Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella) Read online

  Nellie expected her courses in a few days. Would half of her payment from the prince hold out that long? She mentally counted her funds versus her expenses and decided it would. Fantastic, she could hold her head high, and only flirt if she saw one of the subalterns who knew the prince. Unfortunately, she saw no one that night.

  Three nights later, she visited the pub yet again. She’d attracted a great many followers over that time, and was keeping note of who might be willing to be her protector rather than just a lover or a quick coin. She had not surrendered her plans.

  Several voices greeted her as she entered, and a third son of a baronet was quick to purchase her a glass of what the pub owner claimed was sherry. But she was too proud to allow a drink to buy her attention, and she kept her gaze roaming until finally she spotted her quarry, the older, more sober subaltern, Cornet Mills.

  He saw her too, and carelessly quirked a finger in her direction, calling her over as he took another swallow of his drink.

  What the—she stared at him for a moment. What did he think she was? Furious, she tossed her head and turned her gaze onto the baronet’s third son, running a finger over his buttons as she fluttered her eyelashes. This had the desired response of forcing the subaltern to actually stand up and come directly to her.

  He didn’t look happy when he got there. She didn’t care.

  “I need to speak with you,” he rasped into her ear.

  She pulled away and sniffed. “I don’t be needing to speak to you, sir,” she said saucily. “My lad,” she said to the baronet’s son, “you need this button fixed or you’re going to lose it.”

  The third son looked down at the button she was playing with, then grinned foolishly at her. “If I get you some thread and a needle, would you fix it?”

  “Ha! Would that thread and needle be in your rooms?” she teased.

  He grinned bashfully, but her view of his face was interrupted when the subaltern took her arm and spun her around.

  She jerked out of his grasp. “I did not give you permission to touch me.”

  “The prince wants to see you.”

  She tossed her head, instantly softening. That did make all the difference. “Oh he did, did he? Why didn’t he come himself?”

  “You know that’s not how it works, Nellie.”

  “I have a specialty,” she said stubbornly.

  “Then consider your work still unfinished. He’s the Prince of Wales. Surely you would prefer to service him over that young popinjay, no matter how many buttons he needs sewed on.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” the baronet’s son protested.

  She patted his cheek. “Have your drink,” she told him, “while I lend my ear to this fellow.”

  That business taken care of, she took the subaltern’s arm and drew him into a corner of the pub. “I’ll come with you, but I have a price.”

  The soldier snorted. “My goodness, but those laughing eyes have gone serious. Might I hope your price is a romp with me after you’re done with the untutored prince? I know my way around a woman’s body.” He somehow found her nipple under her gown and tweaked.

  She pulled away with a gasp, horrified that someone might see her being treated like a common wren. “By the holy Virgin, if you ever do that again I’ll slap you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, his lips twisting. “You’re nothing.”

  She lifted her chin. “I know my own worth.”

  “You’ve slept with the prince once. Don’t let it give you airs.”

  Sherry on an empty stomach made her restless. “I’ll be his mistress if that’s what he wants, exclusive even, but he has to take me to London.”

  “London?” He laughed.

  “London,” she said with a wild smile. “He must promise.”

  “You’re a whore,” he said, dwindling patience evident in his tone. “You have no power in this transaction.”

  “He sent you for me, didn’t he?” She repeated herself. “London, or you can go back empty handed. He has a taste for me now and you don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “I can’t promise you that.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  They stared at each other, the procurer and the whore. He glanced away first and she knew she’d won. She, Nellie Clifton, would be important.

  Chapter Two: The Perfect Mistress

  December 10, 1861 London, England

  London was no Dublin.

  It was bigger than anyplace Nellie had ever seen, and dirtier, too. To get there she’d done a little magic and a little bed talk and poof! before too long, she’d packed the few things she had that she could call her own—with more in store, with a little more promise and wheedling—and crossed St. George’s Channel with the prince and his retinue.

  The crossing she could have done without, frankly. It was the first time she’d ever been on a boat, and she didn’t particularly care for the swaying. She had nothing of the sailor in her. There was a storm that the ship ran into on the way, and before she had much of a chance to acclimate, the violent motions knocked her off her feet and she felt queasy for a while. She’d taken Irish Patented Sailing Compound and the uneasy sensations in her stomach had immediately been quelled, but none of the other passengers, English to the point of stupidity, used Irish brand products. They all had Gaelic packaging and were rumored to be made under the moon by crones chanting old pagan charms so no Englishman or woman would touch them.

  She encountered at least half a dozen fellow travelers upchucking as she took a walk on deck. These were supposed to be seasoned voyagers, so their reaction to the storm made her feel superior.

  England didn’t impress her much at first. The greenery looked like the outskirts of Dublin, and the way they spoke wasn’t like English, even. Nellie found out the language there was Welsh, and the way they wrote it was mystifying. She’d made it a point to learn to read and write English, but learning how to read and write Welsh must have been torturous.

  By the time Nellie, as part of the prince’s retinue, arrived in London, she had gone farther and seen more of the world than her parents and her grandparents and great-grandparents combined. The city was big, yes, and it was dirty, and it was filled with English, but no place was perfect.

  She loved it.

  London was brighter and noisier than she’d ever experienced. The streets were thronged with a heady mix of sellers, workers, ragged children and animals pulling carts and carriages. She already liked it by the time she arrived at the apartments the prince had arranged for her. The rooms were finer than anything she’d ever seen, let alone lived in, and by herself! This was all for her! Room after room, and it was all so beautiful. Wallpaper so colorful and rich, and furniture of all kinds, and even servants. For her own! She could ring for a meal and someone would deliver it. It was a dream.

  Nellie saw Bertie perhaps twice a week, and she made sure she was worth every visit. She made herself read the papers so she could stay current on the news and the gossip and have plenty of topics with which to converse with the prince. He seemed to appreciate her attempts to amuse, even outside of the bedchamber, because he always came to her looking tired and depressed but went away cheered. After each visit she would receive a gift, and it would be something bright and beautiful. Like her.

  The most recent gift was something fairly simple, and she thought it the best yet. It was a vibrant shawl, woven of the softest and finest silk she’d ever seen and touched—not that there had been that much—and embroidered with finely worked miniature flowers on the edges. She could honestly tell him he’d given her the most beautiful, soft, and warm garment she had ever seen in her life. It cheered her up just looking at it. She hoped that Bertie had something that cheered him up in the same way. And maybe that was her. Who knew?

  Right now, she was wearing it as her own personal talisman. In the midst of this sumptuous party, filled with beautifully dressed English, the shawl made her feel as though she belonged. No, better than that, the shawl
made her feel worthy.

  But she was still bored. She never would have thought it. Surrounded by money and power, and even fitting in—to a certain degree—she was bored.

  “There’s only so many of these crushes that one can attend before ennui sets in, wouldn’t you say?” she heard a voice behind her remark. The accent was familiar, unique amid the sea of self-important and overly eloquent odd turns of phrase that the English toffs reveled in.

  She turned to see a man a little older than she was, hair as red as any she’d seen in the heart of Kildare, eyes twinkling as brightly as the stars above, but dressed in evening kit like the English toffs. She liked him instantly. “I do, sir,” she said. “Not many I’ve been to, but they blend into each other, sadly enough.”

  He laughed. “And sadly enough we continue to attend, hoping for something new and wonderful to present itself. So here you are. I am Dr. Cian O’Connor, my lady,” he said, bowing over her gloved hand. “If someone were here to introduce us, I would scruple to find him, but since no one here knows me and I know no one, I must take it upon myself to do the honors.”

  It was on the tip of Nellie’s tongue to ask how he was here if he knew no one, but she never got to ask, for he went on without pause. “I understand you are the other Irish in these waters. I hope if nothing else, you found the musical performance charming.”

  “It is,” she said, still trying to catch up with the man’s patter. “I am Miss—“

  “Nellie Clifton. Of Dublin,” he said. “Do you miss Abbey Street and Raglan Road, Miss Clifton?”

  At the names of familiar avenues of Dublin, she laughed. “At times like these, very much,” she confessed. “But London has its charms.”

  “That it does. If you have the opportunity, madame, you should travel the Continent,” he said. “There are so many places to be explored and studied for dreamers like us.”

  She smiled and tilted her head. “One place at a time,” she said. “And I am young yet.”

  “So you are. If you find yourself desiring to leave the demi monde, madame, come find me,” he said, that twinkle in his eye sharpening. “You’re meant for better things, and I can point you in the right direction.” He looked beyond her shoulder, bowed again, and said, “Pleased to have made your acquaintance.”

  She looked over her shoulder to see what had taken the Irishman’s attention and before she had turned back, he had disappeared into the crowd. She was disappointed; she had missed the Irish lilt more than she had imagined.

  Just then, over her shoulder, she heard, “Miss Clifton?” Randall Ecton, the prince’s dear, much older, friend, handed her a glass of champagne.

  She took it gracefully, but curled her other arm across her shawl to hold it in place. Though Mr. Ecton had been the soul of kindness to her, she didn’t like the way he looked at her bosom. It put her hackles up. “Thank you.”

  “It is my pleasure to do anything for you. I see you are wearing the new shawl.”

  “He gave it to me.” Who “he” was, of course, was a given.

  Ecton smiled. She saw one of his teeth in front was quite dead. “I chose it, madam.” He touched a bit of embroidered green vine that mixed in with the flowers around the hem. “Matches your eyes.”

  She felt her eyes narrow, but kept her smile pasted on. “It’s himself who has the right of looking at my eyes, sir.”

  Ecton inclined his head. “Of course. I merely do his bidding, as his friend.”

  Friend, my foot. She already knew about friends like him. Men who would serve the prince, waiting for his time of power, power that would reflect onto themselves, giving them whatever they had craved. And if Queen Victoria lived a long life, they would go crooked with that longing, twisting in the wind with unfulfilled desire. She, on the other hand, would stay strong, warm in the prince’s affection, without asking for much more than she had now.

  “You should mingle,” Ecton said, leaning his head close to her ear. She could smell the heavy fumes of port as he breathed.

  It was that she didn’t fit in. She knew that. Even dressed in the most sumptuous clothing and surrounded by those who were used to such things, she could only talk about what she had read in the papers. She discovered the rich and powerful did not read. It turned out that few of them ever read the papers, and they didn’t gossip, because they were the topic of gossip. With her current position, she too was a topic—but not by name. The papers had mentioned her, repeating what someone had called her, “the princess of wales.” It was a dangerous title and she wasn’t sure she particularly liked that, but then she was in it for a penny and a pound.

  “I’m not sure I like these people. And they don’t like the Irish.” The hoity toits, she was discovering, were a stultifying bunch. They were barely polite to her, but she didn’t mind, because she didn’t expect much else. No one asked her to dance, which she did regret, as dancing was a true pleasure for her.

  “You are an actress,” he said, displaying that dead tooth again with his knowing smirk. “Change your accent. Start again. Pretend the lilt was an amusing joke from your Curragh days.”

  And deny everything she was? She straightened, dropping her arm to her side. “I am Irish, Mr. Ecton, and proud of it.”

  “Then find something to like about this place, or you will go mad, and that won’t do. The Prince likes you because you amuse him.”

  When she wasn’t being bored stiff, or with Bertie, she at least got the chance to explore the sights and wonders of London. The city was worth every single bit of the slights and oversights that the toffs gave her, and was worth everything she had given up to get there. The music halls alone. She could stand in a corner and let her feet tap, cozy in her red shawl.

  But this party had lost its luster. It was just as well she could go home. Home, with windows and curtains and food on order!

  She had her duties, though, and could not quite please herself. “Does the prince require me to stay?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Go home, Miss Clifton. Ready yourself. I’m sure he’ll be along.” His long chin descended to his neck as his gaze lowered to her cleavage.

  She nodded to him, pretending she hadn’t noticed his leer, and left the ballroom to find a footman. She stifled a shudder as she took her leave from the cold stone palace of a duke—an elderly man with bleary eyes who seemed to sniff a great deal. She gave a final, decisive toss of the end of her shawl as she exited.

  After she stepped outdoors, she looked up at the nighttime sky, trying to see past the rolls of yellow fog and gray mist that had obliterated the stars. She missed Irish skies. With the exception of the heart of Dublin, she could see the stars from anywhere. Once more, there were rumors about odd creatures afoot in London at night, same as she had heard about in Ireland, but so far, she had nothing to be afraid about. The lower the class of the newspaper, the more torrid and dangerous the stories were. That ought to tell her how little she should believe the tales. They were there to titillate the lower classes.

  As she waited for her carriage to be brought round—oh, the pleasure and leisure of her own carriage!—she reminded herself that such things as carriages were her compensation for not seeing the evening skies. Her compensation after a lifetime of walking everywhere. When the conveyance arrived, she wrapped the shawl around her. On the journey home, she wondered what to do now. The prince would not be along for hours. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left the mansion.

  She touched her midriff. She knew what she would be doing in a few months. But now? Not a clue. And that was a luxury, really, for a poor Irish wren.

  December 15, 1861

  The new parlor maid came into the sitting room with quick light steps just short of running. A petite girl, she could be mistaken for a child though she insisted she was fifteen. She was a pretty thing, with a glint in her eye that Nellie found disturbing.

  “Mr. Ecton to see you, miss.” She presented Nellie the silver salver with the man’s card on it.

  Nellie gla
nced at the merry flames in the little tile fireplace, wishing her household included more than just women. Ecton had told her the prince’s budget didn’t extend to male servants, but it left her feeling exposed. Still, she had her wits about her and that was something. No one would take advantage of her good nature. “Send him in.”

  The maid trotted out. What had lit a fire under her? Nellie stood, placing a chair between herself and the door as a bit of armor. She placed a hand gracefully across the top and clutched her shawl to her throat with the other.

  Mr. Ecton appeared, filling the doorway. As he moved toward her with a sinuous grace that belied his paunch and graying sideburns, she noticed a black armband on his upper arm. She had been in England long enough to know what that meant—someone had died.

  “Miss Clifton,” he said when he reached her, stepping around the chair she had attempted to place between them. “My dear, have you heard the sad news?”

  She shook her head and took a step back, holding out her hands as if to warm them at the fire, keeping as much of a distance as she could between them. “What news, sir?” Perhaps it was a death in his family, and he would be away for a while. She could only hope.

  “The prince is dead.”

  No. Oh no.

  Nellie swayed on her feet, catching herself against the mantelpiece with one forearm. She winced as she hit it, knowing she’d have a bruise. “How? He was fine two nights ago.”

  “Not your prince, the prince. Albert, the Queen’s husband.”

  “Oh,” Nellie said, relieved. “I did know he was ill. How tragic. It’s nothing that Bertie has caught, I hope?” The man hadn’t liked her, that she knew. But she still wouldn’t have wished him dead. If nothing else, he was Bertie’s father.