The Wildest Rake: a stunning, scandalous Restoration romance Read online

  THE WILDEST RAKE

  Charlotte Lamb

  Copyright © Charlotte Lamb 2019

  All rights reserved.

  Charlotte Lamb has asserted her right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author.

  Original title (s): THE MERCHANT’S DAUGHTER/ THE BELLS OF THE CITY

  Copyright © 1975 Sheila Coates, Charlotte Lamb

  CHAPTER ONE

  The autumn wind blew east along the river, fretting the surface into rolling, broken ripples, rocking moored barges so that their timbers creaked and groaned, eating into the bones of the old men who slept where they had scavenged, in the shelter of London Bridge, their huddled bodies stinking, under rags they used for cover.

  The moon drifted in and out of tossed clouds. Inn signs protested, swinging on rusty hinges. Shutters clacked on crumbling plaster walls. Dried leaves blew into drifts in doorways and made little heaps beside house steps. Along the dark and narrow alleys the rats ran, eyes shining, on silent feet, whisking from the rotten warehouses, through secret runs, to the tenements and houses of the city.

  The watch plodded, yawning, from street to street, their lanterns a moving circle of yellow light, watching the sky for signs of coming rain, and in the gabled houses around them the citizens of London coughed and fanned the air as the wind blew down their chimneys, sending gusts of oily smoke into their faces, from their fires of sea coal.

  A door opened in Rood Lane, north of the fish market at Billingsgate.

  Candlelight made a flickering pattern on the cobbled street. The silence was broken by hushed laughter, voices making their farewell.

  Then the door closed and bolts clattered home.

  The departing guests walked close together, two women, their servant a little ahead, holding a swinging lantern so that they might see where they placed their feet. Their shadows moved with them along the house walls, the old servant’s stooped and broad, those of the two women merging now and then.

  Their clogs clicked on the cobbles. A small black rat fled across their path from where it had been feeding in the overflowing gutter, on refuse left for the scavengers to collect.

  The younger of the two women gasped.

  ‘It was only a rat,’ said her mother, mildly. ‘Thomas, is your cudgel to hand?’

  ‘Aye, Mistress Brent,’ the old man nodded, but he grinned, for, after all, rats were harmless enough, especially along the river, where they grew fat on mouldy grain left too long in the warehouses whose rotten timbers, breaking down under the lash of rain, allowed the grain to swell and ferment. Thomas could remember seeing a horde of drunken rats, bellies swollen with bad corn, swarming along an alley, attacking all they met. But it was rare for them to turn upon human beings.

  As they walked, London breathed around them, a pest- house of tiny, cramped dwellings. The west wind, blowing a fierce and cleansing draught through the foul streets, carried off to the east the stench of Pudding Lane, where heaps of decaying offal awaited the scavengers, alive in the hours of darkness with feeding rats.

  Once it had been called Red Rose Lane, though why nobody knew. Now, on slaughter days, the earth was puddled with black hogs’ blood, and passers-by walked with an orange to their nostrils, to disguise the foul odour.

  They passed the Golden Lion tavern, quickening their steps for fear of meeting late revellers issuing forth. The sound of voices hummed behind the windows.

  ‘It was a merry evening,’ Mistress Brent said contentedly. ‘I like to meet with my friends and make music for an hour. It was a great pity that your father could not come.’

  ‘Whenever we play in company I wish I had practised more upon my lute,’ Cornelia sighed. ‘I always meant to do so.’

  ‘You played very prettily tonight,’ her mother said easily.

  ‘I struck a great many bad notes,’ Cornelia smiled, knowing that her mother would see no wrong in her playing.

  ‘Master Peppercorn praised your playing highly. He is such a worthy young man.’

  ‘Yes, he will make a hard-working mercer when he takes over his father’s business,’ said Cornelia, ignoring the look her mother gave her. ‘But his hands are clammy. I hate him to touch me.’

  ‘Child, that is not kind. He is so shy.’

  Remembering how John Peppercorn had caught her alone in a dark passage and slyly fondled and squeezed her, Cornelia grimaced. She had always disliked him, but knew better than to say so, for the Peppercorns were close family friends, and Mistress Brent had long cherished a dream of her daughter marrying John. As a child, John had been a secret bully and a sneak. Cornelia could never see him without remembering past petty spitefulness.

  They turned down into Thames Street. An old man in a ragged cloak was knocking at the door of a handsome, gabled house. A wide-latticed window opened above and he looked up. His voice pitifully shaking, he cried, ‘For the sake of Christ, Doctor, come to her, for she cannot breathe without agony.’

  Cornelia’s heart leapt, and she, too, looked up, grateful for the fur-trimmed hood which hid her face from her mother.

  There he was, his face a dark shadow in the unlit window, but his voice, so familiar that it made her tremble with pleasure, speaking in the gentle tones with which he calmed distressed patients. ‘I will be with you at once. Give me a moment to dress. I will soon help her, I promise you.’

  The lattice closed. A candle gleamed in the dark chamber. The old man, shivering in his rags, waited with the trusting patience of the-poor.

  Cornelia sighed wrenchingly, unaware that she did so, and her mother, stiffening, glanced at her, but could not see the face hidden by her hood.

  ‘Doctor Belgrave does wrong to go down into the tenements,’ said Mistress Brent harshly. ‘Christ knows what disease he brings back from them into our midst. Are there no surgeons in that ward of the city that he must visit their filthy hovels? He has patients enough of the better sort without seeking more.’

  Hotly, Cornelia said, ‘He does God’s work in healing the sick, Mother. The poor people cannot afford to pay for a surgeon, and the quacks who will visit them, for the little they can afford, do them more harm than good.’

  ‘He will never be rich that way,’ said Mistress Brent tartly.

  ‘He does not want to be rich,’ Cornelia retorted. ‘He wants to heal sick people.’

  Her mother laughed angrily. ‘There are many sick people who can afford to pay well, I am sure.’

  ‘Sick people?’ Cornelia was too angry to remember discretion. ‘You mean people like Uncle James, who overeat and have pains in their bellies after a banquet, and call for a doctor, crying that they are sick unto death? Rich merchants’ wives who complain of the headache because they have too little to do?’

  Mistress Brent flushed. ‘Is that aimed at me, girl?’

  Cornelia bit her lip, wishing she had held her tongue. It was an old argument and got her nowhere. ‘No, no, of course not. I am sorry, Mother.’

  ‘I should hope so, indeed. Mercy on us, your father was ill advised to bring Doctor Belgrave into our circle of friends. I think the young man has turned your head with his fine talk of Cambridge and his ideas about the rights of the poor. These people do not have to live in dirty hovels, you know, child. If they were prepared to work and be thrifty, they could soon find better lodging.’

  Cornelia was silent. There was no point in further argument. Her mother—kind, impatient, gen
erous woman—had no time for those who, either through folly or misfortune, could not provide as well for themselves as she and her husband had done. Mistress Brent would send a basket of food to a sick servant, or old clothes to some deserving member of the poorer classes, but she did it with irritation, scolding where she helped, her tongue biting where her hand fed.

  They were almost home now. A break in the houses, where a basket-maker’s shop had caught fire and burned to the ground, gave them a glimpse of the moving silver shine of the river. A few dark shapes bobbed on the water. The shadows of the south side were black and ragged, a gilded church spire catching the glint of the moonlight and reflecting it back upon the river.

  The gables of the houses reared up towards the wind- driven clouds, their windows moonlit. Behind them lay unseen gardens, in summer sweet with rosemary and lavender, now heaped with golden leaves.

  This was a handsome ward of London, full of the homes of rich merchants.

  Suddenly the quietness was broken by the sound of running feet and a wild burst of laughter.

  Thomas glanced over his shoulder and stiffened in dismay.

  Pushing the lantern into Mistress Brent’s hand, he clutched firmly at his cudgel, growling deep in his throat, like an old hound at bay.

  Half a dozen men, masked and cloaked, had already caught up with them.

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ It was clear to Mistress Brent that she and Cornelia would not be able to run fast enough, in their long gowns, to reach their home.

  It would be useless to scream too. No honest citizen would stir out of his house by night if he heard screaming, and the watch were out of sight.

  ‘What do you want, Masters?’ Thomas asked, raising his cudgel in a threatening manner.

  He had taken in their rich clothes and arrogant airs though, and knew them for gentlemen out in search of amusement. Against such men he dared not use his cudgel. Unjust though it might be, his word would not be taken against theirs.

  One man stepped forward and swept off his broad- brimmed, feathered hat in a mocking salute. His gloved hand held a long, beribboned cane.

  ‘I do not like your tone, old man,’ he said clearly. ‘Is it friendly to greet a stranger with a snarl?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mistress Brent stepped in front of her daughter, shielding her from the pack of wild gentlemen. ‘Let us pass. You will find the sort of creature you look for in Southwark stews.’

  Over her mother’s shoulder Cornelia saw the glitter of pale eyes through the mask, and the man’s thin mouth curled in an ironic smile.

  ‘Are you well acquainted with such places, Madam?’

  His friends laughed.

  ‘We are honest women, sir. Let us pass,’ said Mistress Brent.

  Another voice spoke, flippant to the point of insolence, yet the others all turned and looked at the speaker, as though this was their leader.

  ‘Damn, Rendel. I fear she’s right. Hold up the lantern.’ And when the lantern was raised, illuminating Mistress Brent’s white, angry face, he shook his head. ‘Let them go. Look at that face. I swear, I’d sooner kiss my wife.’

  A burst of laughter from the others, but the man called Rendel was staring at Cornelia. He pushed past Mistress Brent and caught at the girl’s shoulder. Struggling away from him, her hood fell back, and the lantern light glinted on her thick chestnut curls, turning it to gold. Her hazel eyes glared furiously at him.

  ‘Let me go, you drunken brute. ‘

  He laughed softly, staring down at her. His gloved hand came up and touched one of the curls which fell over her temples.

  Mistress Brent’s voice shook as she tried to wriggle past him and reach her daughter. ‘Oh, sir, pray. She is but eighteen and as innocent a child as any in London. You are frightening her. Let her go—if you want gold, I have some here.’

  She fumbled in her purse, fingers shaking, and brought out a handful of money. The yellow coins gleamed under the lantern, but he barely glanced at it.

  The pale eyes were watching Cornelia unwaveringly. There was no longer a smile of any sort upon the thin lips, and the hand which held her shoulder had tightened until she felt the bite of his fingers through her cloak.

  ‘Rendel!’

  The flippant voice held the lash of authority. Rendel looked round, slowly, as though reluctant to take his eyes from Cornelia.

  The other man sauntered forward and touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Damn, this child is shaking like a leaf. I have no taste for such sport. Let them go. The night’s young yet. There are many merry ladies who will welcome us elsewhere.’

  Rendel released Cornelia and turned, shrugging. ‘We swore we would demand a forfeit from every female we met, sir. I hate to break an oath.’

  The other men laughed again and agreed with him. ‘‘A kiss is no great matter,’ one cried. ‘What harm in that?’

  Cornelia stamped her foot, her cheeks hot. ‘I think it shameful,’ she burst out angrily, ‘that the King’s honest subjects may not walk the streets of London in safety. Go away at once or I’ll have you taken up by the watch as drunken rogues. An hour in the pillory would do you all the good in the world.’

  The man who had interceded for them laughed, and she glared at him. He had an ugly crooked mouth beneath the black mask, his chin was tough, but there was dancing humour in the eyes which gleamed at her.

  ‘You’re a bloodthirsty little creature, girl, for all your lovely face. Have you no pity? Such a sweet face should cover a gentle tongue.’

  ‘You have no right to swagger through our streets by night, roaring and rioting like mad dogs,’ she spat back, unashamed.

  There was an angry stir among the others, but he held up his hand, still smiling. ‘Oh, the child has the right of it,’ he drawled cynically. ‘Let the King’s honest subjects go in peace.’

  ‘I think I’ll claim my forfeit first,’ said the man he had called Rendel.

  He caught Cornelia, before she was aware of his intention, pulling her into his arms, his hands clamping her tight.

  She struggled vainly. Bending her back he kissed her, his lips cold at first, brushing hers, then suddenly hard and hot, wringing a bewildered, smothered sob from her.

  He lifted his head after a long moment. Trembling, breathing so hard it hurt, she looked up at him. A slow smile twitched the corners of his thin mouth.

  ‘Did you dislike that, Mistress?’ he asked mockingly.

  She stared, hating him, and as he straightened, clawed, with curled fingers, at his face.

  She was not even aware of the others watching. A core of stark silence encapsulated her and this man, who had aroused in her emotions she had never experienced before, to which she could only respond with involuntary violence.

  He jerked back his head. An angry scratch ran from his mouth to his jaw, but he still smiled, and she felt, with bewilderment, that he almost enjoyed having provoked her to such a gesture of hatred.

  Then she felt the inrush of the world around them; her mother’s panted words of protest and fear, the murmur of the other men, half amused, half embarrassed. She felt her own pulses beating like fire along her throat, wrists, temple.

  The silence which had held them shattered like glass. The wind blew. The clouds covered the moon. Rain began to spatter on the roofs and somewhere a door banged.

  He lifted his hand and touched his cut. She saw the blood smear faintly. ‘You have marked me, Madame,’ he said in a tone so soft it made her shiver with fear.

  She turned and ran.

  Her mother, with a smothered cry, ran after her, with the old servant hobbling at their heels.

  Cornelia was hardly aware of where she went. Instinct took her home and, panting, she soon reached the house and leaned against the front wall.

  Her mother hammered upon the door, crying for the servants to hurry, looking over her shoulder as she did so, fearing pursuit.

  But the narrow street was empty. The white moon came out from behind the clouds briefly and showed a rain-w
et expanse of cobbles.

  A maid opened the door, eyes rolling. ‘God have mercy, what’s amiss?’

  Mistress Brent half lifted, half pushed Cornelia across the threshold. The girl was still sobbing, with an aching dry sound, her eyes tearless.

  Alderman Brent, full-bellied in his loose gown, came stumbling out to see what was afoot, and stared at them in alarmed surprise.

  Thomas knuckled his forehead with anxious little bobs. He was terrified that he would be dismissed for failing to protect his mistress and her daughter. He was old and would find it hard to get other employment.

  Mistress Brent burst out, stammering, describing what had happened, and her husband listened with growing rage.

  ‘In this very street? This very street? Louts and drunkards molest my wife and daughter?’ His face was the colour now of his puce gown. He was a man of middle years, full fleshed from years of good food. His jaw was heavy with rage as he paced to and fro, giving vent to his indignation. ‘I said how it would be if Charles Stuart was let back into England. All London, from St Giles to Shoreditch, is one great brothel, and we honest merchants pay for their merriment.’

  The servants were listening, agog with excitement.

  Aware of the eyes and ears around them, Mistress Brent caught at her husband’s arm and drew him into the parlour. Cornelia followed them, shuddering still with the panic which had swept through her after the man called Rendel kissed her.

  ‘Husband,’ whispered Mistress Brent. ‘Oh, husband, would you find yourself clapped in a cell? Be careful what you say.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he retorted, but in a lower tone. ‘The gentry may make merry with our women, but we must not so much as raise our voice in protest, or we’ll find ourselves weighted down by chains and thrown into prison for our impudence. This is what England has returned to—the tyranny against which Oliver Cromwell led us into battle. Would God he were still alive today.’

  His wife was looking anxiously at their daughter.

  Cornelia had sat down on a stool, her hands limply dangling at her side.