo right behind them. I finally see the speaker: Bartleby, the son of the Earl of Nordham, a political sparring partner of Dada in the House of Lords. Count Bartleby is incredibly drunk, staggering, his wig askew and his breeches undone. He stops at the head of the crowd following my brothers to the door.

  “Aye, whish one?” Bartleby repeats, glaring at Apollo’s back.

  I glance to my brother. He appears calm and tired beyond his years.

  Beside me, Les stands in the doorway, turned now to face Apollo and the crowd. Pike and James pull on him from behind, trying to get him through the door. I wonder why he is blocking the exit and then I see his face. He, too, is far too drunk to be about in public. And he’s angry, glaring at Bartleby over Apollo’s shoulder.

  “I have shtudied them,” Bartleby slurs. “They all look different, and none like the fathers by which they’re named. I believe it’s because their fathers have their cocks so far up each other’s arses their seed has mingled and now only produces—”

  I do not hear the rest. I see Apollo’s expression tighten with resolve. He meets my gaze, whispers, “I’m sorry,” and turns away, moving so quickly Bartleby is still spewing words when Apollo’s glove strikes his cheek—with Apollo’s fist still in it.