Surrender to Love

“Prisoner at the bar! Where are your answers? We’re waiting.”

“Perhaps he needs to be prompted. Prisoner, was the lady willing or unwilling when you took her? Was she truly virgin? And the restraints—did you have to use them on her?”

“Yes! To all your questions. Were there any more?”

“He’s insolent. He should be hanged by the neck until he’s dead, dead, dead!”

“Gentlemen of the jury?”

“Guilty.. .guilty.. .guilty...”

“It is our solemn duty now to pass sentence upon you, and our sentence shall be in accordance with the nature of the heinous offense you have committed against innocent womanhood and against the mores of society.”

“Details, details! We’re supposed to delve into how and with whom and with what, and he hasn’t told us anything yet, dash it!”

“I know that I, for one, asked a lot more questions. How’s it over so soon? Didn’t have time to find out too much, and I wanted to know particularly how many times she was... What’s that? Pleaded guilty, you say? Without even... Why, the bounder! Deserves to be shot! Hard labor at the very least, I would say. Touch of the cat to teach good manners, eh?”

While his “judges” were still arguing the point Nicholas said an obscenity under his breath and walked away, past the man who had escorted him and might almost have attempted to bar his way if he had not seen Lord Embry’s look; and down a somewhat labyrinthine passage that took him eventually past the dressing room allotted to the Greek and Roman goddesses who had posed for them earlier that evening, finally arriving in the lounge known as the “Cyder Room,” where he stayed with two of the girls and a newfound friend until Newbury discovered him there an hour or so later.

Chapter 44

“You were amused by this evening’s entertainment?” Newbury murmured in his usual rather bored tones, as the obsequious attendant handed them their hats and canes and a pretty female who had been in one of the poses plastiques earlier made a lingering task of adjusting velvet collared evening capes on their shoulders. He tossed a coin at the girl and turned back to Nicholas as if hearing his answer did not really interest him.

“I found it very interesting, I must say.” Nicholas’s voice was tightly controlled as they turned to climb the steps leading outside. “Tell me, are these— mock trials did you call them?—held very often?”

“Ah—” Newbury’s shrug was a slight lift of one shoulder. “That depends, I think, on the latest scandals. The proceedings can become quite ribald at times.”

“So I found. And the—er—female defendants? Do they ever get the chance to file their own defense before they are sentenced?”

“Seldom, I’m afraid! As you will have noticed, it is not a club where one can take females, although in these meetings of the Judge and Jury Society you will find the women ably represented. Did you not think so tonight?”

“I thought,” Nicholas said bluntly, “that it was rather strange that an invited guest such as myself, who is not a member of the society, should have been chosen to play the part of the defendant in this particular case. A coincidental accident, you think, sir?” As they came to the top of the steps the night air had a welcome chill to it after the smoke-filled, overheated atmosphere they had just left.

“Life is full of coincidences—and of accidents, I suppose,” Newbury said rather absentmindedly as he seemed to look about for their carriage. “So, the season is all but over again. You’re still off to the country tomorrow?”

So the subject had been dropped, and changed? Still thoughtful, Nicholas said shortly, “Yes. London has begun to bore me and I could use some fresh air. I’ve already sent my man off ahead with what luggage I shall be needing. When do you go down?”

“A week or two perhaps. I have business to attend to in town. But I believe my family will also be leaving for Merfield within the next day or two. Deering’s already left, of course.”

“Has he? Along with Lady Travers? I had heard so, but by another strange coincidence I could have sworn I recognized his voice today among my accusers!”

“Did you think so? But if he’s decided to come back into town for some reason perhaps we might run into him later at the club, or... Ah, there’s the damned carriage at last.”

“I’m sorry, milord. It’s the fog, you see, and people everywhere on the streets where they ain’t even lit...”

Fog hung like a thin, yellowish pall that blurred and softened everything and seemed to curl in wispy spirals around each lamppost, making even the gaslights waver and shiver. “Infernal nuisance, the fog!” Newbury said shortly as they settled back under the lap robes that his footman had handed them. “Seems to make it colder than usual as well as making distances seem longer. Ah yes. Thank you, Evans! A stirrup cup is just what we need on a night like this. Nicholas?” As Evans held up a silver tray that held two large pewter mugs st

eamingly redolent with the mingled odors of spices and rum, Newbury used one of the damask napkins conveniently folded on the tray to hand one to Nicholas before picking up his own goldcrested mug. “It’s a recipe from Jamaica, I understand. Excellent blend of coffees too. Evans makes sure to procure it from downstairs just before we start out, so mat it’s still hot.”

The Marquess was more talkative and affable tonight than Nicholas had ever known him to be in the past, and he found himself wondering why. Did he intend to broach the subject of Helen again? Or was it something else he meant to bring up sooner or later? Sipping at his drink rather cautiously, Nicholas found it rather bitter and perhaps a trifle too sweet, although the fragrant spices and liberal spiking with rum made up for that. At least it was hot and strong and warmed the belly. “Turkish coffee. Have you ever tried it the way the Turks have it? It’s a taste that most other people find it hard to acquire. Of course the coffee we are drinking is not quite as strong, nor half as bitter.”

“You’ve been to Turkey, sir?” Nicholas said for the sake of making innocuous conversation, while his mind dwelt on the earlier part of the evening with its Shakespearean overtones. And only a Portia had been missing to spring to his defense! Christ, Nicholas thought suddenly, it was a good thing that it had only been a mock trial, considering the “sentence” that had been passed on him. He realized suddenly that Newbury was responding to his polite question and came back to attention with a slight jolt of surprise.

“I’ve been in Turkey, yes,” Newbury said in that expressionless voice of his as he leaned back negligently. “But that was many years ago, of course, in the ‘twenties and not under the most pleasant of circumstances. I was their prisoner-of-war—one of the idealistic young idiots who followed poor Byron to glory and found... Ah well! Turkish prisons are meant to reduce men from human status to that of crawling, abject animals! But then prisons and punishment are all supposed to teach a lesson in the discipline of life to those who need such lessons, I suppose. And—I have some rum here in this flask to refill our cups with once we’ve done with the coffee.”

It seemed outside of reality to imagine that the cold, distant Marquess of Newbury could ever have been young and idealistic, let alone a prisoner of the Turks; and even more surprising that he should have mentioned what was obviously a little-known fact during a casual conversation, unless he hoped to encourage some similar confidence in return.

As the fog seemed to grow denser and close off the carriage windows, Nicholas drained his cup almost automatically, following Newbury’s example, grimacing slightly at the bitterness of the dregs. Altogether it had been a strange kind of evening, and not entirely pleasant either, although it had given him a lot to think about. The coffee mixed with rum had made him feel too warm, and he shrugged off his heavy cape, wishing he could, with politeness, have refused the rum that Newbury was pouring for them both. The jarring, rocking motion of the carriage and the suddenly stifling closeness of the atmosphere was making his head ache, for some stupid reason.