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“Oh, but where is she!” cried Marietta, jumping to her feet and all but dancing in her impatience. “I cannot bear to wait another moment!”
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Francesca rolled her eyes, but Marietta wasn’t deceived—her younger sister was rigid with nerves.
Just then the door opened and the woman they had all been anxiously awaiting entered the room.
Aphrodite stood for a heartbeat. Perhaps it was a habit learned in her younger days, when being noticed was so essential to making her living, or perhaps she was just overwhelmed by the moment. In her black silks and diamonds she was magnificent, a creature from a dark fairytale, and Marietta longed to be just like her.
“Marietta, Francesca, come and meet your mother,” Lady Greentree sounded as tranquil as usual, but even she had an edge of strain to her smile. Lady Greentree had been their “mother” since Marietta was two years old, and now she must give way to another. But it was accepted by all, including Aphrodite, that nothing in their lives would change—all the courtesan was asking for was to be acknowledged by her daughters.
Suddenly shy now, Marietta moved toward Aphrodite. “Ma’am,” she said, and curtseyed.
Aphrodite held out her hands, and took those of Marietta warmly in her own. “Marietta, you are grown so beautiful! But then you were always a pretty child.”
“Ma’am.” Francesca stood well back, not as inclined as Marietta to welcome her mother.
“Francesca, my baby. It has been so long…”
But Francesca did not come forward, glancing sideways to the door and clearly wishing herself elsewhere. Marietta felt no such trepidation. As she looked into the face of the famous courtesan she saw that there were tears in her eyes. Tears, because she had found her daughters again! As much as she loved Lady Greentree, this woman was her mother, and suddenly Marietta knew she wanted to be just like her.
In her sleep Marietta smiled. Had she really been so young? The image of herself then seemed as far removed from her present self as the moon. Gradually her memories gave way to dreams. She was floating high above London. Only this time she didn’t have a gas balloon to support her. She was riding in a carriage pulled by four horses, and the horses had wings. This was unlikely enough, but even more bizarre was the fact that she was seated beside Max, Lord Roseby, and he was sucking on her fingers. “We’re going to Mount Venus,” he said, “you’ll like it there.”
Marietta was enjoying this unusual but rather nice fantasy, when a sound catapulted her back to her chair in the parlor. There were voices in the vestibule, and they were getting louder. And then a shout, and footsteps, running. Startled, Marietta sat up, quickly returning to full wakefulness. She left her comfortable chair and hurried towards the door.
Dobson had told her not to leave the room, but Marietta didn’t think his instructions would apply in the case of an emergency. And, she thought, as she opened the door and her eyes widened at the sight that confronted her, an emergency was just what was happening.
Dobson was kneeling on the marble floor, supporting a man’s upper torso against his red-coated chest with one arm, while he pressed a large cloth to the wound on the man’s head with the other. There was blood, lots of blood. A servant was standing, her face very white, holding more cloths, while another was clutching a wiry boy by the arm. The door to the street was wide open and cold air blew in, bringing with it the wet smell of a spring shower.
Marietta went to the door and shut it. Then she came and stooped over the injured man, intending to ask Dobson if there was anything she could do to help. She froze. The leather shoes, the fine dark trousers, the buttoned jacket now dirtied and torn. They were all familiar.
It was Max!
She seemed to turn icy and then hot. The room shimmered briefly before it righted itself. The man in Dobson’s arms was Max! His face, beneath the bloodied cloth, was pallid, his hair matted. Marietta’s hand hovered, and then she snatched it back, for suddenly she did not dare to touch him.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“This errand boy here found him in the lane,” Dobson said without looking up from his task. “He came and got me.”
Only a short time ago Max had been holding her hand in his, his mouth against her skin, his dark eyes promising her all sorts of things. And now he was lying, hurt, unconscious.
“Was he in an accident? A fight?” she said.
Dobson reached for a clean cloth, and Marietta saw the gash on Max’s temple bleeding sluggishly, and shivered. “Weren’t no accident, and he’s not been robbed. And take a look at his hands,” he suggested. “That’s the way to tell if a man’s been in a stoush.”
Tentatively Marietta touched one of Max’s large hands where it lay, fingers curled, on the floor beside her. He felt cold, and instinctively she tried to warm his flesh with hers.
“Are his knuckles bruised?” Dobson asked.
She turned his hand, inspecting the long fingers with their square, capable-looking nails. “No.”
“Then he wasn’t in a fight. I reckon he was set upon while he was walking, and knocked down with no warning.”
“Who could have done such a brutal thing?”
“Could have been any number of coves.”
“Let me go,” the boy suddenly whined. “I done you a good turn, ain’t I? I need to get back to the bonesetters. There’ll be gen’lemen wantin’ fares.”
