"Russell,.Sean.-.Darkness.1.-.Beneath.the.Vaunted.Hills.e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russo Richard Paul)

Hayes slipped back into the shadow, making his way along the fronts of the buildings, hugging the wall. He pulled up the collar of his frock coat quickly to hide the white of his shirt and neckcloth. Fifty feet farther he broke into a lope, as quiet as he could, passing ghostlike through the rectangles of stained light.
He dodged down an alley, slowing now for lack of light, feeling his way, his heart pounding and his breath short, though he'd hardly run at all. Fear, he realized. I am running in fear from the authorities. This was how men disappeared into the darkness of the poor quarter.
There were shouts behind him and the sound of men running, then suddenly slowing. A lantern swung into the alley at his back, but it was too far away for the light to touch him.
In a hundred feet he came out into another street and turned left. His instinct was to head for the lighted streets-the safe streets-but the men chasing him were not cutthroats who kept to the dark, and in the streetlights he would be seen more easily.
But still he found himself gravitating that way, moth-like. It was the habit of a lifetime; a desire to escape, to not disappear entirely. He continued to hear the men shouting. Hayes pushed himself on, fighting to catch his breath, not even sure if they were still following him-afraid to look back.
He was heading toward Brinsley Park, and Spring Street-the beginning of the lighted boulevards. This is madness, he told himself. The darkness was his ally now. The place he thought constantly of escaping, and now it sheltered him. He should cling to it, wrap it around himself, for it was all that protected him.
But if he stayed here, in the twilight quarter, someone would give him away-for he would never be anything but an outsider, here. Not safe in the darkness or the light. Better the light, then. Too many disappeared in the darkness.
Hayes took the risk of pausing before he went out onto the lit street that bordered Brinsley Park. For a moment he stood listening to the sounds down the darkened alley he was about to leave. His pursuers were likely not far behind.
Almost more than hear, Hayes sensed noise down the street, not on top of him but too close. Composing himself, he stepped out onto the lamp-lit street, monitoring his pace so that he would not stand out, yet making the best time he could.
Couples walked at their leisure, especially on the street's far side, which is where he wanted to be, as far from his tormentors as he could be. Weaving between carriages and tradesmen's carts, Hayes strode quickly to the opposite side, realizing that this was a mistake-because of the size of the park there were no streets leading off from that side of the avenue for a distance equal to several blocks. More than anything, he needed to make as many turns as he could to confound his hunters, and now that wasn't possible. They might think he'd scrambled over the iron fence into the park, keeping to darkness like any criminal would, but the fence was so high . . .
He pressed on, fighting the urge to look back-a man who appeared to have pursuers would be noticed, no question of that.
Men and women passed, arm in arm, chatting and laughing. A coach clattered by, a young man leaning out its window, toasting the passersby theatrically; his drunken companions laughed and as one of them tried to fill his glass, a crimson stream of wine splashed over the cobbles.
"Hayes?" someone called.
Hayes looked about wildly. Bloody blood and flames, someone was announcing his name to everyone on the avenue!
"Samual Hayes?" the voice came again; from the carriage, he realized. "Driver! Heave to, man."
Slowing, the carriage veered toward the curb, frightening pedestrians, clearly not in perfect control. Hayes was not sure who had called to him, but he took one look back and made a dash for the still-moving carriage. As he approached, the driver set it off again, laughing inanely, for it was another young gentleman with the reins in hand. Hayes forced himself to sprint, and as the door swung open, he reached out and grabbed the carriage, feeling hands take hold of him and drag him in where he sprawled on the floor.
Half a dozen men his own age looked down at him, grinning. "Why, Samual Hayes," one of them said, "have a drink," and proceeded to pour wine all over Hayes' face.
"Hume!" Hayes managed, almost choking. He pushed himself up, fending off the bottle.
The young gentlemen were laughing madly.
"Aye, have another drink, Hayes." Hume began tilting another bottle toward Hayes, but he managed to push this one away, too.
"Flames, Hume, but you came just in time. I was being chased by footpads."
"On Spring Street?" someone said, clearly certain he was joking.
"You'd have been better off with the footpads, I'll wager," someone laughed. "We're celebrating Hume's impending demise. Marriage, that is."
Hayes struggled up into a crouch and stared out the rear window. He could see them now, a group of men at the run, but too far back to be distinguished. Too far back to catch them, that was certain.
"Blood and flames," Hume said, twisting around to look out. "You were serious."
"Let's go back and give them what-for," someone called out. "I've a rapier in here somewhere."
"No!" Hayes said quickly. "Drive on."
"Hah! Out of the frying pan into the fire, Hayesy. You're with us now and our intent is far more wicked than any footpads. Driver," the young man called "The brothel!"
"The brothel!"
"The brothel!" the others took up the cry, and the carriage careened off down the street, only the fragile common sense of horses keeping the gentlemen from disaster.
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The anemic light of coach lamps smeared across rain-oiled cobbles and lit the moving flanks of horses without having a noticeable effect on the overwhelming darkness. Avonel of an evening in early spring.
Erasmus Flattery stepped down from the hired coach and, with barely a nod, shook some coins out of his pocket for the driver. This was the address, he was sure. A doorman held an umbrella for him, interrupting a drizzle so fine it seemed more like a cool, falling dew, or the actual substance of darkness dribbling down from the heavens.
"Sir . . . ?" the doorman said expectantly, and Erasmus realized he was standing there as though unsure he would enter-like a young man who'd lost his nerve. In truth he had always avoided such places, though not on moral grounds. He was not a prude. But brothels were the haunts of foolish young men, and the old attempting to deny the truth of time. Either way it was a house of delusions, and, as such, repugnant to Erasmus. But then, Erasmus had come out of perverse curiosity.
Only the Marchioness of Wicklow could ever have brought off such an event, for who could refuse an invitation from Avonel's principal hostess? Only a prude or a man who had much to hide, clearly. Any woman who did not attend would unquestionably be admitting that her husband frequented such establishments and that therefore she could not bear to even enter the place herself. No, the Marchioness had weighed things out with a kind of ruthless precision and cruel irony that Erasmus thought had to be admired. Of course, as a bachelor, he was in no danger here. His wife would not be watching, wondering if any of the matron's comely employees seemed to treat him with just a bit too much familiarity.
So here gathered the cream of Avonel society, pretending to be engaged in something exciting, risquщ, and watching each other like predators. Erasmus thought that the Marchioness had gone a long way to expose the truth of Avonel society this evening. He, for one, was almost certain he could smell the sweat.
Erasmus was escorted quickly up the short walk and into a well-lit lobby. Smiling young women relieved him of cloak and hat, gloves and cane.
"Lady Wicklow's party," he said, and one young woman turned to the matron who approached and, still smiling, repeated his disclaimer.
The matron was a cheerful-looking woman whose age could not be disguised behind even the layers of makeup she had applied. Erasmus thought that if you took away the makeup, she would look far more like the competent wife of a particularly boring, country squire than the proprietress of such an establishment. She should have been serving tea and exaggerating the accomplishments of her children.
"Mrs. Trocket at your service. And you are . . . ?" she asked as she curtsied, surprising Erasmus with a bright look of both intelligence and humor.
"Erasmus Flattery, ma'am."
Her face changed as she heard the name, and though she held a list of guests, it was immediately forgotten. "Ah, Mr. Flattery. It is a great pleasure, I'm sure."
She motioned for him to escort her, clearly pleased to have a member of such an important family visit her establishment. The name, Erasmus thought, did occasionally prove useful-when it wasn't a curse.
"Well, you'll find we've created a place of refined entertainments for the discerning gentlemen-and lady-for we do not cater to gentlemen alone. Not at all."
All of the "ladies" Erasmus could see were clearly in the employ of the able Mrs. Trocket, and they smiled at him less than coyly as he passed. One blew him a kiss. They wore gowns that one would not see in most Avonel homes, that was certain, and several seemed to have forgotten their gowns and wore only the most exotic Entonne lingerie. He tried not to stare, but they really were the most fetching creatures. And they laughed with the gentlemen present, flirting in the most open manner. Erasmus thought suddenly that the place was a bit too warm.
The air was redolent with the smell of perfumes which did not quite mask a musky odor that pervaded the rooms. Erasmus did not have to wonder what that scent was, his body reacted to it of its own accord, and likely would have had he never encountered it before. Love had its own scent.
They passed into another room, not so different from the first, though perhaps not so well lit. Here musicians played, and the men had shed their coats or loosened neckcloths. The women seemed to have joined in the spirit, and were less encumbered by clothing as well. Some couples-or even threesomes-were dancing drunkenly, pressed close while others were locked in more passionate embraces, too drunk or too aroused to care that they were in public. On either end of a divan a naval officer sprawled, like tumbledown bookends, insensible with drink. So much for their evening with the ladies, Erasmus thought, though it would not likely stop them from boasting, all the same.
A woman put her hand on Erasmus' arm as he passed, and she did it with such familiarity, meeting his eyes so calmly, that for a moment he thought he knew her, and he was sure he looked at her with the greatest surprise. Mrs. Trocket led him through the next door.
They entered a hallway with large rooms to either side, and through the open doors he could see that several "refined entertainments" were underway. He glimpsed near-naked dancers through one set of doors, and heard singing from another. A farce, played out in elaborate and outrageous costumes, was in progress in yet another room.
"We try to have something for everyone," Mrs. Trocket said, noting his interest. "And things change often-nothing stale at Mrs. Trocket's. Amusement with wit and charm, that is our goal. A bit too . . ." she used an Entonne word that did not have an exact Farr equivalent, though its meaning lay somewhere between "racy" and "fashionable."