Read Online A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) by Julie Anne Long - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Anne Long
Ads: Link
bird that needs soothing.”
Colin choked on his ale and spluttered.
Ian’s hand had frozen on its way to lifting his ale to his mouth.
“What’s the dev—what is the matter with you two? It was just an observation.”
“Bloody lyrical observation.” Ian was wildly amused. “Don’t you know who your … what did you call her? Turtledove? … is?”
“Wild bir … who is she?”
Polly plunked a dark ale in front of him on the table. And walked away heartbroken when he absently slid over his coins and hefted it to his mouth without looking at her.
“She’s the Black Widow,” Ian said simply. “Haven’t heard of her? Then you don’t read the London broadsheets.”
“No. I spend my days erasing stains from souls, but you know what. What on earth is a black widow?”
“Colin, why don’t you tell the story since you know it best?”
Colin stretched and cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat.
“Well, in the beginning, Reverend Sylvaine,” he intoned, “There was the Green Apple Theater. The Countess of Wareham was known as Evie Duggan then. She was an opera dancer. Sang a bit, danced a bit, acted a bit, showed her ankles, wore gossamer clothing. There was a song-and-dance bit about pirates I liked a good deal. She became quite the attraction. We all vied for her attention. Spent my allowance on flowers for her more than once. She would have naught to do with me, of course, because she knew what she wanted, and I wasn’t it. Not enough money. No title. Mind you, she was frank about it and never unkind. Such were the charms of Miss Evie Duggan that she rapidly moved up in the world—started appearing in plays at Covent Garden. And then she—”
“Who was it that fell over the theater balcony trying to get a look at her bosom, Colin?” Ian interjected, drumming the sides of his ale thoughtfully. “The night of Le Mistral, when she was there with the earl? Rumor, never substantiated, had it one could see her nipples that night if you were close enough.”
“Carriger,” Colin supplied. “He’s never been quite right in the head since.”
“I hope he at least got a look at her bosom on the way down. It’s marvelous. From … what I can tell, that is.”
“—and then a man wealthy enough came along,” Colin continued, “or something along those lines, for she gave up the theater and became what we’ll call a professional courtesan. And then another man came along who had more money and power, and she gave up the first man. And then she married the earl. In other words, the Countess of Wareham, your ‘wild bird,’ was a … courtesan, Adam.”
The word seemed to stretch languidly out on the table in front of them like a nude on a chaise.
It was a voluptuous shock.
Adam’s lungs ceased moving for an instant. Spiraling out from the word was a world of moral chaos, a demimonde that encircled God-fearing people like wolves outside a paddock of sheep. At least that’s how many of his parishioners viewed it. And what most of the mothers of Pennyroyal Green likely taught their daughters.
Interestingly, it was his obligation—his vocation—to abjure that sort of moral chaos. And he largely did. He didn’t mind hearing about it. Which was all well and good, given his relatives.
“I know what a courtesan is, for God’s sake,” he finally said irritably. “You needn’t deliver the word like a pantomime villain.”
It took a moment for the words to struggle out. His sense knew he ought to shove it away reflexively. His senses weren’t quite ready to relinquish the word.
“That’s right. He’s a vicar, not a saint, Colin,” Ian added helpfully. “And you were relieved of your virginity ages ago, Adam, am I right? Some lucky housemaid?”
Adam shot him a filthy look.
Though Ian was quite right.
Colin continued his tale. “Well, the uproar Evie caused in her day—she once caused a duel by winking at the wrong man. One heir lost an entire estate in a wager over whether
Colin choked on his ale and spluttered.
Ian’s hand had frozen on its way to lifting his ale to his mouth.
“What’s the dev—what is the matter with you two? It was just an observation.”
“Bloody lyrical observation.” Ian was wildly amused. “Don’t you know who your … what did you call her? Turtledove? … is?”
“Wild bir … who is she?”
Polly plunked a dark ale in front of him on the table. And walked away heartbroken when he absently slid over his coins and hefted it to his mouth without looking at her.
“She’s the Black Widow,” Ian said simply. “Haven’t heard of her? Then you don’t read the London broadsheets.”
“No. I spend my days erasing stains from souls, but you know what. What on earth is a black widow?”
“Colin, why don’t you tell the story since you know it best?”
Colin stretched and cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat.
“Well, in the beginning, Reverend Sylvaine,” he intoned, “There was the Green Apple Theater. The Countess of Wareham was known as Evie Duggan then. She was an opera dancer. Sang a bit, danced a bit, acted a bit, showed her ankles, wore gossamer clothing. There was a song-and-dance bit about pirates I liked a good deal. She became quite the attraction. We all vied for her attention. Spent my allowance on flowers for her more than once. She would have naught to do with me, of course, because she knew what she wanted, and I wasn’t it. Not enough money. No title. Mind you, she was frank about it and never unkind. Such were the charms of Miss Evie Duggan that she rapidly moved up in the world—started appearing in plays at Covent Garden. And then she—”
“Who was it that fell over the theater balcony trying to get a look at her bosom, Colin?” Ian interjected, drumming the sides of his ale thoughtfully. “The night of Le Mistral, when she was there with the earl? Rumor, never substantiated, had it one could see her nipples that night if you were close enough.”
“Carriger,” Colin supplied. “He’s never been quite right in the head since.”
“I hope he at least got a look at her bosom on the way down. It’s marvelous. From … what I can tell, that is.”
“—and then a man wealthy enough came along,” Colin continued, “or something along those lines, for she gave up the theater and became what we’ll call a professional courtesan. And then another man came along who had more money and power, and she gave up the first man. And then she married the earl. In other words, the Countess of Wareham, your ‘wild bird,’ was a … courtesan, Adam.”
The word seemed to stretch languidly out on the table in front of them like a nude on a chaise.
It was a voluptuous shock.
Adam’s lungs ceased moving for an instant. Spiraling out from the word was a world of moral chaos, a demimonde that encircled God-fearing people like wolves outside a paddock of sheep. At least that’s how many of his parishioners viewed it. And what most of the mothers of Pennyroyal Green likely taught their daughters.
Interestingly, it was his obligation—his vocation—to abjure that sort of moral chaos. And he largely did. He didn’t mind hearing about it. Which was all well and good, given his relatives.
“I know what a courtesan is, for God’s sake,” he finally said irritably. “You needn’t deliver the word like a pantomime villain.”
It took a moment for the words to struggle out. His sense knew he ought to shove it away reflexively. His senses weren’t quite ready to relinquish the word.
“That’s right. He’s a vicar, not a saint, Colin,” Ian added helpfully. “And you were relieved of your virginity ages ago, Adam, am I right? Some lucky housemaid?”
Adam shot him a filthy look.
Though Ian was quite right.
Colin continued his tale. “Well, the uproar Evie caused in her day—she once caused a duel by winking at the wrong man. One heir lost an entire estate in a wager over whether
Similar Books
