Henry was wounded. ‘There’ll be no loan?’
‘Not a brass farthing.’
‘What about the portrait?’
‘To keep it away from you,’ said Christopher with determination in his eyes, ‘I’d be prepared to stand guard over it day and night with a loaded musket.’
‘A regiment of soldiers would not be able to ensure its safety,’ boasted Henry, taking up the challenge. ‘I spurn you, Christopher Redmayne. Instead of a brother, I have a mealy mouthed parson.’
‘I only seek to save you from your own wickedness.’
‘Here endeth the lesson!’ taunted Henry.
‘You would do well to mark it.’
‘I prefer to enjoy my time on this earth.’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, sadly. ‘I’ve seen the trail of victims you leave behind you after you’ve enjoyed them and I’m resolved that Lady Culthorpe will not be the next one.’
Henry was outraged. ‘Araminta is not my victim!’ he roared. ‘She is my salvation. Until I can make her mine, I’ll have that portrait of her on my wall. Mark this lesson, if you will,’ he continued, arm aloft. ‘The portrait belongs to me. It’s destined to hang in my house and woe betide anyone who tries to stop me from getting it.’
Storming out, he left the air charged with his passion.
Word of the crime provoked a varied response among members of the Society. When three of them met at a tavern that evening, it was only Elkannah Prout who showed any real compassion.
‘The wager must be cancelled,’ he said. ‘It’s unsporting — like hunting an animal that is already badly wounded.’
‘I concur,’ said Sir Willard Grail. ‘She needs time a long time to recover — months, at the very least.’
‘I think we should call off the chase altogether.’
‘Oh, I don’t agree with that, Elkannah.’
‘We should forget all about our wager.’
‘You were the one who advocated the creation of the Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood. You cannot back out now.’
‘Her maidenhood has been surrendered, Sir Willard.’
‘A mere detail.’
‘And so has our raison d’etre.’ Prout was decisive. ‘The game is not worth the candle,’ he said. ‘We had the excitement of pursuing the lady hotfoot but we must now let her go free. I’m sure that Jocelyn agrees with me.’
Jocelyn Kidbrooke had made no contribution to the debate thus far but he had not missed a single word of it. Toying with his wine glass, he gave his opinion.
‘I do not agree with either of you,’ he said, bluntly.
‘You must take one side or the other,’ argued Prout.
‘No, Elkannah. You call for the whole project to be abandoned. Have we come so far and invested so much to back out now? That would be madness and I’ll not hear of it.’
‘Then you must take my part,’ said Sir Willard.
‘Hold off our assault for months on end? That’s ludicrous.’
‘It’s seemly, Jocelyn.’
‘And that’s precisely what I have against it,’ said Kidbrooke, slapping the table with a flabby hand for emphasis. ‘Since when have we espoused seemliness and respectability? They are the sworn enemies of real pleasure. You may have been converted to propriety, Sir Willard, but I have not — nor, I dare venture, has Henry. He and I will think alike. The race is still on.’
Prout blenched. ‘You’d allow Araminta no period of grace?’
‘A week is more than adequate. That will give her time to bury her husband and embrace the notion of widowhood.’
‘She needs to mourn, Jocelyn.’
‘What she needs is solace,’ Kidbrooke declared, ‘and I intend to offer it to her. If the two of you prefer to stand aside out of a false sense of sympathy, you leave the field clear for Henry and me.’
‘So be it,’ said Prout. ‘I resign from the Society. I’ll happily forfeit my stake in the enterprise.’
‘Well, I’ll not do so,’ said Sir Willard, forcefully. ‘I’ve put in too much money to quit the contest now. Jocelyn is right. What place has morality in the deflowering of a virgin? We do but follow the natural impulse of our sex.’
‘Araminta is no longer what she was when I devised the Society and you would do well to bear it in mind, Sir Willard. A virgin cannot be deflowered twice. Sir Martin Culthorpe has already performed the office that we all aspired to.’
‘We do not know that,’ said Kidbrooke.
‘Of course, we do. They were married for weeks.’
‘Some wives have been married for years before they discovered the delights of the flesh. Some husbands simply do not know what they are about in the bedchamber. Culthorpe may be one of them.’
‘Who could possibly resist Araminta?’ asked Prout.
‘A husband who respected her too much,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘A man who led a celibate and God-fearing life for over forty years before he even thought about marriage — in short, Sir Martin Culthorpe. I doubt if they even shared a bed on their wedding night and, if they did, it was surely occupied by two virgins. That’s what irks me most,’ he added through gritted teeth. ‘Culthorpe had that jewel of womanhood in his grasp yet he had no idea what to do with her.’
‘Jocelyn makes a telling point,’ said Sir Willard, his interest renewed. ‘Araminta may still be untouched.’
‘I’m certain of it. She still has that wondrous bloom on her.’
‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Only from a distance.’
‘When?’
‘Recently.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s my business,’ said Kidbrooke, evasively. ‘The point is this. One of us may still be able to fulfil the original aim of the Society. Now that good fortune has removed her odious husband, Araminta is there for the taking, gentlemen.’
‘Not by me,’ said Prout.
‘What about you, Sir Willard?’
‘All my senses have been revived,’ said the other with a wolfish grin. ‘So beautiful yet still a maid? No husband left to safeguard her? The lure is irresistible. I’m with you, Jocelyn. I begin to drool already. Araminta is fair game.’
Jean-Paul Villemot had worked on the portrait until fading light made him stop. He had never been so inspired by any woman who had sat for him before. Araminta Culthorpe was a positive gift to an artist. He set up candles around his easel so that she remained in view as the paint slowly dried. Long into the evening, he kept returning to look at her, relishing her beauty afresh on each occasion as if seeing it for the first time. As he watched, he drank wine and it made him increasingly maudlin. When he had emptied one bottle, he opened another. He went back to the portrait again and lifted his glass in honour to Lady Culthorpe before taking another sip of wine.
Villemot set the glass aside. Taking hold of the painting with both hands, he brought it gently towards him until it was only inches from his face. His face was aglow, his eyes moist.
‘Ma cherie!’ he sighed.
Chapter Four
Jonathan Bale looked after his parish with an almost paternal care. Whenever a serious crime was committed on what he saw as his territory, he took it as a personal affront and bent all his energies to solving it. He hated to see Baynard’s Castle Ward soiled in any way but even he could not keep pace with the petty theft, drunkenness, domestic violence, prostitution, fraud and tavern brawls that were regular events there. Bale was fettered by mathematics. There were too many villains and too few constables.
While one pickpocket was being arrested, others were plying their trade nearby. If he felt obliged to part one angry husband and wife, Bale knew that other married couples would be having similar squabbles behind closed doors. He could not be everywhere at the same time but he liked to think that his presence had some impact. The local inhabitants admired and respected him. Because he had won their trust, they were much more likely to report incidents to Bale than to any other constable. Some of the others who patrolled the streets were too old, too wayward or too inept to be of much use to anyone. They lacked Bale’s fierce civic pride and commitment. None of them — Tom Warburton, especially — had his stamina.