Pandora(67)

Hezekiah grunts. Another thing he does not wish to think of.

The money from Lady Latimer has more than amply paid off Coombe – the man should not bother him again – but it does not help his cause. The buyer he claimed to have in line does not exist; Hezekiah wanted to salvage his prize first before approaching his associate to open sales, ensure his future, make it secure.

The idea of the vase being somewhere he cannot keep a close watch on it disturbs him. What if someone recognises it? But then, he reasons, who would? The only people who might have recognised it for what it is are either dead or far, far away from London. And there can certainly be no chance of one of Latimer’s guests opening it and finding what he has sought so desperately all these long years. Not now Dora …

He thinks of her, thinks of what she does not own up to but what she surely, surely must know.

‘She must have hidden it,’ he mutters.

Lottie pauses in her tending.

‘Hidden it?’

He did not realise he had spoken out loud. Hezekiah looks at Lottie through gin-fugged eyes.

‘What was in the vase. It was there. I know it was.’

‘What, Hezekiah?’

He takes a breath. He has not told her everything, only what she has needed to know. Too dangerous. Too …

‘The damn girl has taken it. She keeps it from me. But why doesn’t she do anything?’

Hezekiah tries to turn. The water from the basin slops over the side onto Lottie’s skirts. He presses a fist to his eye, the glass to the other.

‘She must be waiting,’ he moans. ‘She is working against me, I know it. Has got that boy involved. She has told him everything, he must be helping her. She’s told him everything!’

How dare she? How dare she!

‘After all I’ve done for her over the years. Have I not kept a roof over her head? Have I not pandered to her fanciful little hobby? Have I not secured a place for her, when the time comes to sell?’

‘What place?’

Hezekiah pauses, bites his tongue. He takes a shaking sip of gin. ‘I could have left her there, Lottie. I could have made sure …’

‘Shush, now.’

He feels Lottie’s weight lift from the bed. The glass is taken from his hand, the tink of decanter, the glug of pouring liquid. The glass is returned, is raised to his mouth.

He drinks. Drinks.

Lottie begins to sing. After a moment she resumes her strokes, runs her hand up and down his leg.

He closes his eyes, listens to her low, gravelly voice.

The gin helps to deaden the pain. All of his pain. Her touch is pleasant, a tickle. He feels a twitch in the seat of his manhood.

Kingdoms wide that sit in Darkness,

Let them have the glorious Light,

And from Eastern Coast to Western,

May the Morning chase the Night.



Lottie stops. He opens his eyes. She is peering down at his thigh.

‘It seems to be drying some.’

She runs the cloth once more across the wound, feather light. His breath hitches. A moment of pain. A brief spell of pleasure.

Lottie sighs. She returns the cloth to the basin. It floats on top like a dead fish before disappearing under the water’s bitty surface.

‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘let me fetch for a doctor. I wish I could make you feel better, but I can’t, I can’t!’

Her words carry worry, a hint of desperation, and in that moment Hezekiah has decided.

‘You can.’ He takes her hand, guides it up, up, tightening his grip when Lottie tries to pull back.

‘No. No. I …’

‘This is what you’re trained for,’ Hezekiah whispers. ‘You know how much pleasure you give me.’ With his free hand he pulls the sheet from him, shows her. ‘It will distract from my pain.’

She is hesitant still. Slowly, he places a finger on the tender cut of her lower lip, presses in.

‘Remember, Lottie. I didn’t take you on to be idle.’

Hezekiah watches her face waver. Triumphant, he places her hand on the hardening stub of him and groans, grips tight his glass.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE





Cornelius cannot abide tardiness. It is something of an obsessive tic with him, and so Edward hopes that Dora will not make them wait. Certainly it is for her sake, he thinks grimly, looking across at Cornelius lounging on his cushioned seat in the carriage, rather than his.

The darker man reclines as if bored, a small pipe nestled between his long, thin fingers. A fine trail of smoke circles upward, disappears into nothing two inches from the vehicle’s roof. But Cornelius, Edward knows, is not the victim of ennui. His friend is alert, uncomfortable. Though socially attuned to them Cornelius does not like large social gatherings. He would wonder why Cornelius insisted he come at all if Edward did not already know the answer – he wishes, for want of a better word, to chaperone.

Edward truly hoped his friend would change his mind about Dora once he met her, that he would see what Edward sees – an honest, respectable woman, a fellow dreamer, a girl deserving of far more than she has received – but there has been no changing his mind. Cornelius has already determined to dislike her. Why, Edward cannot fathom.

He regrets telling him that Dora asked Edward to accompany her, regrets mentioning offhand that he purchased for her a gown.